"Ready?" she asked.
Elara allowed herself a single deliberate inhale, then let it roll out like a controlled tide. "Yes."
Maris, balanced between them, reached out and clasped both their hands in hers. Her grip felt steady, like braided silk cords. "We've practiced," she reminded them, tone calm and warm. "We refined the glyphs, we tested the projections, we even survived Astrid's full-court critique last week. We're ready."
Amberine nodded. Somewhere behind her ribs a frantic drummer hammered away, but the rhythm slowed just a beat. "Let's do this," she said, voice low.
They fell into an informal triangle around Maris—Amberine on the left, Elara on the right—as they moved toward the door. For one surreal heartbeat the hallway glowed deeper, the ambient water-blue light catching in Elara's hair like threads of starlight sunk beneath the sea. Amberine took a mental photograph—Elara's crisp jawline, Maris's gentle smile—and tucked it away in case the rest of the day blurred.
