"Alright, guys," he mouthed, turning toward a knot of chimera ants clustered near the distilling bench. "Cleanup. Whisper mode."
One lead worker—distinguished only by a slightly larger thorax and a daub of turquoise ink from yesterday's spectrograph mishap—clicked twice in acknowledgment. The ants scattered like disciplined soldiers, each pairing off to a different corner. Tiny feet made almost no sound; only the faint hush of parchment sliding and the soft tap of glass vial meeting padded tray hinted at their work.
Mikhailis drifted among them, correcting angles, re-corking reagents, straightening an off-kilter lens stand. His fingers brushed a coil of silver filament. Serelith was rewiring the ether bridge… right before she decided my neck looked tastier. He smiled at the memory—how her giggle had echoed against copper plates, how her cheeks flushed darker each time he teased a rune out of place.
