Chapter 716: New Potential Allies (3)
"Phase zero," he said. "Mask and measure."
Thalatha stepped closer, shoulder brushing his. She pointed at two red corners on the board, small flourishes he had drawn without thinking—curves for style more than function. "Cut those," she said.
"Gone," he replied immediately, erasing them with two taps. I like her exact. Saves us from my need to impress the universe. Save the flourishes for the day we don’t die.
They started to work like they had done this together for years. He sketched. She trimmed. Rodion set timers and painted risk in thin lines no one could ignore. The rhythm was simple: propose, test, adjust, move on. The board slowly became a map you could walk with your eyes closed.
On the left edge of the holo, a thin clock counted photoperiods. The crystal had narrowed the window again. It felt like a landlord who loved rules more than people.
Thalatha rubbed her thumb along the rim of her cup and watched the clock. "Shorter again," she said.
Mikhailis nodded. "The dungeon is petty," he said. "It sees us happy and takes ten minutes."
"Then we take twenty back," she said.
He smiled. Marry me—no, don’t say that out loud, idiot. Later. If later exists.
Rodion projected a narrow corridor and littered it with small dotted lines. Each dot pulsed at a different rhythm.
<Micro-pauses injected. You will feel silly walking like this. Please treasure the sensation.>
Mikhailis tried a few steps exactly as the dots blinked—left, tiny linger; right, half-beat; left, longer slide; stop right before a rib-lip; continue. He felt ridiculous, like a dancer who forgot the choreography and decided to commit anyway.
"How do I look?" he asked.
"Like you’re learning to be humble," Thalatha said. Her tone was dry; her eyes were kind. "That will keep you pretty."
He put a hand over his heart. "Cruel and accurate."
They practiced gait randomness until it stopped feeling random and started feeling like a pattern that refused to be caught. Slimeweave units and Scurabons laid non-repeating scent markers in the sim. Never the same pause twice. Never the same weight on a rib more than once per loop. Rodion forced them all to count in different primes under their breath.
Thalatha went first. "Two... three... five..." She stepped on the numbers, but she did not let her feet keep the tempo proud. She let small imbalances live.
Mikhailis followed with his own quiet count. Three... five... seven... don’t make it clever; make it different. He made himself breathe in small stutters, like someone who had run but wanted to make the room think he hadn’t.
It looked foolish. It felt safe.
Hypnoveils practiced a blankness trick that made corridors boring. They lowered their mantles, erased their edges, and let the light pass like it had somewhere else to be. Wherever they stood, the eye slid away. Your attention got tired. It was perfect.
Thalatha watched one veil smudge a whole corner until the stone looked like unpainted sky. "Good," she said. "If I yawn, it’s working."
"You are very charming when you yawn," Mikhailis said.
She didn’t bother to answer. The small smile at the corner of her mouth answered for her.
Rodion drew a narrow bracket at the top of the holo and pinned a clock there. It was not a number; it was a shape—one thin window of light with black on both sides.
<Operation clock visible to all eyes. Arguing with a clock will not change the clock.>
"Not even if I bribe it with tea?" Mikhailis asked.
<No.>
Thalatha leaned her hip against the stone, comfortable now in the cadence of planning. "Gait randomness is good," she said. "What about sound?"
Rodion opened a side panel with small sliders. <Noise hygiene protocols. Hypnoveils absorbing slap-echo. Slime smoothing bounce corners. Skeletons wrap junctions with marsh cloth—no clack. Every unit breathes on exhale when crossing a rib lip. No one speaks near a hinge. If speech required, do so into the fold of your own shoulder.>
Mikhailis demonstrated, turning his mouth into his sleeve and murmuring, "Test, test," like a bored clerk. The sound barely left his collar.
"Acceptable," Thalatha said. "Mark the hinge here and here." She tapped two faint ridges on the map. "I don’t want anyone improvising near those."
Rodion highlighted both in a lazy orange. <Hinges flagged. Improvisation tax applied.>
"Tax?" Mikhailis asked.
<If a unit deviates from plan near a hinge without cause, I will play a loud ’tsk’ in their ear. It is very annoying.>
Mikhailis grinned. "Good. Weaponized shame."
"Whatever works," Thalatha said. She lifted her cup again and finished the tea. The warmth settled steady under her sternum. "Proceed."
They took another pass through Phase Zero. It was like sanding a table—small strokes until the surface turned smooth and the hand stopped catching.
Mikhailis walked the micro-pauses again, then again. He let his knees carry the weight instead of his ankles. He let his pride sit down. The Deacon hunts pattern. Be the opposite of proud. Be interesting only once.
Thalatha corrected two more small things. "Put a veil shadow on this lip. It looks hungry. And cut this path by one step—we’re inviting a trip."
He did both without debate. "Done."
Rodion rolled the sim back to the start and let the dots pulse once more. <Phase zero rubric: pass/fail criteria posted. Target: no repeating weight pattern in any twenty-step slice. Target: no audible clack above whisper-level. Target: avoid boredom failure (humans sighing loudly counts as failure).>
"I don’t sigh loudly," Mikhailis said.
"You do," Thalatha said softly. "When you’re bored and trying to be noble about it."
"I am the picture of patience."
"You are a picture," she agreed. "Frame it later. For now, move your feet."
He moved his feet.
They worked until the board felt like a rope they could climb in the dark. Little by little, the fear edge went down. It didn’t go away. It just stopped trying to be the important thing.
Rodion dimmed the console by a hair. The slot answered by feeling a fraction wider. Maybe it was only their nerves. Maybe not.
Mikhailis let himself sit back and breathe out slowly. He felt Thalatha’s shoulder brush his again as she adjusted her stance. The contact was tiny, but it grounded him.
He looked sideways at her. She noticed and didn’t move away.
"So," he said, voice low. "Soon we try to have a polite conversation with four hundred skeleton-adjacent ants and their very proud mother."
"Mother figures are my specialty," Thalatha said. "I practice with old elves."
He chuckled. "Fair."
Her eyes slid to him. "And you? Ready to be a regent maker without making a mess?"
He tilted his head. "Me? Mess? Never."
She stared.
He lifted both hands, surrendering. "Fine. Sometimes. But today I am a gentle breeze."
"Good," she said. "Don’t be a storm."
He made a zipper motion across his mouth.
Rodion gently knocked the tray against the stone—just once, polite. <Focus returning to plan.>
"Right," Mikhailis said. He straightened. His face shifted into the calm he wore when work mattered. Enough play. Give her the best version of me.
He moved his fingertips again. The phase board brightened. The fallback arrows sharpened. Everything looked ready to be trusted.
"Phase zero," he repeated, like sealing it. "Mask and measure."
They all looked at it one more time. No one added anything.
On the left of the holo, the clock blinked a thin bar. It wasn’t much. It had to be enough.
Mikhailis lifted his cup and drained what was left. He set it down with care.
"Alright," he said. "We’ve hidden our feet and taught our breath to behave."
"Next," Thalatha said.
He nodded. His hand hovered over the console for a beat. He looked at her. She gave one tiny nod back. Not permission. Agreement.
He touched the panel.
"Phase one," Mikhailis said. "Goodwill."
He held up a small cone. The thing looked simple but tidy—mint-paper crumb pinched into a tiny star at the tip, a clean ring of bone meal pressed around the middle, glowcap dust like thin frost over the sides, and a polished mirror-token seated flat at the base.
"This is the language," he added, turning it so the light caught. "Mint says ’fresh, no poison.’ Bone says ’we honor your work.’ Glowcap says ’we know your market.’ The mirror says ’we’re not hiding our face.’ We place it at the boundary. Two body-lengths back. Hands visible. Heads slightly down. No staring at brood mouths."
Thalatha nodded and stepped closer. She looked at the cone like it was a spearhead she was checking for burrs.
"Angle of placement?" she asked.
"Pointing in, not out," he said. "Never point a gift at yourself. Looks greedy."
She pinched the air, picturing it. "Left of the traffic lane, not center. We don’t force anyone to step around and create gossip."