Slime skated out in a hurry he didn't love. The plates moved like flat beetles on iced glass, bellies just kissing the stone. They left a track only his trained eye noticed—light bent wrong there, as if the floor had been polished by fog.
"Three joints," he said, pointing with two fingers so even a skeleton would understand. "The ones that shiver."
The plates veered with tiny, respectful pivots. They slid to the outer ring seams and nosed into the hairline where tile kissed tile. It wasn't flashy. It looked like a dentist using a pin to fix a grand clock. Gel beaded out in hair-thin wedges. No shine. No bragging. Just small honesty pressed into a crack.
Crymber Frost leaned over each bead and exhaled slow. The frost line took like chalk on old slate. Crymber Ember followed with two gentle taps, sealing the chalk into quiet. Tap. Tap. Not a hammer. A lullaby.
