The infirmary didn't look like a place where anything unnatural could survive.
That was intentional.
White walls. Controlled lighting. Clean surfaces. The quiet hum of monitored systems that belonged to medicine-- not myth, not art, not whatever Artemis pretended it wasn't housing beneath its own foundation.
Galathea Brooks stood just inside the threshold, arms loosely at her sides, gaze fixed on the bed at the center of the room.
Tansy looked… better.
That was the first lie.
Her breathing was steady. Her skin no longer carried that faint, unnatural pallor that had crept in hours before. The tremors had stopped. The violent instability that had threatened to tear something fundamental out of her-- gone.
Contained. Stabilized. But not really gone.
Galathea felt it immediately.
Not with her eyes, with something else, a subtle wrongness.
Like a note slightly out of tune in an otherwise perfect composition.
"She's holding," Dr. Ibarra said behind her.
