Elowen leaned closer to the hovering image, silver-blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. "Or who destroyed it," she said, the words soft as cotton yet sharp enough to cut.
The tune crackled louder, filling the shaft like rising water. Rodion's audio meters spiked red. He flicked his wrist; a compartment slid open. Five matte-black discs clicked into his palm. Each bore a single crimson rune that pulsed to the distorted rhythm—as if the hymn itself tried to invade their circuits.
He snapped his fingers. The runes blinked green, re-calibrated. One by one he lofted the Ghost Beacons into the gloom. They rose in lazy arcs, then vanished, cloaked in optical camouflage. Instantly the music faltered, notes scattering like startled birds. Rodion watched sensor readouts dip—enemy pings chasing false ghosts deeper into the shaft.
Only then did he release the breath he didn't truly need.
