The chamber was dimly lit, receiving its only illumination from the flickering glow of three iron lanterns hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Shadows stretched across the stone walls as the flames wavered, causing them to dance and shift unnaturally.
The air was thick with a pungent scent, a mix of burning herbs and the dampness of ancient stone.
Count Lazarus stood by an old worktable, his posture rigid and unmoving. His fingers tapped the polished surface slowly and deliberately, each sound precise.
He didn't speak immediately, nor did he rush any of his movements; he simply watched.
He watched the alchemist, who stood before him, carefully adjusting an assortment of vials, powders, and glass instruments.
The alchemist, an older man with silver streaked hair and worn robes, didn't look up. His focus was entirely on his work, his movements precise and confident, like someone who had spent years mastering his craft.
