Before the sun cut the glass ribs of the biodome, the Asteron Conservatory was already awake. LightNet filaments hummed like distant insects. Heated vents sighed. Tiny bubbles rose and burst in the chlorinated glass of the shallow pools, a soft chorus underfoot. The merlings called back and forth in chords that sounded like wind through bone. It was a morning made of small movements: a hand sliding a nutrient sachet, a towel flicked over a rock, a ledger tapped on a holo-pad. "Bell's two chimes—feeding time," Baltasar said without looking up from the pad under his arm. He spoke like a man rehearsed in orders. His voice was dry, used to being obeyed. "Two chimes," repeated Mina, a trainee, breathless with the thrill of being here. She already smelled of iodine and lemon. Her gloved hands were wet from the pools. "I can't believe how—" "You love the gold ones, don't you," Baltasar finished for her. He didn't sound surprised. He'd learned which staff got sentimental and which kept their hands un-splashed. "Don't name them. We have rules." A chorus of soft laughter, then the careful scrape of boots on polished floor. The morning staff moved like a machine perfected by habit: distribute sachets, tilt a feeding ring, count breathing pulses. A dozen merlings clustered in a shimmering school around the central basin. They were no bigger than children's puppets, scales catching the pre-dawn light like coins—gold, copper