"Time to get serious."
He didn't bark it like a hero, didn't whisper it like a prayer. Mikhailis let the words slip out on an exhale he'd probably been hoarding since he was young enough to hide under banquet tables. A thin smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as if it, too, was tired of pretending this was all a joke.
His cracked lenses caught the amber light of the wall-lamps and broke it into little knives. He tugged his coat aside—habit that made space for nerves—and unrolled a bandolier that wasn't cloth so much as memory and oath. Bone-etched hex medallions clicked softly, silk-bound rings kissed his knuckles, and chips of carapace floated in ant-amber like ancient insects trapped mid-flight.
The talismans trembled. Not loud—no dramatic ringing—just a subtle vibration that ran up through the bones of his hand and nested in his wrist, like a secret greeting shared between co-conspirators.
