By the third week, the delay had become irritable.

  Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just present.

  Lysara logged her work, sealed the last container, and carried it across the room to the secondary station. The bench there had already been cleared for another student. She waited, notes balanced against her hip, eyes flicking once to the clock mounted above the door.

  When the space opened, she reset the station from memory and continued.

  It happened again after Beast Studies. And again, before Alchemy.

  The lost time gathered itself in short walks, duplicated clean-downs, and careful transport between rooms that hadn’t been designed for overlap.

  She was rinsing her hands when a runner stopped beside the sink.

  “Professor Caldrien requests you,” they said. “Alchemy wing. End of day.”

  She finished drying, signed the log, and went.

  Caldrien’s office was sparce and orderly. Ledgers lined the shelves. The desk held a single open file. Professor Thorne stood near the window, arms folded, watching the courtyard below.

  Caldrien didn’t look up. “Sit.”

  Lysara did.

  “You’re carrying two workstations,” he said.

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  “Yes, Professor.”

  “You didn’t request reassignment.”

  “No.”

  Thorne turned her head slightly. “How much time are you losing?”

  Lysara answered without hesitation. “Between preparation, transport, and reset—just over an hour per day.”

  Caldrien finally looked up. “And you consider that acceptable.”

  “I consider it inefficient,” Lysara said. “Materials overlap. Storage doesn’t. Preparation is duplicated. Disposal is duplicated. Logging is duplicated.”

  That earned a faint pause.

  Thorne snorted softly. “You chose to do this.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re still choosing it,” Caldrien said.

  “Yes.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Is this the reason you were using a specimen crate as a pillow?”

  “It had the right softness,” Lysara said, quieter. “I had a moment before the next crossing.”

  Thorne’s gaze sharpened. “You want a private lab.”

  “A combined workspace,” Lysara corrected. “Contained. Logged. Approved under project study.”

  Caldrien exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re aware most second-years don’t request this.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that most who do are told no.”

  “Yes.”

  Thorne stepped away from the window. “If something goes wrong, it’s yours.”

  “Yes.”

  “No shared responsibility,” Thorne added.

  “Yes.”

  Caldrien rubbed a hand over his temple. Not frustrated. Just tired. “You realize,” he said, “this won’t give you the full hour back.”

  “It will give me fewer interruptions,” Lysara said.

  Caldrien closed the file. “You’re exhausting.”

  Lysara blinked once. “I’m aware.”

  Thorne’s mouth twitched despite herself.

  “Provisional approval,” Caldrien said. “Limited hours. Restricted materials. Full logs.”

  “And if your performance drops,” Thorne added, “it goes away.”

  “Yes.”

  Caldrien slid the document across the desk. “You’re trading oversight for efficiency.”

  Lysara nodded.

  He shook his head, a helpless edge creeping into his voice. “You don’t ever make this easy.”

  “I don’t know how,” she said, honestly.

  That did it.

  Caldrien laughed—once, sharp and surprised. He waved a hand. “Go. Before I change my mind.”

  Thorne opened the door. “And Lysara?”

  She paused.

  “Sleep somewhere that isn’t flammable.”

  Lysara considered. “I’ll try.”

  Thorne snorted. Caldrien groaned.

  Lysara left.