Serelith glided between towering shelves of shimmering grimoires, soft lamplight catching on the tiny silver beads woven into her hair. Every few steps she paused, letting her monocle focus on fresh curiosities that lined the hallway: a suspended cube of frozen lightning; a set of bronze rings spinning in opposite directions, refusing all known laws of motion; a tapestry stitched from phantasmal thread that shifted scenes each time you blinked.
Through the lens, each object bloomed with translucent data-ribbons—temperature, mana drift, age estimations—numbers dancing like excited sprites across her vision. She felt the pleasant thrum of being permanently "plugged in," a private lecture only she could hear.
Rodion's measured tone kept pace with her thoughts.
