Orvath's scrying chamber was a hollow of suspended reflections—a circular vault paneled in polished obsidian and silvered glass that turned every candleflame into a shard of winter sun. Thin braziers burned with smokeless lavender fire, the scent of damask rose and crushed wormwood coiling in sickly-sweet spirals. At the room's center floated the mercury basin, wide as a table yet held aloft by nothing visible, ripples forming and vanishing without cause. The surface answered only to the magister's will.