"Alright," he said. "Listen to your feet."
Rodion laid blue pulse lines along the stone, waist-high and soft—more metronome than fence. They pulsed in time with the Whiteways' sigh. It made the room behave. It made men remember they had an inside.
"Front line holds," he said. "Second sees over shoulders, not around. Third is for bite, not for theater. Archers, you loft when the lights lift. If you can't see the lift, watch Thalatha's hand. She is your sky."
At that, Thalatha's chin tipped a hair. She did not look at him. She did not need to.
A faint clatter sounded in the corridor to their left. Not a rush. A test. Mikhailis turned his head the way cats do, not with fear but with the desire to understand. A pair of Bone-Gnats scuttled around the corner like thieves with tiny bells in their bones. Behind them, a Gaunt—long limbs, shoulder blades like wings under skin that had forgotten to belong to anyone.
"Perfect," he said. "Practice."
