"Necessary," Thalatha answered.
He nodded once. If mercy breaks the line, it isn't mercy. It's vanity.
Rodion stacked the safeties below like tools laid in order on a cloth. Each had a place.
Rodion's counter-rot to keep the raise clean of rot—small, precise, injected like a spice.
Lich librarians holding a steady work-pulse so the Choir doesn't wobble—crowns dim but exact, timing like a metronome a teacher trusts.
Skeletons as visible peacekeepers at brood mouths, shields down and blades reversed—saying we are here, but we are not hunting.
"Blades reversed," Thalatha repeated. "Yes. Put the pretty side forward. And the backs turned."
"Backs turned," Mikhailis echoed. "I like the lesson in that."
She stood with her arms folded, thinking. Her eyes moved from step to step. She checked the joints. She pushed lightly on each hinge.
"Where do we put failure?" she asked finally.
Rodion highlighted exit doors on every frame.
