CHAPTER 34: CROSSWIND

Rung seven chimed at a T-junction where the air moved wrong. A crosswind ran through the stone like a draft that had learned to lie. It tugged on Hollow’s ribs and made him correct mid-flight, wings canting, skull ticking to keep balance.

"Vent failure," I said. "Backflow from the core."

"Leak?" Cael asked, eyes already measuring corners.

"Or someone turned the baffle," I said. "We’re being steered."

He looked down the right branch where old ward stenciling pointed us like polite arrows, nearly worn away by boots. The left path wore fresh chalk: two lines and a circle, strokes clean and sure. Dorian’s field marks—quiet handwriting that meant, this way is live.

"Right’s original," I said. "Left is current."

"Left," Cael said.

We took the left with our shoulders close to the walls so we could feel the corridor breathe. The stone talked if you let it. Hollow drifted a body length ahead, clicking when the draft lied about direction. Marrow padded silent at my heel, skull angled, posture ready to become a brace or a wedge on command.

The hall opened on a grated overlook into the main spine. Below, Ariadne and Marcus moved in a clean weave. Marcus laid a shallow veil of shadow over the tiles—just enough to make edges stand out so Ariadne could test plates with the butt of her rapier and the edge of her boot. She flicked a glance up—one breath—and looked away. Not a snub. Focus. Keep your eyes where they earn their keep.

"Break," Marcus called, voice carrying without shouting. "Baffle ahead jammed. Backflow on the next landing."

"Copy," I answered. "We’ll take the high one."

Ariadne didn’t look up. "Do not step the plate with the hairline. Second tile after the crack," she said. Not a favor. A fact the world owed itself.

"Thank you," I said, and we moved on.

The next landing stank of hot dust. The baffle’s knurled wheel had been cranked the wrong way. I pressed my palm to it—hot from friction, not heat. Somebody forced it and walked. The dungeon liked to see if you’d fix things the map insisted were fine.

Cloth around the wheel so it wouldn’t eat my skin. Heel set. Turn on the exhale. The wheel groaned and gave. Cael braced the frame with aura spread thin into the stone so he wouldn’t muscle the mount off true. The crosswind dropped from rude to honest. Hollow settled without correcting. Somewhere in the wall, a bell decided to be generous and gave us a soft, satisfied chime.

Rung eight chimed, clean then low—warning. The core hall smelled like old metal and a hint of burned linen. The air tasted flat the way rooms do after they’ve been noisy too long.

"Core ahead," I said. "Filter blew."

We stepped into the circular chamber. Waist-high barrier. Brass cage holding a glass womb that pulsed harder than the others—two cracks, wide, chasing each other at bad angles. A vent funnel rattled overhead, vane stuck half-open. Along the far wall, auxiliary filters sat in a rack—half gone, half dented.

"Time?" Cael asked.

"Not much," I said. "We can calm it and pass, or fix it and get scored like adults."

He looked at the womb, then at me. "Fix it."

"Agreed."

We needed tension in two directions on the cage. No strap. I had treated thong, four fathoms of rope, two bone blades shaved thin like ribbon. Make do.

"Rig," I said.

Cael looped rope through the rear lattice and fed me slack in steady pulls. I split a thong and tied a Prusik so it would bite under load and slide when asked. Bone blade under the knot as a shim so friction wouldn’t eat the leather. "Marrow—set," I said, and the hound planted square like a post. "On my count. Pull, hold, breathe."

We synced. I pulsed Internal only when the knot took—never before, never after. Cael let aura make his stance honest down into the floor, not into his shoulders. The first crack tightened a hair. The pulse steadied for one beat, then two. Sweat ran down my spine and disappeared. I didn’t admire it.

"Vent," he said, chin tipping up.

"Stuck vane," I answered. "Hollow—tap."

The bone bird lifted, pecked the hinge. It shuddered and swung the last thumb’s breadth. Air cooled from angry to reasonable. The room’s invisible shoulders dropped a fraction.

"Filter bank," I added. "Give it a cleaner breath."

Cael grabbed two canisters, checked seals with his thumb, passed me the better one without asking. I popped the panel, slotted the filter, pulsed only when the gasket kissed brass. The glass light softened into a steady heartbeat that wouldn’t scare a first-year.

"Hold ten," I said.

We held ten. I tied off to Marrow’s rib-post and checked the Prusik—biting, not tearing. Cael eased a half inch. Nothing moved wrong. He eased the rest. The rope hummed low and settled.

"Done," he said.

We took the out-door and let our shoulders drop the length of a breath. The tone in the stone chimed final: core stabilized; route valid. Good work. Keep moving.

"Rung nine," Cael said.

"Stair up to exit," I said. "Then whatever Pierce thinks is funny."

We climbed three turns, boots finding grooves worn by too many classes. On the first landing, an old chalk X warned of a loose tile; someone had scuffed it. I refreshed the mark so the next team didn’t learn by falling. On the second, a lantern ring hung empty; Cael tapped it, judged soundness, left it. Don’t fix what isn’t your job if you can’t prove your fix won’t fail later. On the third, a small wedge of wood sat kicked against the wall—a student’s panicked prop from a prior run. I pocketed it; panic trash becomes real trash if you leave it to rot.

At the top, the arch to the gate mouth gleamed white. Liora’s silhouette stood like a promise—straight, still. Dorian’s quiet weight leaned in a shadow—hands folded, attention narrowed. Pierce’s slate waited at the side, his quill idle.

I opened my mouth—and the white failed. Not blue to bone-white. White to nothing. The wardlight under the gate flickered like a candle under a door and died. The hall inhaled. The hair on my arms came up: not fear, just sensors doing their job.

Cael stopped mid-step. "That’s not the practicum."

"No," I said. "That’s a problem."

The gate teeth ground once, then stuck. Iron shuddered in the tracks. Rust grit pattered to the floor like rain that had forgotten how to be water. Beyond the gate, something breathed—real, large. Wet on the inhale. Dry on the out. Patient.

Liora’s voice came through a speaking tube, very calm in the way only trained fear stays calm. "Hold position. Do not advance."

We didn’t. Two paces back from the jamb, feet set, spines loose, eyes working. Don’t crowd a door when the door wants to be a mouth.

The sound paced once. The stone gave us the rhythm through our boots. Long limbs. Weight that lands and then unthreads itself. A body that likes walls more than floors.

Another tube hissed, farther off. Dorian’s voice, precise: "Cell B holding three turns back."

"Good," Liora answered, still through our tube. "Cell A, listen."

We listened.

"You will identify by sound only," she said. "Call it."

I pictured what I heard: joints that fold the wrong way, pads that hush landing noise, a body that learned to run on ceilings so the ground couldn’t claim it. My skin didn’t love the thought.

"Leaper," she said, confirming. "Forest strain. How it got here is not your job. You will hold at the jamb until I say go. Present center. Do not chase. You will obey my voice first. Understood?"

"Understood," Cael said.

"Understood," I said.

A warden barked a word beyond the gate and cut it short. The tube clicked; Pierce’s voice slid in, thinner, farther. "Ward team en route. Two minutes."

Two minutes is an afternoon if you have the right work and a week if you don’t. I rolled my shoulders and let the weight settle where it belonged. Not in the neck. In the legs. Cael breathed my count without needing to see my lips.

The breathing beyond the gate changed—closer to the gap. Metal teeth clicked as something brushed them. A smell slid in: damp moss, old fur, the copper tang machines soon learn to fake. Hollow flattened on my wrist like paper; Marrow’s leash hummed tighter against my sternum—two lines, steady, no fuzz.

"Shade," I whispered. They sank. If it came fast, I wanted room to work without tripping on my own shadows.

"Center," Cael murmured.

"I’ve got left," I said. "You break right if it pushes."

"Copy."

Saintess Liora didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Calm has its own gravity. "On my mark," she said. "Three."

The gate threw a small echo back at us like a throat clearing.

"Two."

The breath beyond deepened, a coil pulling tight.

"One—"