The ember in the linen alcove kept a small, honest light, the kind that didn't try to be a sunrise. Warmth breathed in and out of the little glow as if the castle itself took slow lungs of air. Mikhailis rested his head back against the cool stone and let the room come into focus: the stacked cloth bundles, the thread-and-needle board, the faint scent of soap boiled too long. His own pulse was steady. Joints a little stiff from the floor. Throat dry. He raised one hand and tapped his fingertips gently against his thigh—once, twice, three times—then reversed the order, quick and clean.
Three words. Bread. River. Silence. He waited a beat and then recited them backward in his head. Silence. River. Bread. The sequence returned easily. Good. The mind was where he left it.
