"Moths," she said, soft.
The air tasted like old linen and cold ash. A faint pepper smell rode over it where the mint-paper lived in someone's pocket. The nurse council's antennae lifted together, then flattened again—recognition, not panic.
Rodion pulsed a clean label.
Two moths wobbled low near Mikhailis's boots, their wings big and soft, moving like tired hands wiping a window. He crouched, watched the way their bodies leaned toward any brighter patch, then tilted away from the mint on his cuff.
"They don't hate us," he said. "They hate busy light."
He glanced sideways at Thalatha. She had stopped just outside the brighter spill from the glowcap bag. Calm measure. She lifted her chin, took one step left into a cooler patch, and the shadow-bloom above her changed direction with her, as if it agreed.
He filed the picture. She moves like a good rule—simple, everyone follows, nobody complains.
