"Maintain," Thalatha echoed, eyes steady. Her hand made a small circle at hip height, the sign for "no new tricks."
The team settled into that hard stillness that is not stiff. Knees soft. Backs ready. The Hypnoveil shifted its mantle a finger's width lower, dulling edges that might want to shine again. The nurses made their little shoulder counts—two, three, five—like lullabies for feet.
The Archivist knelt at Anchor A with a kind of respect that looked old. His brush moved gentle, not because the dust was delicate, but because the runes wanted to be seen properly. Fine grit lifted in a disciplined cloud. A coil line breathed out from under it, the way a map breathes out when somebody finally opens a drawer.
"Attend," Mikhailis whispered, as if the word itself could keep the rune from sulking.
