"Good evening, Elder," Mikhailis said, polite as a library.
It's a strange thing to watch a face realize it has tripped. The young man's expression micro‑stuttered, then flowed almost perfectly back into place. Almost.
"Reset rune under the supply crate," Mikhailis continued as if they had a schedule. "Designed to wipe the ledger when a tired hand presses the wrong place. Log gone, blame the outsider. Echo‑tag on my strap. Test capture within easy reach. The coached recruit. Looped handwriting. Access to rosters. Decay line that walks clockwise along authorizations only Elders have."
He spread his hands a little. "You didn't find the dungeon. You didn't even build it first. You weakened the ring, then pulled the dungeon through and called it the culprit."
The young face didn't flinch. It tilted its head, almost admiring. Then, for a half blink, age bled through—creases at the eyes, a weight in the cheeks—and was gone.
