CHAPTER 48: WIND SPIRE RELAY

They built the course against the wind.

Three stone spires staked the ridge like fingers. Between them ran lines strung with flags, bells, and weighted hoops. Gust lanes cut across the stone where the mountain liked to flex. The rules were simple: no lights, no magic that overwhelms the course, keep your team intact, don’t drop your load, don’t be stupid.

Pierce read off teams from a platform. "Spire to spire, transfer two coils, one tool chest, one dummy casualty. Method points heavy today. Unsafe discharge earns you a penalty. Yes, Voss, I saw your hand."

Snickers. Aldric put on a lazy smirk.

My team: Lyra, Gareth, Pelham, and Mira—a rune tech with quick hands and a quiet voice. Good group. No peacocks.

We staged under Spire One. The wind bit. Lyra set her palms on the stone, closed her eyes, and hummed. A thin line in the air took shape in front of us—a Chord Wall. Not thick. Not bright. Just a surface that caught wind and nudged it aside.

"Hold it low," I said. "Waste it on my shoulders, not the kit."

She nodded without opening her eyes.

"Gareth, lip the soil by the first anchor," I said. "Nothing pretty. Half-boot high."

"Done," he said, palms down, a rough berm growing under his fingers.

"Pelham, you’re rope and chest. Don’t chase gusts. Let them pass."

"I know," he said, jaw set. He looked away when he said it, then looked back and gave a short nod that felt like a promise.

"Mira?"

She crouched by the first flag post, fingers to the rune plate. "This bell chews. Flip the comb, don’t yank the pull."

"Copy," I said.

I set the Bone Lantern but kept it cold and clipped to my belt. Hollow would do what it could in short bursts. I wasn’t risking a long send.

"Marrow—Shade," I whispered. Hound tucked under the kit like a shadow under a bench.

Pierce dropped the starter flag. The first gust hit like a rude hand. Lyra’s Wall cupped it and rolled it over us. I stepped into the empty it left, heel down on the anchor phrase—step, set, slip. Simple. Honest. Don’t admire it.

We moved.

The first line rocked. Pelham took two fast steps, checked himself, and held position. I wanted to clap. Instead I pointed with two fingers: go now. He went.

Hollow lifted. Ten-count scout. He rode the lane above our heads and pecked a flag that buzzed wrong. He dropped back to my wrist on eight. Clean. No fuzz.

"Comb flip," Mira called, already there. She twisted a little brass wedge under the bell plate and the buzz smoothed to a healthy rattle.

We reached the first transfer frame. Gareth set a foot berm on the far side. I braced the chest while Pelham looped the rope. Lyra held the Wall steady with one hand and drew a smaller line with the other for the coil. Her ears were red, but her voice was even.

"Next lane is crosswind left," she said. "Two breaths between gaps."

"Copy," I said.

We crossed.

Halfway, Hollow clicked twice. I looked down. The rope’s outer wrap wore a new cut—too clean to be from rock. Someone had started a razor nick.

"Mira."

She was already on her knees, catching the tag with a loop knot and taping the section. "Reserve line."

I took the tape, wrapped, and called, clear and loud, "Cut detected, Section B. Swapping to reserve." I pointed to the post judge. He marked it. The call mattered more than the fix.

We moved and didn’t fall apart. Two teams back, someone tried to rush the gap and lost a coil to the bells. Time penalty. Lesson learned.

At the second spire, we passed the dummy across a slung cradle. Pelham kept his hands where they should be. Gareth’s berms did their simple job. Lyra’s Wall flexed and held.

"Good team," Mira said under her breath, almost surprised.

"Keep your eyes," I said.

Hollow lifted again. Ten-count. He pecked a hanging hoop that swung opposite the wind’s logic. I tapped it with a gloved knuckle. The hinge squealed. Sand grit. Not sabotage. Not today.

We cleared the second frame and hit the long run to Spire Three. Cael’s team moved on a parallel lane, a line ahead, smooth as poured concrete. He didn’t fight the wind. He let it break itself on his stance. Fastest time was in his pocket already and everyone knew it.

On our lane, a flash snapped the air: white-blue forked and loud. Students cheered for it because lightning is easy to cheer for.

"Unsafe discharge," Pierce said, voice flat through the horn. He raised a red flag and pointed at Aldric Voss, who stood three lanes over with his lash still buzzing and his grin melting. "Penalty. Again and you’re out."

The cheer died fast. Seraphine, a step behind Aldric, smiled without teeth and adjusted her glove like nothing had happened. Her eyes slid to me. I ignored them. Lyra’s Wall needed the attention, not Seraphine’s face.

We finished the last run without show. Hull down. Small profiles. Honest steps. At the final frame, Pelham almost rushed the lock, caught himself, and waited for my count. I gave him two fingers. He clicked the chest home and breathed out like he’d been holding his breath for a year.

"Clear," the judge called.

We tied off and stood shoulder to shoulder in the wind while Pierce read numbers.

"Fastest time: Veyron, by eight seconds," he said. No surprise. Cael dipped his chin to no one in particular and drank water like it mattered.

"Top method score: Valcrey," Pierce continued. That sent a ripple through the crowd because method means clean and everyone was watching after the rope cut call. "Note: Valcrey team flagged and corrected a compromised line. Logged. Good practice."

That ripple traveled. Students turned to look at the post where Mira had taped the cut. Pierce led a warden over. They marked it, logged it, tagged it. Public. Hard to spin.

Aldric’s jaw had been tight since the penalty. When the judge walked past him with the red card still in hand, he turned his face away. He looked young in that moment. Seraphine saw it. She straightened her posture and folded her hands like a portrait again.

Lyra rolled her shoulders and kept her eyes on her coil. She didn’t look at the crowd. She didn’t have to. The Wall had held, and she knew it.

"Debrief at the platform in five," Pierce said. "Then lane audit at dusk. Due to today’s finding, we’ll be checking every section of rope and plate before nightfall."

Liora reached our group as the wind cut down. She spoke low. "Same resin. Spire anchor four. Small amount. Enough to score a cut."

"Public test," I said.

"Public test," she agreed. Her gaze flicked across the lanes, then back to us. "Bring your Lantern and Sapper to the audit."

"When?" I asked.

"Now," she said. "They watched you log it. Make them watch you find the rest."

I nodded. Hollow clicked once and dug his claws into my glove. The leash was quiet and steady. Marrow’s silence hummed under it.

Across the lanes, Cael looked over. Not a smile—approval. I returned the nod. Different lanes. Same job.

We packed our gear and walked toward the spire anchors with the wind still trying to get in the last word. The crowd split around us. Some faces were thoughtful. Some were annoyed their fireworks had been canceled. A few were watching to see if we would trip after the praise.

We didn’t. The spires weren’t done with us, and I had a Lantern that didn’t sing and a crawler that knew how to listen.