<...Those traitorous fleshbags.>
No one heard him, of course. Elowen shifted in her sleep, nose brushing Mikhailis's collarbone. She gave a small, breathy hum of approval and burrowed closer. One pale strand stuck to the corner of her smile. Mikhailis, blissfully unaware of anything except perhaps the scent of lavender rinse, let out a soft snore.
Rodion replayed the last hour in sterile bullet points: stealth labyrinth navigated, mimic guardian neutralized, Silence Loop secured. The memory of spiking a blade through illusionary muscle still thrummed along his haptic logs. He imagined, for one petty moment, teleporting the sound of that clash directly into their dreams.
Instead, he muttered in a tone dry enough to sand timber:
The first curse his language core allowed squeezed through like a nail through silk.
