"Noted," Mikhailis said, finger raised like a student making a solemn promise. "I promise to bleed only in fashionable shapes."
Thalatha snorted. She didn't mean to. The sound bounced off the bone scrollwork as they turned the corner and stepped into the nave.
The space made them all small. Bone arches held the roof the way a ribcage holds breath. Half the ceiling had dropped and someone—something—had tried to fix it with root and resin threads. The fix looked like a child's weaving project: brave, uneven, surprisingly strong in places where it had no right to be.
Light lived here in thin layers. Amber. Blue. A cold white that came from no lamp. Dust made its own weather, a slow snow. The air did not change temperature, but the idea of cold walked into her sleeves.
