CHAPTER 741: PRIME-STEP TO DAYLIGHT (2)

"Thank you," Thalatha said, voice flat but softer at the edges.

"Professional catching services. Free for the first fall," he said, and then let the joke close itself, not chasing it.

A jar flared in their periphery, annoyed at being ignored, and then remembered it was boring and dimmed. The water did not ripple.

At the next junction there were three ways forward. The spiral throat, pretty and mean, sloped in a way that invited your ankle to write a sad letter later. A narrow stair vein that looked like a love letter from a paper cut—romantic if you were foolish, painful if you were honest. And broad switchbacks that smelled like work done properly. The air over the switchbacks tasted like hands that had touched stone many times and left useful oils.

Rodion placed neat icons. The board’s light made small halos on the floor.

Spiral: photoperiod narrow, pinch at mid-landing. Avoid if you like your knees. Stair vein: hostile to litters, high cadence risk. Switchbacks: honest handholds, low echo appetite. Recommendation: stew.

"Stew," Mikhailis said. "I like stew."

A worker near him chuckled up through her mandibles, then clacked her mouth shut, embarrassed. The nurse beside her bumped her antennae—it’s okay to like stew. The worker straightened.

Thalatha walked to the edge of each option and just stood there for one long breath, listening with her boots. She put her palm on the rail and read the cold. Her eyes narrowed at the spiral. She didn’t scowl, she just decided against it with her face.

"Slow is smooth," she replied, already moving to the first post.

Before they moved as a group, she caught the eyes of the Crymber pair. She pointed at the crown stones of the first switchback and rotated her wrist once—heat, then cool, short. They nodded in that quiet way that didn’t disturb the air.

Scurabons stepped to the post. Their knives were small today, hooked for scribing instead of cutting. They marked micro-shear lines with short/long scribe—two little smiles at the crown stones. Not deep. Not obvious. Just enough to teach stubborn rock to remember what to do when stressed.

Slimeweave palmed the lip to read tack. It flattened its body, pressed both palms, then lifted and listened with its skin. It wobbled a yes and tapped twice on the good stone—this will hold; this will hold better with resin.

Workers pressed resin into the cuts, heels of their hands making the shine dull. The smell rose—pine tar and boiled bone, sharp and honest. One worker hummed one note under her breath and then stopped, catching herself. She added a tiny cough and broke her own almost-song. The nurse captain rubbed her shoulder. Good save.

The queen-to-be dotted the rail with a tri-scent braid—mint, bone, glowcap—crooked enough to keep songs from being born. She didn’t lay a straight line. She made gentle commas and half-hooks. A juvenile watched, then copied a small comma by herself and looked up, waiting. The queen-to-be touched her antenna to the juvenile’s—approval—and the little one practically vibrated with pride.

Mikhailis threw a look back down the two rejected routes. The spiral’s mid-landing pinched in the exact way that made him want to swear. The stair vein had that thin, hungry brightness he had learned to distrust. He felt the pull of both and let it slide off his bones.

Pick the stew. Eat the stew. Live to talk nonsense later.

They formed up. Thalatha lifted two fingers at hip height—prime-step—and the line translated it into knees and ankles. The breath ribbon dipped.

They climbed on prime-step. The first corner asked for patience. They gave it.

A soldier almost repeated a neat heel click. The sound was pretty. It wanted to be a friend. Thalatha’s fingers flashed a low halt without even looking; the soldier turned the would-be click into a cough-step without shame. He didn’t blush; he nodded once to himself and kept going.

They hit a pointed seam that had the mean personality of a teacher who liked trick questions. Mikhailis weighed a pebble, tossed, and it landed two fingers left of the obvious. The pebble made a polite, correct sound. The floor sulked. It did not spring.

He could feel the room recalculating, like an accountant crossing out a neat column and writing a new one, annoyed but resigned. He flashed a small grin at Rodion’s board.

Acceptable throw. Do not get cocky; statistics remember hubris.

"After we get out, I’m opening a school," Mikhailis whispered. "Class one: pebble placement, or how to disappoint floors."

"You’re not allowed to teach," a soldier murmured back, deadpan. "You encourage improvisation."

"Only on Tuesdays," he said.

At each landing they shared the easy intimacy of a workshop. Thalatha tugged a glove seam straight on a tired worker’s hand, pressing the leather flat with her thumb so it wouldn’t rub raw later. Mikhailis retied a loose knot on a resin jar and then patted the worker’s wrist once—done. A canteen tipped for a measured swallow moved down the line—exactly three sips each. Someone tried to wave it off; the nurse held it at their mouth and waited with raised eyebrows until they drank. They did.

A juvenile fumbled her strap buckle in the excitement. The queen-to-be stepped in, didn’t scold, just demonstrated the loop once in slow motion, then handed it back. The juvenile repeated the motion perfectly, cheeks bright, and made herself taller by a thumb’s width.

Once, a small laugh slipped between Mikhailis and Thalatha and lived inside the armor for a second. It wasn’t about anything big. He had pointed at a stain on his sleeve and said, "New fashion: resin chic." She had given him a dry look that somehow, today, read like affection. The laugh came and went. Later, when there was time and privacy, they stole one or two longer kisses out of sight and came back steadier, eyes calmer, hands more exact. Nobody asked. Everybody moved a little easier.

The switchbacks kept coming, each corner an exercise in faith and habit. The Crymber pair did their heat-kiss, frost-kiss on two more crown stones. You could smell the change—hot chalk, then cold pottery. Workers pressed the sap in before the memory faded. The result was not glamorous; it was reliable.

At the third landing, the breath ribbon hiccuped once—thin photoperiod brushing the edge of the room. Rodion dimmed the board a fraction.

Photoperiod dip. Maintain crooked timing. Avoid standing still for two identical breaths.

"Copy," Thalatha said, without looking at the board. Her palm flicked a new tempo. The line obeyed.

A soldier’s boot squeaked. The Echo leaned in from the walls to taste it. The soldier rolled his ankle outward and made the second squeak on purpose, but at a different length and weight. The Echo lost interest, like a cat offended by a predictable toy.

"How’s the strap?" Mikhailis asked, low.

"Correct," Thalatha said. There was a faint humor hiding in the word. "You did not mess it up."

"I charge extra for not messing it up."

"You are already overpaid."

"Thank you," he said gravely, and meant it.

They took the last turn before the post. The passage ahead opened wider. The air changed—less sting, more dust, the kind that has settled because people decided a room should be respectful.

Rodion lifted the safe-dot path a half-finger toward the inside rail.

Minor micro-shear on the outer lip. Adjust path inward. Thank you for not falling off small, boring cliffs.

"Not today," Mikhailis murmured. I would like to keep all my ankles. I’ve grown fond of them.

They moved into position for the next set of hands and eyes—the Scurabons already stepping up, blades flipped for scribing, not cutting. Thalatha’s palm opened, fingers steady, inviting the next rhythm to begin. The rules—food first, backs shown, prime-step—sat in the bones of the space like furniture fixed to a floor.

"Stew," Mikhailis repeated, softer this time, almost to himself. "Best thing they ever invented."

"Slow is smooth," Thalatha replied, already moving to the first post.

Scurabons marked micro‑shear lines with short/long scribe—two little smiles at the crown stones. Slimeweave palmed the lip to read tack. Workers pressed resin into the cuts, heels of their hands making the shine dull. The queen‑to‑be dotted the rail with a tri‑scent braid—mint, bone, glowcap—crooked enough to keep songs from being born.

They climbed on prime‑step. A soldier almost repeated a neat heel click; Thalatha’s fingers flashed a low halt, and he turned it into a cough‑step without shame. A pointed seam tried to learn their ankles; Mikhailis weighed a pebble, tossed, and it landed two fingers left of the obvious. The floor sulked. It did not spring.

At each landing they shared the easy intimacy of a workshop: a glove straightened, a loose knot retied, a canteen tipped for a measured swallow. Once, a small laugh slipped between them and lived inside the armor for a second. Later, when there was time and privacy, they stole one or two longer kisses out of sight and came back steadier, eyes calmer, hands more exact. Nobody asked. Everybody moved a little easier.

The reed‑choir room tried to be clever. Thin rafter reeds hummed two notes, one for inhale, one for exhale. A pillar in the center held script under dust: hold, attend, bar. Above, bell crowns waited like patient teachers with heavy books.

"Reed‑Choir Torsion," Mikhailis said, keeping his voice at sleeve level. "Let’s do homework."