The dust fell like slow snow, each mote turning in the amber light as if it had its own small mind. It stuck to sweat, to leather, to the tiny scrapes on knuckles. The air tasted like hot iron and old mushrooms. White runes that had flared like lightning settled into a soft, steady glow along the tiles—like coals deciding to live, not burn. Silk domes sagged under captured debris: broken ribs, dull shards the color of old teeth, a chunk of sword edge that still sizzled faintly and filled the room with a bitter tang.
Mikhailis stood very still and counted his ribs with a careful breath. They answered with dull complaints, a chorus of bruised voices under his coat. A clean cut on his brow ticked warm down his temple, slow, annoying. He wiped it with the back of a glove and felt the sticky drag. His fingers buzzed with leftover mana like he had pressed them too long against a singing crystal. His knees had that hollow feeling—used, but not gone.
