CHAPTER 30: SCORES AND ORDERS

They posted the scores on three boards at once: main court, drill yard, dining hall. The yard filled shoulder to shoulder; talk ran fast and quiet.

"First: Cael Veyron."

Respect made a low sound. Cael inclined his head like he was acknowledging a well-set column.

"Second: Armand Valcrey."

For a heartbeat, the yard didn’t know what to do with that. Then the clap started where competence lives and spread when people realized they were allowed to be honest. Somewhere a boy blurted "no way" and closed his mouth when nobody joined him.

"Third: Elara Thornfield." She stood a shade taller without moving.

"Fourth: Marcus Ravencrest." He met my eyes and tipped his chin a fraction—clean work recognizes clean work.

"Fifth: Ariadne Valcrey." A ripple. Ariadne didn’t change face; the set of her shoulders eased half a breath.

"Eighth: Seraphine Duskveil." Amethyst eyes glittered; the smile stayed perfect. "Twelve: Aldric Voss." The yard didn’t jeer. It did worse: memorized the number and moved on.

Pierce flipped his slate. "Orders. Top five: Gate Six, twenty-three hundred. Light armor. No seconds. Evaluator oversight on site. Cell A: Cael Veyron, Armand Valcrey—Saintess Liora Anselm. Cell B: Ariadne Valcrey, Marcus Ravencrest—Saint Dorian Kest. Independent runner on delay: Elara Thornfield."

The white wardlight under Gate Six flickered thin as bone. The crowd went quiet the way rooms do when someone lifts a lid and cold air walks out.

"The Night Run is timed," Pierce said. "Beacon cores inside are unstable. Civilians simulated. Ethics and triage weigh heavier than speed. Harm your partner, you fail. Harm your evaluator, you leave this school. Constructs allowed per policy. Human remains are still illegal. You may withdraw; your slot passes to the next rank. No shame in that. Shame arrives when you pretend bravery and make others pay."

He didn’t look at Aldric. He didn’t need to.

The yard dissolved into streams. Gareth bulled through with Pelham on his heels. "Number two," he said, trying to keep the grin off and failing. "That 5v1— that was— I mean—"

"Work," I said. "We did it. Keep your wall up tonight, even if you’re sleeping."

He nodded like he’d been given permission to breathe.

Lyra stood under a post’s shade, ledger hugged to her ribs, keeping people from jamming where there was nothing left to jam. When our eyes met she gave me that same small nod as at Refuge. Wary trust. Professional. She had lines to move; so did I.

Marcus drifted by as if space had been designed to make room for him. "Try not to embarrass me by dying," he said, dry as old chalk.

"I’ll return the favor."

Ariadne passed with her sworn a step behind. She didn’t stop. "Twenty-two hundred," she said to the air, to the ledger of the day, to both of us.

"I’ll be there."

Cael came last, measured. He stopped a pace away, weighing the next hills. "Don’t get in my way," he said. Not a sneer. A plan.

"Try to be faster," I said.

He almost smiled—almost. "Eat," he said, and left.

I ate because Liora would ask if I hadn’t. Salt, bread, broth. No heroics. Then a wash at the south spigot where the water ran cold enough to remind a man he had skin. I checked steel and kit, then checked again. Rope. Oil. Cloth. Needle, thread. Two treated thongs. Bone blades thin as ribbon. Sabre clean; knife flat. A spare handkerchief. Marrow in Shade—obedient. Hollow light on the wrist and quiet when told.

At twenty-two hundred the south infirmary smelled like water, iron, and the faint pine-clean they use when they don’t want a room to remember pain. Liora stood with her wrists bare of bands—work, not ceremony. Dorian leaned in the corner like a piece of shade with a pulse. Pierce was a slate and a ticking jaw.

"Accords," Liora said. We repeated them: "No harm to civilians, evaluators, or each other. No human remains. No glory before safety."

"Good," she said. "Show me your leash."

"Shade," I said. Marrow rippled out of the floor’s dark like a sketch un-erased, then vanished when I whispered it again. "Out." He climbed back precise. "Stay." His bones became furniture with opinions.

"Hollow—scout." The bird lifted on nothing, circled once, and settled when I said here. My fingers didn’t buzz; the thread didn’t fuzz. The rope between sternum and sternum hummed steady.

Liora watched hands, not tricks. "Timing’s clean," she said. "Do not admire it. Use it."

She turned to Cael. "Aura?"

He rolled one shoulder and let a thin pressure bloom off him and vanish. The floor noticed. That was all.

"You two," Liora said, "are not here to impress the dark. You’re here to survive it. Cael, you are vanguard. Armand, you are map and hands. You will talk out loud. You will tell each other when you’re wrong. If you hesitate between a pretty win and an ugly rescue, you will choose ugly."

"Yes," Cael said.

"Yes," I said.

"Good." She slid a linen roll toward me. "If your construct is compromised, you sever. If your pride is compromised, you do not. Look at me and tell me you understand the difference."

"I do," I said.

She studied my face for one breath longer than comfort and nodded. "Walk."

The path to Gate Six is short and long at once. Even at night the quad holds heat; the arch ahead breathed cold. Wardens stood like furniture that could arrest you. The iron door had teeth and patience. White wardlight pooled under it the way thin milk finds a crack.

Pierce scratched a note. "Record starts on entry," he said. "Timer stamps at first rung and each beacon. There are civilians. Some are decoys. You will treat them like people until you prove otherwise. If you return early, you will live with why."

Dorian’s voice came quiet, the kind that makes you listen because it didn’t ask you to. "If you doubt, err toward kindness. The dungeon is not ennobled by your cleverness."

Liora placed her palm on the sigil plate. "Last instruction: if your heart begins to narrate, make it be quiet. You don’t need poetry in the dark."

The plate drank her heat. Bolts thunked. Teeth ground. Air slid out—cold, clean, like a room that hasn’t met noon in years.

Cael rolled his neck once, an inventory. I spread my fingers and let them go still. Marrow tightened on the leash, eager and exact; Hollow clacked once and hushed. I whispered "stay" into the Shade and felt both threads hum, ready to be pulled.

The door rose high enough to swallow men who forgot to duck. White wardlight scalloped the edge. Beyond it: a stair mouth and the kind of black that absorbs intention.

"Go," Liora said.

We stepped in together.