A day bled into a night, and the night bled back into a gray, listless day.
Caelan did not notice.
The world outside his study had ceased to exist. His world was now a labyrinth of ink and parchment, of celestial charts that mapped the heavens and arcane schematics that mapped a man-made hell. He did not eat. He did not rest. He stood before the massive oak desk, his entire being consumed by the impossible, living puzzle spread before him.
This was the nature of his secret. His curse. His gift. It was not merely a perfect memory. It was a form of cognitive alchemy. He did not just read the charts; he absorbed them. The shifting corridors of Viregate, the grinding of its colossal gears, the precise, tidal rhythm of its realignments—it all became a living, breathing construct within his own mind.
He could feel the cold, mechanical heartbeat of the prison as if it were his own.
