CHAPTER 669: A UNIT THAT BREATHES TOGETHER (1)

Rodion’s optic dilated, then threw a neat ledger into the air above the lift—cool blue, crisp edges, no wasted flourish.

Muster at start. Liches under contract: two. Skeletons: fifty—spears twenty, shields four, bows six, swords twenty. Chimera ant cohort: eighteen—Scurabons four, Silk Guards three, Crymber Twins two, Hypnoveils two, Slimeweave three, Mothcloak one, Tanglebeetles two, Aeriform Striders two, Myco-Archivist one, Riftborne Necrolord one. Rodion: present, braced, functional.

Mikhailis repeated under his breath as his eyes tracked each icon, counting on gloved fingers like a chef before service. "Two liches, fifty bones, eighteen kin... good. Good."

Doctrine: formation exceeds raw strength, Rodion added, a touch of dryness creeping in. Cadence by Rodion. Roles by Mikhailis. Lanes by the ants. Liches respect the no-names contract. Skeletons hold a flexible screen. Harvest rule: every Blight core or orb is tagged, sorted by the liches, and handed to Mikhailis; only with his ’yes’ and the contract’s ’yes’ may the cohort consume small pieces; liches may reinvest clean orbs to raise nameless reinforcements within limits.

"Formation is kindness," Thalatha murmured, fitting a fresh bowstring with deliberate care. "Kindness reduces funerals."

The boulevard opened ahead like a dry river of stone—three parallel lanes between breathing ribs. Amber fog clung low, gentling edges and turning distances into guesses. The Whiteways’ slow inhale swelled the lamps; the exhale dimmed them in a tide so regular even fear could learn it.

Rodion stooped, drew three thin blue lines on the floor. They pulsed with the Whiteways’ breath, a waist-high drumline they could march to.

Formation, hold. Cadence in three. Keep interval.

Mikhailis lifted his chin. "Left cut, mid net, right mirror," he called, not loud but bright. "Don’t show off. Do your job."

He knew he’d squeal inside if they did it perfect. He also knew they would move cleaner if he pretended not to.

The enemy arrived with their own neatness: a Bone-Phalanx rolling like a single thought, overlapped shields kissing, spear hedge set to gut. Resin Hounds paced the flanks, teeth dripping acid like rotten cider. Behind them, two Wight Drummers struck a cross-beat that tried to talk ankles into clumsy choices.

The Aeriform Striders raised their feathered plumes and made a low, utilitarian song. It wasn’t beautiful; it was right. The vents answered; the walls adjusted their wheeze. Rodion stitched beat marks along the lanes so even skeletons could step true.

Left lane, advance two. Mid lane, hold. Right lane, veil up.

"Scurabons," Mikhailis pointed left. "Wrists, then knees."

Four blade-runners slid forward, sickles low, posture respectful, murder tidy. Tap—tap—tap at wrist seams—the exact places where bone wanted to hinge if it remembered muscle. A shield lifted in reflex; a wrist opened. A boot slid to correct; a knee seam kissed steel, and the joint lost a little faith. The front rank hiccupped. One tooth of gap showed. Enough.

"Tangles," he snapped, "yo-yo those dogs."

Blue lines snapped from spool-backs like polite lightning. They looped two Resin Hounds mid-pounce. The lines stretched, sang, and then returned to their spools, dragging the beasts backward into the mid lane exactly where he wanted trouble.

"Mid net," Mikhailis said. "Drop and harden."

Silk Guards flicked spinnerets. Three cones blossomed overhead like lanterns opening. They fell with a soft foomp, hugging snarls and ribcages alike. Crymber Frost leaned in, exhaled a thin white that made the silk grainy; Crymber Ember tapped each cone with two hot fingers. The mesh turned amber-stiff. Two Hounds froze with jaws mid-curse, beautiful and hateful as statues.

"Slimeweave—clean the spit."

Glossy plates rolled forward, low and careful. Neutral gel painted the lane in tidy bands. The green sizzle of acid died on contact, turning the floor from slick to matte in a breath. The smell—vinegar and rot—thinned.

On the right, the Hypnoveils lifted their mantles and unfurled honesty. Their frills didn’t shout lies; they reflected what had just happened: a failed charge; a spear line holding neat; a drummer’s stick missing a beat. The Wights’ tempo stuttered—an insult they could feel. Shield push faltered a hair. Arrows from the rear went wide by a palm.

"Door," Mikhailis said, sharp and small.

The Scurabons listened like knives. They opened the gap they’d started—three strokes, a breath, another cut. Rodion’s pulse line blinked green.

Advance one.

The skeleton spears flowed forward. They were not elegant, but they were obedient. Points slid into the seam and bit. The four tower shields shuffled and set, edges kissing like old comrades. Bowmen lifted on the next light—

Loft two.

—loosed in a clean arc. The arrows were not pretty; they were enough. A Wight on the left lost a drumstick. The beat stumbled. The hedge lost a little nerve.

"Keep lanes," Thalatha called evenly, walking the screen. "Spear low. Shield tight."

She felt the old hurt under her ribs like a ghost and was surprised when it stayed quiet. The tincture had oiled hinges that grief had rusted. Strange to be grateful in a place like this. She kept moving.

The Bone-Phalanx pressed with learned malice. The cohort met it with practiced craft.

A phalanx helmet peered over its shield to find targets. Mothcloak, a step out of shadow, brushed the eye-slit with a soft pinion. Not a magic. A smear. The world blurred for that skull; the spear it guided skewed a hand wide.

"Left cut," Mikhailis murmured, eyes tracking a weak place. "Second rank knee."

A Scurabon heard through the noise, changed angle by a finger’s width, tapped that knee on the off-beat. The bone answered with a crack like dry kindling.

On the right, a Resin Hound cleared the first cone with an ugly twist and lunged low for Slimeweave plates. A Tanglebeetle’s blue line caught the ankle with a cheerful snap. The line stretched, hummed, recoiled, and slingshotted the beast nose-first into a waiting net. A Silk Guard hardened the cone with a prim little buzz, as if tidying a curtain.

Rodion’s optic narrowed with approval.

Left lane—two more. Mid lane—step and brace. Right lane—veil at half.

The right Hypnoveil dimmed its pattern, showing only the drummer’s miss, not the spear failure, saving attention for when it mattered. The Wight overcorrected, trying to reassert authority, and its stick slipped again. Timing unraveled.

Mikhailis’s mouth twitched. He had to stop himself from clapping. He lifted a hand instead, palm out, turning his wrist so the liches could see the signal meant for them.

"Tag, sort, bring," he said, even. "Don’t clutch."

Cores rolled from the breaking line like dull marbles—bone-white with veins, or ugly pearl with a sick shine. The liches did not lunge. Their crowns dimmed to worklight. Long fingers filtered the mess: clean attunements left, sour right. The Myco-Archivist fanned its gills over each, tasting like a sommelier sniffing a suspect wine. Its delicate tool tapped approval on a few, clicked a fast no on others. Any that hissed went into sealed silk with a prim little shake of the head.

The ants waited, sickles still, spinnerets tucked. Discipline breathed with them. No one ate without a nod.

"Left shield is drifting," Thalatha said, her voice gentler than the words. She put a palm against a skeleton’s bracer and pressed. The shield tilted half a hand. The gap disappeared. "Good."

The skeleton didn’t nod. It didn’t have to. Its stance answered.

The Bone-Phalanx tried a bully’s shove, betting weight could force a mistake. The cohort gave a finger, never a hand. Slimeweave refreshed gel on the deck where acid sought to make new ponds. The Aeriform Striders shifted their low note, shaving the worst of the wall vents’ hiss so no one slipped trying to listen.

"Watch the drummer—no, their left," Mikhailis said, eyes over everything, brain slicing the mess into lanes. "Scurabons, when I say ’hinge’... now."

Two Scurabons flanked, sickles mirrored. They tapped wrist seams in petty, precise insults. The Wight swung for spite; its stick hit air. The beat lost pride. The front hedge broke another tooth.

Mikhailis felt the urge to run in and be brilliant. He didn’t. He stood where a coach belonged and let his people do the work they’d asked to do. Pride made his fingers tremble. He hid it by adjusting the sling a hair against his hip.

"Door," he said again, lower.

Another seam opened, not pretty, effective. The skeleton spears slid into it. Points took hold and did not get greedy. Bows sent a second loft into the rear—not to kill, to make heads duck.

The Resin Hounds that hadn’t frozen spat long ropes of spit in parabolas meant to punish smugness. Aeriform plumes fluttered, tuned the air, and the ropes landed a half step shy. Slimeweave felt for splatter like a chef catching boilover and spread silence over it.

The phalanx started to collapse the way old scaffolding does: from one joint, then two, then a small rain of parts. No roar. No heroics. A better plan ate a worse one in clean bites.

Mikhailis kept his voice level when he wanted to laugh. "Cores," he said, holding his bag. The satchel’s lattice rippled as if pleased to be useful. "Sorted, then bring."