"Cores," he said, holding his bag. The satchel's lattice rippled as if pleased to be useful. "Sorted, then bring."
Liches moved with librarian grace. They avoided bones with names carved somewhere higher, stuck to Blight-castings, to Hounds' cores, to drummer hearts that had forgotten rhythm. They handed each to Mikhailis like a clerk presenting a document to sign.
He felt the tug in his palm with each one. Power gloated in small things. He swallowed greed like a pill and nodded to the Archivist instead. "Left pile, clean. Right, questionable. Anything that talks goes in a jar."
The Archivist did not deign to answer. It had already jarred three with thin, annoyed motions.
A spear kissed Thalatha's greave and scraped away. She didn't jump. She set the toe of her boot, lowered her weight, and pressed her shield skeleton an inch forward with her hip. Confidence flowed down a line and made it real.
"You're vibrating," she said out of the corner of her mouth.
