Eyes open, Mikhailis flexed fingers. Sensation normal—maybe sharper. Colors in the chamber seemed fractionally richer, as though someone upped saturation by a notch only he could perceive. He could smell the mineral thread in the air now, a metallic tang beneath cedar.
He rose carefully, mindful not to wrench the delicate rapport. Moss flecks clung to knees; he brushed them away, paused to feel their softness, marveling at how present every tiny touch felt.
"Well," he breathed, throat raw from quiet awe, "that was… enlightening."
Rodion's sarcasm landed like a welcome nudge.
