The heavy oak door of Dr. March”s private sanctuary clicked open with a quiet, ominous sigh.
Cattleya didn't turn her head immediately, her fingers remaining resting against the microscope stage. Behind her, the sharp, rhythmic tap of an iron-tipped cane echoed against the damp flagstones of the lower vault, completely drowning out the distant hum of the cathedral's morning choir.
"Dr. March," a voice resonated through the vault”deep, raspy, and carrying the terrifying weight of an absolute authority that had ruled the city's faith for forty years. "You are holding an unannounced seminar in my pathology wing."
Dr. March instantly straightened her posture, her usual calculating composure vanishing behind a wall of rigid, church-sanctioned reverence. She bowed her head, stepping back towa
