The glasshouse was quiet, but the silence felt brittle, like the surface of a frozen lake ready to crack under the slightest weight. Inside, the soft hum of air filtration and the faint scent of jasmine could not mask the tension.

Justina moved between the delicate plants, her fingers brushing leaves and petals as if grounding herself. Carson followed, his presence steady behind her, a shield against the storm outside and the one building around them.

“They’ve started,” Carson said ...