Mikhailis woke because the Lux ember stopped pretending to be a star and decided to be a rind of light. The slot held their heat like a cupped hand. His arm was half-numb where Thalatha lay tangled against him. He did not move at first. He listened.
The Brake Choir hummed in the stone, low and steady, like a cat learning to purr again after winter. Dust rested. No scrape. No teeth. Good.
He let his eyes adjust and felt a small worry cut across his chest. She was lighter. His forearm could tell. Less weight on the hip buckle. Less push where the shoulder strap usually complained.
She's getting thinner.
He studied her face. The cheek hollows were a little more honest than yesterday. Her lips were dry in the center. A soot-brown streak wandered through her dark-blonde hair, caught by the marsh gel in an unruly curl. He filed the list where he kept urgent things that were still fixable.
We don't stay here. Not like this.
