Rodion's voice slid into Mikhailis's mind like a needle through cloth—sharp, precise, leaving no space for him to pretend he hadn't heard it.
He froze.
The noise inside the high tent wasn't loud to begin with—only the soft murmur of voices, the faint clink of ceramic cups, the whisper of paper as someone shifted a map—but now it all felt distant, as if someone had dropped a glass dome over his thoughts.
He sat on a low cushion near the central table, legs folded, posture a touch more relaxed than a court etiquette book would recommend. Bandages peeked from under the open front of his shirt where his coat hung loose. Every deeper breath sent a spike of pain through his ribs, a sharp, stubborn ache that reminded him how hard the dungeon had thrown him.
