Silence reclaimed the bend. The corridor breathed slow again, the distant thoom steady. Sentinel statues down the hall did not stir—they must have felt no threat.
Mikhailis rocked back on his heels. He flexed his fingers; no tingling, no pain, only heightened awareness—colors marginally brighter, air vibrations clearer. A shift inside his thoughts too, as though an extra sense had slotted quietly into place, unnamed.
He brushed moss flecks from his coat, rolling shoulders. "Well," he muttered, voice still husky with adrenaline, "that was… enlightening."
Rodion's reply dripped pleased sarcasm.
Mikhailis snorted. Next time, he thought, I might faint instead. But outwardly he arranged a neutral expression.
