She lingered at the bottom of the spiral for several breaths, fingertips resting on the brass rail Mikhailis had polished earlier that evening. A faint warmth still clung to the metal—a ghost of laughter, jesting, and the easy affection she had only recently learned to accept. With a slow exhale she released the rail, rolling her shoulders until the familiar weight of duty settled across her spine like an old cloak.
A soft hiss marked the hidden door's opening. Stone slid over stone, revealing the narrow maintenance corridor that connected the prince's haven to the palace's lesser-used stairwells. Unlike the colorful warmth of the lab, these passages were cool and dim, smelling faintly of damp mortar and lamp-oil. Cerys's visor dimmed automatically, the crystalline layer sliding to a low-light mode that painted the world in quiet shades of grey-green.
