"Even Professor Astrid's nervous, huh?" she murmured, a tease laced with empathy.
Elara and Amberine shared a glance—a flicker of understanding, an unspoken you-too?—then let it pass. With shared resolve they filed behind the professor, heels clicking in near unison.
The corridor spilled into another corridor, this one lit by vertical bands of aquamarine mana that ran floor to ceiling, like pillars of liquid light. At intervals, security glyphs pulsed outward in silent sweeps—Amberine felt each ripple brush her skin, tasting for anomalies.
Two months, she thought again. Two months since these same corridors flooded with smoke and screams. She remembered the coppery tang of burning insulation, the way alarm runes sputtered under hacking spells, the terrifying moment she'd thought the entire fortress would crumble into the abyss. Aetherion had healed, but scars lay beneath the polish.
