"Sentinel," Thalatha said.
The Guardian lifted the coffin-door and stood where the first rebound usually thought it was welcome. The reeds tested them with a timid cone. The Sentinel angled right and poured the breath into a quiet corner like water back into a jar.
Behind, two soldiers—tired, solid—fell into each other's cadence. Their boots clicked together, polite and wrong.
Thalatha's hand cut the air. It was the kind of gesture that makes a body remember all the times not dying felt like this. The pair broke their mirror mid-step, one taking a longer pause, the other adding a heel drag. No echo landed.
"Thanks," one breathed, not looking at her.
She didn't answer with words. She gave him the smallest nod. It was enough.
They crossed. The reeds stayed bored. The room kept its opinion private.
