"Hypnoveils, right—Mirror Honest!"
The two mantled ones lifted their frills. Colors moved across them, but not lurid, not fake. They showed small, true echoes: Thalatha's last clean arrow; the exact look on Mikhailis's face when he set the lotus chain and refused to flinch; Rodion's broken shield arm catching the blow anyway. The whisper-spores in the right lane reached out their soft, sticky fingers to touch a mind and slid off. Truth bored them. They wanted weakness. They starved.
Mikhailis hovered behind his tea like a child in a theater, whispering to himself like he could not help it. Hydrate your enthusiasm, he reminded himself in his head, and then felt a small bump against his glove as a spare cup slid into his hand without him looking. He blinked down. Rodion had rolled it over with perfect servant timing.
Mikhailis took a sip, burned his tongue, tried not to make a face, failed, and kept grinning anyway. Worth it.
They moved forward together.
