Mikhailis peeled his cheek from the table with a faint, tacky pop. The surface still thrummed with residual mana, warm enough to fog the edge of his vision. He blinked hard. First came blurred light—soft blues, mossy greens—then the outlines of glass tanks, copper coils, and that ever-present tangle of hummingbird-thin conduit that wove through every ceiling beam like a spiderweb of living veins.
The lab smelled of hot crystal and dried thyme. Someone—probably himself—had left a herb sachet under a cooling vent "for ambience." Now it perfumed the whole chamber with sleepy comfort. He inhaled once, slowly, feeling the dust of realization gather behind his eyes.
A second later the room's central holoscreen brightened, bright white digits hovering in the half-dark.
01:03 AM.
Rodion's voice slid into being, crisp and polite as always.
