CHAPTER 43: SMALL LIVES

Breakfast smelled like porridge and pepper. The canteen line wound past a hand-painted sign the kitchen women hung before dawn:

NO BONES IN THE CANTEEN.

Marrow sat outside the doorway with the patience of a statue. He had learned the sign after two warnings and a biscuit. Hollow clung to the lintel and pretended to be a carving. A first-year reached up to tug him down; the bird lifted one rib, clicked once, and stayed put.

I slid my tray along the rail. A kitchen aunt with iron hair eyed the black streak on my cuff. "Grease?"

"Gate work," I said.

She grunted and added a second scoop. "Eat. You look like you argued with a stair."

A boy two places up pinched a roll from the basket and palmed it. Hollow dropped the roll back onto his tray, neat as a polite thief returning loot. The boy flushed. The aunt didn’t miss a beat. "Thank your luck the bird likes rules."

I took my food to a window table. Light slid over slate. The room’s noise had a good weight. After caves and alarms, ordinary voices felt like medicine.

Gareth arrived with a mug big enough to drown a spoon. Stocky, freckles, easy grin. He nodded at the sign.

"Your dog learns faster than Pelham."

"He’s made of better parts," I said.

Gareth snorted into his mug. "Yard after classes? I want to try those fast anchors again. Mine chip if I rush."

"Step slower before you set," I said. "Feels wrong. It isn’t."

He lifted his mug and peeled off to join a pair of dirt-splattered commoners waving like they’d been waiting all morning.

Marcus slid into the warm seat Gareth left, as if timed. Dark hair combed clean. Illusionist hands—still when he wanted them still. He set a stack of cards down and tapped them once.

"Card night," he said. "No cheating. I host so no one asks me to check for cheating elsewhere. Irony accepted."

"No cheating," I agreed. "Even if you can."

"Especially," he said, deadpan. "Bring Gareth. He loses loudly. It improves the mood."

He ghosted away, coat straight, steps light.

Elara passed with two duelists in tow, paused, and flicked her eyes to my stance. "Front foot," she said. "You favor the heel when you’re tired."

"Noted."

"Fix it before it fixes you." Almost a smile. Then she was gone, braid swinging.

I ate. The porridge sat right. When I returned the tray, the aunt gave me a nod soldiers give each other when no one else is looking.

Outside, laundry lines sagged between windows. Wet cotton and chalk dust in the air. Hollow rode a draft along the eaves. Marrow padded at my heel with the measured grace of something that used to be bones on a cave floor and now had a job.

In the laundry yard, a girl in rolled sleeves wrung a red sash and stared—at Marrow, not me. I kept him a pace farther back than friendly. She nodded thanks without words. People did not owe my summon comfort. I could earn it.

Tools window next. The clerk pushed a slate toward me. "Return by bell two."

"Two," I said. He eyed ring, then face, then made his note anyway. Good.

Lyra came across the quad with two commoners and a crate of folded blankets. Brass badge at her collar: REFUGE. Hair in a simple tie. She moved like a person with a list and no time to explain it twice.

"Faewyn," I said.

"Valcrey," she said, neutral.

"Need hands?"

"Always." She hesitated, then handed me the crate. "Clinic storeroom. Shelf three. Labels forward."

"Yes, ma’am."

One of the boys stared at me like I might ask for his lunch back. Lyra gave him a small look that said behave. He did. I stacked the blankets where she said, labels forward. She checked the shelf, then my face.

"Thank you," she said. Simple. Professional. A pink touched her ears—youth and hurry. Attention does that to people who aren’t used to it. I nodded and left before the moment had to be something neither of us could afford.

In the sabre yard, Ren ran a line through Entry Four until they stopped cheating the exit. I found an empty corner and worked the small things. Step. Set. Slip. Breathe four in, hold two, roll three out. Internal only on contact. Not before, not after.

Elara cut across and folded her arms. "Front foot," she said again. "You’re fixing it."

"Trying to make good habits louder than old ones."

"That’s all any of us are doing."

We ran three passes at half speed, blades kissing guard to guard, then stopped without a need to show off. She clapped my shoulder once and went to terrorize a line that deserved it.

The Compass gave a small, private chime. Not numbers. A feeling, like a tight rope in my chest had learned not to bite. Marrow and Hollow shared the leash without fuzz while I moved, talked, and did normal tasks. That used to take attention I didn’t have. Now it sat where it belonged.

By noon the sky cleared and brightened. I ate a roll under a fig tree with Gareth and Marcus. Gareth told a story about a goat that hated his uncle. Marcus dealt and didn’t twitch a finger toward magic. We laughed. It felt like a new muscle learning to work.

A runner nailed a fresh sheet to the board. CLUB DAY — TODAY, the top line shouted. Under it: PLEASE WEAR GOGGLES. Someone had drawn a kettle exploding.

Gareth groaned. "Rune Craft always blows something."

"Keep a bucket nearby," I said.

We were passing the Rune Craft table when their kettle hissed like a snake in a bottle. The vent cap chattered. Stand legs splayed a degree too wide. The boy in the stained apron waved a stick like that would help.

"It’s safe," he told a girl leaning too close.

It wasn’t. Twine tied the body to the stand. Twine doesn’t care about heat. Steam hammered the lid. A hairline ring of resin bled near the base.

I felt the wrongness in my hands before my head finished the thought. ’Don’t admire it. Move.’

"Back two steps," I said.

The boy rolled his eyes, then saw the ring and swallowed his reply. I crouched, slid a rib shim under the front foot, spun the vent cap a quarter turn to let the steam breathe, and cut the twine before it baked through and snapped. The chattering eased. The kettle sighed and settled like an old man’s back. The girl exhaled.

"Thank you," the boy muttered, cheeks hot.

"Goggles," I said, pointing. He put them on. Good.

Applause rippled across the tables. Small, real. Relief is a good sound.

Across the quad, a rope crew set ward posts around the restraint ring. A crowd formed fast. The air took on that bright edge crowds get when they want a show.

A shout went up near the ring. Aldric Voss, hair perfect, lightning crawling over his fingers in pretty tricks, stood at center and soaked in attention. Seraphine watched from the rope, white hair bright, amethyst eyes calm, mouth polite.

Aldric saw me and smiled like we’d share the joke. "Valcrey," he called. "Join me. One pass. For the crowd."

Gareth nudged my arm. "Teach him footwork."

I looked at the sign—RESTRAINT ONLY. Disarms counted. Clean touches pinged the ward.

"Shade," I said under my breath. Marrow sank under a bench. Hollow slid into the shadow beneath the stand. Leash humming, attentive.

I stepped through the rope.

The judge lifted a hand. The ward sang a clear note.

Aldric came in fast—flash, noise, empty weight. He led with the shoulder. He showed the line early. I let him own the rhythm for a count, then stepped off it. When he cut high to force a parry, I didn’t bite; I turned my guard a thumb and let his edge slide. My free hand touched his hilt—only enough to make his grip unsure. Reset. Murmur at the rope.

He smiled wider, angry at himself and hiding it. He cut low. I slid. His off foot landed too close to his front. No out. "Stop-cut," I said, soft for him alone, and touched the top of his guard with a small flick. The ward pinged like a spoon on a cup. He flinched. His blade dropped a hand. I could have taken his wrist if this weren’t a school.

Second ping when my tip kissed the square between his collar and pride. The judge called it. "Clear touches to Valcrey. Clean bout."

No cheers. Watching. Learning. It was better.

Aldric saluted stiffly and left the ring fast. His boys filled the air with talk to make the silence feel less like a map. Seraphine stepped into my path as I came out. She looked like a painting that had remembered how to breathe.

"Restraint becomes you," she said. "Strong men who hold back are rarer than men who swing."

"It wasn’t holding back," I said. "It was using the right tool."

Her smile warmed half a degree. "And the right stage."

"I meant what I said," I told her. "If you change how you move, I’ll help fix what’s broken. If you won’t, I won’t walk with you."

She held my gaze for a long count and let the silence hang like a pendant. "You’ll come to me in the end," she said, very soft. "Everyone does."

"No," I said, gentle. "Not everyone."

A bell clanged at the main board. A proctor nailed a fresh notice under CLUB DAY:

WIND SPIRE RELAY — ONE WEEK.LIGHT USE PENALIZED. METHOD SCORED. CAPTAINS REPORT — NOW.

Names inked in neat hand under CAPTAINS. Veyron. Valcrey. Duskveil. Thornfield. Ravencrest.

Gareth whistled low. "You’re captain."

Marcus didn’t smile, which meant he was pleased. "Bring a rope," he said. "And that front foot."

I looked at the ink, then at the ring, then at the kettle. Steam breathed easy now. The resin ring near its base looked too familiar.

’Iron-pine,’ I thought. ’Gate teeth wore the same stain.’

The proctor at the board turned, saw me, and crooked a finger. "Captains. Briefing hall. Now."

I took one step and the Rune Craft kettle hissed wrong again—sharp, stuttering. The boy in the apron backed away. The vent rattled itself shut.

The lid jumped.

"Move!" I barked, and the crowd moved. I grabbed the handle, twisted the cap, and felt heat bite my palm through the rag. Steam roared. The rib shim held. The stand didn’t kick.

The hiss eased. The lid settled. No one died. The aunt from breakfast appeared with a bucket like she had known all morning. She doused the stand legs. The wood steamed and sighed.

She looked at me, then at the kettle, then at the ring of resin. "That’s not our work," she said. "Go to your meeting."

I went.

The briefing hall doors stood open. Inside, the chalkboard held a sketched spire, three lanes, and a broken span in red. Cael already stood by lane two, posture easy. Seraphine leaned on the end table, hands folded, eyes bright. Pierce tapped his slate with the chalk end.

"Valcrey," he said. "Good. You and Voss will demonstrate how you plan to cross the red span without light or saints. Right now."

I stepped to the map.

The room leaned forward.