At that moment, Rodion's helm dipped once, the motion eerily in sync with their decision—as though he heard the conclusion through stone. He drew his cloak tighter. The fabric's nano-threads shimmered, altering hue to a muted slate that matched the cave walls. A readout blinked across Monkey's feed:
Elowen's lips parted, a satisfied little breath escaping. She slid one finger toward the cookie plate but did not take another; her attention glued to the sentinel below.
Rodion moved.
His first step was soundless, heel rolling to toe like silk sliding over glass. The moss seemed to accept him, compressing without so much as a squeak. He paused exactly at the midpoint between stalactite drips, then flowed forward again. Every movement obeyed the cavern's quiet heartbeat. Even his cloak's hem floated, guided by micro-fans at the inner seams that neutralized random flutter. The readout above him updated, line by line:
