Mikhailis's lashes fluttered once, twice, before his eyes finally opened to the gentle hush of the laboratory. Warm silk-heavy soreness pooled in every joint, an ache that felt almost indulgent—his muscles hummed a memory of tangled limbs, soft gasps, and stolen kisses.
The glowstones set into the ceiling had dimmed to a mellow amber, their light rustling across brass pipes and half-open tomes like a lazy sunset caught indoors. Somewhere in the upper rafters a rune-fan turned with a lazy tick-tick-tick, circulating the faint scent of cedar polish and something sweeter—vanilla and rose, the echo of Serelith's perfume now mixed with the dry spice of old parchment.
Blinking away a lingering haze, he lifted his head just far enough to locate the chrono-glyph glowing on a distant pillar. It pulsed a soft teal 18:03. His brain, still fogged, tried to add hours that weren't there; then relief sank through him in a long, grateful sigh.
