Rodion staggered through the stone iris of the hidden tunnel, shoulders listing like a storm-battered ship. Sparks dripped from a fist-sized gash near his collar joint, each one sizzling as it struck the mossy floorboards. The once-smooth cloak hung in blackened ribbons behind him, every thread stiff with dried mirror-dust and half-melted rune wax. Servos whined at the wrong pitch, hiccupping whenever he shifted weight, and his HUD stained the edge of his sight with duplicate red icons that kept trying to overlap — as if even the warning systems were dizzy.
He looks like somebody fed him through a dragon's laundry mangle, Mikhailis thought, pressing thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. The underground lab's violet lanterns cast Rodion's silhouette against rows of alembics and rune coils, turning each jagged edge into an accusation.
