Butchery first. The Scurabons opened the carcass along cartilage seams with the backs of sickles, wrists loose, elbows tight. No saw. No scrape. The sound was soft, like cloth sliding across a table. They moved in a rhythm that felt older than language—press, lift, press—never letting the edge sing. Rodion traced thin approval lines in the air, little threads of pale guidance that only Mikhailis pretended not to need.
Mikhailis breathed once, slow. Be boring. Be necessary. He slid his knife where the pale lines kissed the skin, not cutting so much as suggesting. His grip was not a fencer's grip; it was a clerk's. Fingers steady, thumb high, blade as unimpressive as a spoon and twice as faithful.
"There are two sacs," he said, keeping his voice level so it didn't bounce around the crack. "They make everything taste like old coins if you nick them."
