The first thing I notice is the smell—a sharp, punishing mix of antiseptic and dried herbs, like a challenge to the senses, and it sears the inside of my nose as the heavy wooden door groans open under my hand. Morning light slants through thin, sword-like windows, carving the infirmary into shining rows of beds with white sheets pulled so tight they could slice. At the far end, Lyra Thompson is a silhouette against all that brightness, hunched over a workbench, shoulders set and her dark hair yanked back in a hard knot that draws every clean line of her neck into focus. She moves with purpose, jars and packets of dried plants glinting as she sorts, totally focused until my footsteps c***k the quiet.
She straightens and pivots, expression locked down tight. No surprise, no awkwardness—not
