"Thank you," Thalatha said, voice flat but softer at the edges.
"Professional catching services. Free for the first fall," he said, and then let the joke close itself, not chasing it.
A jar flared in their periphery, annoyed at being ignored, and then remembered it was boring and dimmed. The water did not ripple.
At the next junction there were three ways forward. The spiral throat, pretty and mean, sloped in a way that invited your ankle to write a sad letter later. A narrow stair vein that looked like a love letter from a paper cut—romantic if you were foolish, painful if you were honest. And broad switchbacks that smelled like work done properly. The air over the switchbacks tasted like hands that had touched stone many times and left useful oils.
Rodion placed neat icons. The board's light made small halos on the floor.
