## Three Floors Below: The Investigation
The war room that had once been Demerti's study now looked like a alchemist's nightmare.
Every available surface groaned under stacks of books, loose parchments covered in desperate scrawls, and glass vials arranged in color-coded rows that had long since lost their organization. The air hung thick with competing scents—purification incense, chemical reagents, the acrid bite of failed experiments, and underneath it all, the sour tang of exhausted panic.
Demerti stood at the window, one hand braced against the frame hard enough to make the wood creak. His reflection in the darkened glass looked haggard—white hair escaping its tie, eyes sunken and red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath the skin. He'd aged a decade in six hours.
"Report," he said without turning. His voice was flat, scraped raw from shouting earlier. Now only cold exhaustion remained.
