"Noted," he said, and the word sounded like a stamp on paper.
The healer's brow pinched. She leaned in and pressed near the buckle at his shoulder. "There is a catch on this strap," she murmured. "Not a curse. An echo. Tag of old rhythm."
Aeren's head tilted, sharp. Two soldiers leaned forward a finger's worth. One made the sign people make when they think a curse is listening.
"Echo," the nurse repeated. "Not a curse." She tapped the leather. "It likes neat feet. If he walks wrong, it will unhook."
Mikhailis lifted his heel and set it down crooked on purpose—heel-drag, toe a little off, angle just shy of comfortable. The nurse captain, standing at his shoulder like a metronome that hates music, tapped 2-3-5 with two fingers on his sleeve—two taps, pause, three, pause, five. He moved with it. The tiny grit sound the echo made, like chalk on bone, sighed and let go. It was almost disappointed.
