"Little Genius, you are all patched up," the Witch of the North said with a faint, amused smile, the pink hue of the surreal world casting a soft glow on her shadowed face. She sipped her tea slowly, her sharp eyes flickering with a glint of satisfaction.
"Go on and do whatever you want from now on. But—" she raised one long finger, her voice turning serious, "if you ever feel anything strange—if your thoughts feel clouded, if you sense you're not entirely yourself, or if anything feels even slightly off—you must come to me at all cost. Do you understand?"
Max gave a solemn nod, his expression calm but respectful.
"Good," she said again, leaning back in her floating chair. "Now off you go. I've already wasted a week on you. I have other matters to take care of." She waved her hand in an almost comically dismissive gesture.
Max gave a small nod but didn't say much more. Instead, he turned to Lucien. "Let's leave."
