"Match my rhythm," he instructed, guiding her onto the disc he'd just vacated. The platform rang again, brighter this time; it recognized the pair as a harmony rather than a mistake. "No deviation. If your pulse stumbles, the song collapses."
"Zero pressure," she deadpanned, but the chamber's hush stole any real sarcasm from her tone. She inhaled, letting the cool air settle in her chest, and felt for the faint echo left by Draven's previous step. It was still there—an after‑note nestling in the runework underfoot. She placed her weight slowly, coaxing that echo instead of crushing it. The disc answered with a shy, midrange chime.
Draven's eyes flicked sideways—a silent good.
