Selara uncorked the bottle she had pulled from the shelf and poured herself a narrow glass of something amber and probably expensive enough to offend half the Academy's budget. She did not drink at once. She rolled the liquid once, held it under her nose, and only afterward allowed herself a small sip.
Trafalgar stayed where he was across from her worktable, waiting.
The laboratory had gone quiet since the revelation about the vial. The machine behind her still hummed, crystal rings turning with lazy precision, but the air had changed. Whatever lightness had lived in this room before was gone. What remained felt older. Sharper. The kind of space where buried things were dragged into the open and made to confess.
Selara rested one hip against the table and exhaled through her nose.
"My master," she began, "was a terrible person."
No hesitation or effort to soften it with nostalgia or gratitude.
