CHAPTER 26: ROTATING MAP (1)

You could hear the map rotate in your feet before your eyes saw it—axles grumbling, plates settling, fog pockets changing their minds about light and sound. Four flags hung at the corners; a fifth sat fat in the center. Three "civilians" moaned on cue. Pierce folded the rules into the stone with his voice.

"Capture any two flags and defend for a full rotation, or hold center for two rotations. Rescue civilians to multiply points. Harm them—fail. Hit a referee—go home."

Random draw liked jokes. My side: Gareth Blackwater, Lyra Faewyn, Pelham Gray (sharp-nosed noble more silk than spine), and Victor Lute (long-legged, annoying fast). Opposite: Seraphine Duskveil, Aldric Voss, Marcus Ravencrest, Soren Ives (shield-and-spear tower), Talia Morell (air-cut caster with a temper).

A bookmaker’s ledger opened somewhere above; you could hear paper start to smirk.

I pulled us into a wedge of shade. "Roles," I said. "Gareth—walls on my count only. Priority one is Lyra; two is center steps. Lyra—thread that stabilizer through fog nodes. Use the oil pencil if chalk won’t hold. Don’t expose yourself. Pelham—eyes on Lyra’s back. If she trips you to move you, you fall. Victor—screen for Pelham, run only when I say run. I’ll call set-plays by number. If you don’t know the number, your job is to breathe and not be brave."

Pelham bristled, then saw my face and bristled less. "As you will."

Lyra slid a slim packet of chalks and a narrow oil pencil from her sleeve, hands steady by effort. Her glance flicked to me and away, quick and wary. "Ten seconds per node," she said. Then, lower, careful: "I can... try the thread here if you think it’s appropriate." No fishing. Not deference. Avoiding the kind of attention that used to burn her. Young enough to blush when a noble asked for her work; seasoned enough not to let that blush run her.

"It’s appropriate," I said. "Only if you’re safe."

She nodded once. Noted, not charmed.

Across the ring, Seraphine didn’t huddle; she posed—white hair like snow set to music, amethyst eyes already playing the afterimage of victory. Aldric was grinning for the future he believed owed him. Marcus had his glove edges correct and his mind on the platforms, not applause. Soren thumped his spear butt; the ward hummed back. Talia spun wind to see how it felt over the plates today.

The horn sounded. The map shifted a notch.

"Set one," I said, and we moved.

Gareth raised a waist-high diagonal—it didn’t block, it shaped. Victor took the outside lane like he’d stolen it, forcing Talia to burn wind on someone refusing to fight back. Pelham shadowed Lyra like he’d practiced it all his life instead of the last ten seconds. Lyra hit the first fog node and stitched her glyph in—a loop spliced into the ward’s hum so our voices would stay ours here. She whispered the anchor syllable; the fog stopped trying to eat sound around us.

"Two," I said.

We pivoted. Gareth dropped the diagonal and popped a low rail—a trip-height rib to turn sprints into decisions. I used it as a balance point, slipped past Soren’s shield rim and marked the central step with chalk—a tiny sigil that would buy us a heartbeat later. Soren’s eyes widened as he realized his angle made his shield a door for me instead of a wall. Marcus closed that door with a clean illusion. I didn’t chase it. Breathing tells on liars better than light.

Seraphine cut across our line, not for flags, not yet—she went straight at the softest point: Lyra. She moved like a needle, smile kind, words sharper. "Let me past," she breathed, all honey and knives.

"Three," I said, and stepped between them without showing teeth. "Marrow, out."

The bone hound slid from shade and planted, skull angled at Seraphine’s knee. He didn’t bare. He didn’t need to. Flesh remembers what bone can do. Her step checked; pride kept her from tripping when Gareth snapped a knee-high wall across her ankle-line. The crowd laughed; she put the mask back on as if she had adjusted it on purpose.

Aldric flanked with lightning pooled small in his palm, eyeing Lyra and Gareth as if they were nails. "Mud," I said.

Gareth grinned and slammed two low walls into a V around Aldric’s boots. Lyra flicked her oil pencil, drawing a narrow thread from the bucket spill to the V-floor that made the flagstones sweat. Aldric saw puddle and saw opportunity. He threw his spark.

It hugged him. Not the ward’s mirror this time; the world’s joke. Current spread and loved his boots. He yelped; fringe hissed and smoked in a familiar crescent. The arena howled like it had been waiting for that exact sound all morning. A boy in Voss blue wheezed; even Ariadne’s mouth forgot itself for half a breath.

Aldric hopped, angry and red. Marcus caught his cuff—firm, team-first. Seraphine’s eyes flashed frost, then cooled; she dropped the angle and changed targets without a flinch. Professional. Dangerous.

"Center," I said. We shifted from harassment to claim. The central plate groaned into motion. Soren and Marcus set to hold it; Seraphine and Talia peeled off for corners. Aldric went looking for someone smaller to punish later.

"Flicker," I whispered.

The bone moth woke and flew—thirty seconds of eyes beyond eyes. It checked the far fog for gaps, traced wind at the plate’s edge for Victor’s feet, and came back as Lyra breathed the last stabilizer into the last node we needed. The leash tugged—thin, acceptable—and I let the moth come to rest back in bone when the counting in my head said stop. Two lines stayed tidy.

Then we took the center.

"Five!" I called—hide-then-bloom. Gareth raised a chest-high ring wall. Pelham and Victor ducked like cowards, which is what I needed. Lyra crouched at my heel, chalk already talking to stone.

Soren slammed his shield into the wall thinking he’d knock it flat. Gareth leaned into the world; the wall loved him back. Talia tried to throw wind over; Hollow flicked once across her sightline and her cut went two inches high. Marcus seeded illusions at the flanks, four Marcuses circling. I watched breath again and found one. "Marrow, left," I said, and the hound bumped the real Marcus’s shin with the politeness of a valet. Marcus accepted the correction with a grin and fought honest.