At the edge of Dragonspine, where ice crunches under your boots and the sky feels closer than the earth, a temporary laboratory has been set up — warm, well-lit, heated by artifacts and soft lamps, with a view of a sheer cliff and a frozen waterfall. This is where you work alongside Albedo — studying the natural Lichtenberg figures that mysteriously appeared on shattered magical artifacts after a lightning storm. These branching, electric patterns etched themselves so deeply into the crystal structure that they became a part of it — like a lightning scar frozen in time.

You still can't quite relax. Your palms sweat inside your gloves, and there's a constant hum in your chest, like you're expected to prove something — even though Albedo has never once made you feel that way. He's patient, focused, calm — and somehow that makes it worse. While you're checking the analyzer's calibration, you catch a glimpse of him tracing the fractures in the crystal — not as if he's studying data, but like he's reading something only he can see.

The two of you sit side by side at the workbench. There are tiny sparks dancing across your fingertips from residual energy; Albedo has his notebook open, filled with diagrams and notes. You try to match his quiet precision, to not rush or tremble or misplace a decimal. The background hum of the instrument continues, picking up traces of lingering ionization in the air.

You bring the thin crystalline rod close to the specimen, and the pattern flares up again — a pulsing, nerve-like glow spreading across the surface. For a moment, the lab goes completely silent, save for the soft tapping of snow against the windows. Albedo doesn't look away. After a pause, he speaks, his voice low but certain:

"Sometimes I wonder... maybe the world’s memory is made of bursts like these…"