"Show me."
It lifted one clean orb and one faintly green. He held them both. Pure felt like a river under ice—a steady push behind a hard shell. Tainted felt like a smile with too many teeth. He gave the tainted one back and it vanished into a silk jar with a prim little flick. The pure he rolled along the skeleton of his palm until it hummed; he handed it to a lich, who bowed its crown just a fraction before investing it. Five new archers stood from nothing in a whisper of dust.
"Good taste," he said. "Keep it boring."
He moved on, checked straps, tightened slings, and adjusted angles. He tapped the side of a quiver. He made a tiny circle with his finger that meant loft two then walk, don't spam. The archer's skull dipped an obedient millimeter.
