"Rodion," Mikhailis said through a frozen grin, "one more helpful statistic and I'll repurpose you as a footstool."
Thalatha bit her lip, grateful—just this once—for the AI's tactless honesty. It kept her from falling back into mortification; anger was steadier ground than shame. She straightened her spine. The Hollowguard did not wilt because of a botched landing.
Before she could retort, a tremor rippled beneath their boots—faint, like the dungeon had cleared its throat. Mikhailis's head snapped sideways, curls shifting. "Did anyone else feel that, or is my bladder staging a protest?"
Thalatha only had time to register that the tremor carried a rhythm—pulse, pause, pulse—before cobalt light raced beneath the tiles. The entire platform lit like evening lightning-bugs trapped in crystal.
