Magus Lab: _top_

Welcome to the Lab. Do not touch the red beaker. The last intern tried, and now they exist only in the subjunctive tense.

The air inside tastes of copper and lightning. It is never silent. Glass beakers bubble with liquids that shift through colors not found in a normal spectrum. A brass astrolabe, the size of a dinner plate, spins lazily in midair, charting the orbital decay of a theoretical star. The floorboards are scarred by containment circles, some scorched black, others still faintly glowing with residual aether. magus lab