Three… two… one.
The metronome bar on Rodion's panel flashed a lopsided pulse that refused to become a song. Green dots padded across the stone in front of them, small as seeds. Orange X's sat like patient scolds. A thin blue ribbon climbed the stair throat and fell again with the dungeon's breath—up on the inhale, down on the sigh—telling them when to move and when to pretend to be furniture.
The Ribbon-Scout formation drifted into its slow arc. The Hypnoveil slid ahead, mantle lowered, edges soft, turning the corridor dull on purpose. Behind it the necro-ants spread like a quiet spill, splitting into three staggered scent lines. Workers brushed mint dust in one thread, glowcap air in the second, bone meal in the third. The scents did not fight each other. They braided, then separated, then crossed again—just enough to bother anything that loved symmetry too much.
