Isolde walked out of the lab after disposing of her temporary garments.
The room behind her was dark, lit only by sterile, artificial lighting that cast long shadows across the smooth tile floor.
Despite the gloom, the air was crisp—sterilized and constantly circulating thanks to the superb ventilation system designed by the master architects.
Waiting in the antechamber, seated on a simple chair with no adornments, was an elf. His long flaxen hair was tied into a tidy bun, his back straight, arms folded over his chest.
He looked out of place in such a stark, utilitarian environment. This was Lance—the elf who had been left behind to assist with the lingering problems no one else wanted to touch.
The room was quiet. Absolute secrecy had to be maintained. That was why no outside specialists had been called in. Isolde had carried out the autopsy herself.
It wasn't unfamiliar work. Far from it. This wasn't the first body she'd dissected.
