Chapter 705: Heat in a Cruel Room (3)
Inside, proximity stopped being a question. It became regulation. Warmth was a resource. They shared it like soldiers share a canteen on winter watch: no ceremony, strict fairness. Thalatha’s hand found Mikhailis’s hip without excuse or apology. The spot had become a signal: steady. He put his palm on the chair’s rail near her thigh where she could see it and where it could not become a rumor. That mattered more than poetry.
When the ember’s glow dropped to "safe," they let the morale ritual happen. A kiss, brief and clear. No sighs, no sound. Solemn enough to make fun of later if anyone ever felt like teasing them and lived. The kiss didn’t distract her; it aligned her. Breath, pulse, patience clicked into place like teeth on a cog. She filed it under maintenance, the way you oil a hinge that matters, not something that needs praise.
They never talked about it. The slot left no room for theory, only practice. But whenever their mouths met, a quiet need inside her stood down. Not greedy—needed. As if the day had carved a gap that his tongue knew how to measure and mend. She disliked how true that felt. She didn’t fight it either. He kept it respectful. She kept it quiet. Rule held.
Mikhailis slid a projection-tab from his kit. The screen flared, then he dimmed it until it was barely there, a ghost window on his palm. Scurabon body-cams sketched wireframes—thin, clean strokes like a child’s map of a city drawn from memory. Dead ends disguised as choices, loops that pretended to be exits, one stair that promised up but folded into itself after seven turns.
Two frames caught undead patrols rehearsing wrong cadences: three, three, one—birth; then again. Their feet landed half a heartbeat proud. Hypnoveils’ tiny side notes tagged it: pride in rhythm; correct with embarrassment. A third frame hovered on a door with no lock mechanism. Its surface drank sound. Thalatha’s neck hairs said: it hears.
<Pattern notes uploaded. Patrols adapt by echo within two cycles. Do not leave the same signature twice. Recommend randomized pauses.>
He didn’t read the line out. No need. It wrote across his lens and then across his face in that set he got when the world handed him more homework. He ratcheted the dimness one notch lower.
Thalatha watched like a tailor inspecting seams after a flood. Where timing slipped, where floor hum lied, where a shield rim would skate if you were lazy with your angle. She put a finger to one frame without touching it. "This gutter. Frost chalks; Ember warms. Then we cross."
He nodded. "If we must. The gutter wants to be flattered."
"Then we refuse to flatter, and it will sulk quietly."
She permitted a second share of broth. Not for hunger. For quiet. The sound of spoons on wood made a soft order out of breathing.
Second loop, second insult.
They went to Corridor B with the erased elvish. The wall invited fingers as softly as a childhood book. Thalatha’s fingertips buzzed. She could nearly feel the old lexicon under the scratch: here was a bridge that once folded like a fern; here was a water mark that meant "cross gently." She kept her hands at her sides. It hurt in a good way, like holding a note in the choir until your ribs hummed.
"Do not touch," she said, but mostly to herself.
Mikhailis half-smiled. She could have been a scholar in another life. No—she is one in this one and hates the word. "If we find a safe room, I’ll make rubbings," he murmured.
"You will make nothing until I say."
"Understood, General."
They mirror-walked past a panel that tried to be a window. It threw back a fuzzed version of the corridor, just wrong enough to tempt the eye into correcting it. No one looked in. No one invited a story. A story would invite an ending. Discipline is a wall you repaint even when the weather mocks your brush.
Back to C.
Spindle C bowed when weight stepped wrong. The first time, a lich’s heel made the ribs groan; the sound shot up everyone’s spine like a rod. Slime hustled its ugly neatness into the gaps, dragging dull grey lattice across the bow until the eye forgot to stare. The smell was like wet ash after rain.
"Poles," Thalatha ordered, and the front rank turned spears to third legs. They crossed slow, the way you cross a river full of named stones. No heroics. No applause. Ankles safe. Pride bored. That was the prize.
At the far lip rested a mouth in the wall—oval, smooth, smug. The stone around it had the polished pride of something that wanted to be called an arch. Mikhailis crouched, sniffed like a cook tasting steam.
"Pride," he said.
"Not this way," she signed with two fingers. The fingers flicked like a clerk scratching a denial in a margin. The wedge captains passed the sign down the bodies, and the decision settled without complaint.
If the tomb wanted to be won by speeches, it had chosen the wrong room and the wrong woman. Running a line where discipline outranked valor should have felt like starvation to her. It didn’t. It felt like clean water after weeks of brine. She discovered, with a quiet shock, that she measured love now as permission to rest three breaths with her forehead against his and call it enough. She kept that thought private and small, tucked under her ribs, where it warmed without burning.
Day shortened. It didn’t fade; it snapped, like a string stretched too tight. Rations thinned but stayed honest. Thalatha did the ugly math—calories, heat, mood—on the invisible slate she carried behind her eyes. No favorites. No drama. Mikhailis answered with what he called "field austerity with manners." He baked stones under Ember’s breath till they held warmth without smoke. He broke mint-paper into crumbs and made sure each mouth received one, even the beetles who pretended to dislike it and then sat very still while their gills tasted the air.
People did not thank him. They breathed easier, and their shoulders came down, and no one decided to be a hero to cover hunger. That was better.
Night in the slot ended with a bantery truce. Mikhailis tried two jokes. One lived: "I feel handsomer in places that want me dead." One died kindly: something about peacocks and brooms; it would be funny when they were not being hunted by eels. She said "unfair" once, a word that let him know he shouldn’t press the silly line; he did not. His eyes changed when he chose serious—darker, more exact. She liked that change more than she admitted. They kissed soft. Foreheads touched. A pact without ink, and more binding for it.
On the fourth short day, Corridor A finally revealed its trick. At a bend that pretended to lead up, the wall turned warmer under their palms, not like sun-warmed stone, but like an animal that wanted to be asked. A door, but not a lock. A metronome. The surface vibrated so faintly that only wrists felt it.
"It listens," Mikhailis whispered.
"Then we do not lie to it," Thalatha said.
They tested. She led the breath. He matched. Hold, hold, bite, slide, reset. The stone warmed, a slow blush. Somewhere gears that were not gears reconsidered their pride. The seam whispered. A thin crack opened—only a quarter of a palm—and stopped.
"Again," she said.
They placed their hands and breathed again. This time Mikhailis let his inhale ride half a feather after hers, trusting her clock. She felt his exhale arrive under her palm like a heartbeat learning to stand in a new parade.
The warmed band widened the thickness of a knife back... then cooled. The door disdained them. Not a slam. A polite hand withdrawn.
Mikhailis didn’t fall into wit. His eyes went a little far away as numbers slid past, silent as fish. I hate that it’s right to make us patient. I like that she’s better than I am at this.
<Insufficient trust at hinge-of-breath. Phase offset eleven milliseconds. Recommend practice or alternative route.>
He exhaled, barely. "We’re close," he said.
"We return," Thalatha decided. Scrapes sounded near the edge—monsters scuffing curiosity across stone. She raised two fingers, folded them on count, and they withdrew, leaving only the temperature on rock as proof they’d been honest and it had not been enough.
That night they practiced the duet in the slot, palms against the chair’s shield-back, breath in small chorus: hold, hold, bite, slide, reset. First time, she tripped on "bite" and scowled like the door could see it. Second time, he tripped on "reset" and offered a grimace that meant he knew better. Third time, they arrived together cleanly, and he murmured, "There it is," the way he said "good shot" without turning it into a medal. A kiss sealed the cadence, brief and respectful, a stamp on a ledger.
Fifth day. Almost, not yet. They dueted the gate again. The warmth came faster and more honestly. The seam yielded a handspan and offered black glass beyond—no detail, no promise, the taste of patience made physical.
"Enough," she said, and she liked herself for saying it. Saving the line outranked proving a point today. She called the halt and stepped back. He touched two fingers to his brow in salute, no smirk. Trust, a quiet notch up.
On the way back a Seraph shard below them preened with a clack. Mikhailis lifted two fingers without lowering his hand from the wall. "We see you," he murmured, voice flat. We do not admire you.
They made the retreat before "night" slammed with its habitual meanness. In the slot, routine put its coat on their shoulders. Her hand to his hip. His palm to her wrist. The talk they allowed was the kind that sands corners: his winter of hot stones for freezing books; her first order that someone obeyed without looking past her for an older face. Kisses arrived like commas, steadying the paragraph, not trying to be the period.
Later, when quiet had settled all the way to the bone, her mind walked back to the door. A metronome that asks for duet. Trust at the hinge of breath. She did not love being taught by stone. She would pass the class anyway.
They returned to the door when the crystals permitted stingy day. Palms set. Breath lined up. For a heartbeat, the slab felt like a living thing deciding whether to extend a hand and then to whom. Warmth rose under their skin.
He felt numbers march into his lens, neat, thin, a school of silver fish going upstream with the current of his patience. He did not read them out loud. He watched Thalatha’s profile instead, and the line of her jaw that did not know how to ask for anything twice.
Numbers walked past his eyes.
Scrapes sounded near the edge—the sound of monsters deciding whether curiosity paid. She gave the signal. They withdrew on count, their small embarrassment folded neatly and carried with them.
That night they practiced the duet. In the slot. Hold, hold, bite, slide, reset. Together. It felt ridiculous at first. She tripped the timing twice and wanted to punch the door for judging her. He did not gloat when she improved on the third try. He only said, "There it is," quiet and proud in a way that did not cost her pride. A kiss sealed the cadence. PG-13. Consent bright and plain. It helped.
Fifth day, almost, not yet. They dueted the gate again. The door yielded a handspan and showed them only black glass beyond. Patience is sharper than iron, her first commander used to say. She called the halt. Saving the line outranked proving a point. He saluted the decision without a smirk. Trust rose a quiet notch all by itself.
Night came fast. The slot took them back. Routine settled around their bones like a familiar coat. Her hand lay on his hip now not by accident, but as a signal: stay. His hand covered her wrist in answer: with you.
Soft talk sanded the awkwardness where sharp edges would be a waste. He told a small winter story about baking stones for freezing books. She shared the first order she ever gave that someone obeyed without looking past her for an older face. They let small words do the work. Kisses arrived like commas, not finales. They made the paragraphs of this strange life readable.
After the last ember tick, the brakes in her chest released a little on their own. She stared at the faint light and thought the day’s thoughts in order so they would not wake her later with a knife.
It arrived without planning. "What if we get stuck here forever..." Her voice sounded like someone testing a bridge. She hated the heat that crept into her cheeks. She did not stop. "I think... I don’t mind spending my time with you."