"Rear pair," Thalatha said. "Quiet legs. Odd counts."
Soldiers went in low and quiet, knives finding the softer gaps at rear limb joints. No flourish. No second swing. One, pause, half, done. Another. The odd counts kept the Echo band asleep. Bone cut like thick rope.
One beetle at the edge didn't get the memo. It broke left and tried to go around the trench, shell scraping rib stone. Scurabon met it with a sting at the inside knee and hopped back. The beetle re-angled and crashed into a mint patch, legs flinching. That half-step of flinch was enough. The Hound's chain dragged one ugly line under its belly. The beetle lifted on instinct and exposed a seam. A worker slid a smear of resin under the seam and pressed. The leg stuck for a blink, just long enough for a soldier to hamstring clean.
"Don't chase," Mikhailis warned softly. "Let them bring their necks to us."
