CHAPTER 49: ANCHOR AUDIT

Morning wind ran clean across the ridge. Four wind-spires stood like tall tuning forks above the roofs, their anchor plates set around each base in a ring. Wardens had roped off the lanes. Proctors stood with slates. Students formed a wide half-circle with the kind of attention you only see when a rumor has teeth.

Liora faced us. Platinum hair braided back, soft blue eyes steady. "We show process, not drama," she said. "Log first. Fix second. If you see something and can’t name it, you call it and step back."

Dorian stood a little behind her, where the wind died. Hands loose. Watching without crowding.

Pierce raised a hand. "This is an audit, not a show. If you posture, you go home."

I touched the kit at my hip. Bone Lantern. Bone Sapper on a thin thong. Chalk. Wedges. Two clean bags with wax seals. Marrow and Hollow waited in Shade, leashes tight and quiet.

Mira joined me with a rune bag and neat ink on her fingers. "I’ll read the plates," she said. "You take the throats."

"Copy," I said.

Crowd check, fast. Aldric and his blue-trim boys leaned at the back, trying to look amused. Seraphine stood near a rail, white hair bright, face polite, eyes measuring. Ariadne waited with a small ledger, posture straight. Cael stood off to one side, arms folded, attention clear.

Liora pointed at Anchor A. "Demonstration pass. Valcrey, you lead. Mira reads. Dorian observes."

I set the Lantern down. It did not glow; it hushed. Gray light slid across the metal and made hairlines truthful. I eased the cover off Anchor A’s throat. Clay bed, vein lines, comb teeth. The Sapper tapped the tiles one by one—tick...tick...tick. At the third tooth the sound dulled, not a lot, just enough to catch a careful ear.

"Dull at tooth three," I said. "Logging."

Mira crouched and read the cut marks at the comb. "Flow slowed. No choke."

I slid a thin blade under the tooth and lifted. Sticky resin pulled like old glue, then let go. The smell was pine with iron. Same blend from Gate Six, sharper this time.

"Shim recovered," I said. "Bagged, labeled, time and place." I sealed the bag with wax and handed it to the warden by the rope.

Pierce wrote without comment. "Signature matches prior sample. Logged."

A murmur ran the circle. Not loud. Enough to say they understood what that meant: same hand, new day.

I set the tooth back, cleaned the bed with a small brush, and reseated the comb. "Plate clear," I said. "Cover on." I wrote the plate and tooth on the slate, sketched the shim’s seat, signed.

Liora nodded once. "Clean."

We rotated. Teams moved to each anchor in order. Liora kept them honest. "Stand square. Two-count breath. Don’t torque the fastener like you want it to break." Dorian drifted two lanes over and watched the way people used their hands. When someone rushed, he stepped closer without speaking. They slowed.

I stayed on the right side of helpful. If a second-year’s elbow wobbled, I showed a steadier grip and handed the tool back. If a bolt squeaked, I gave them a drop of oil and made sure they were the one to turn it. Pelham came up tight, jaw set. He looked at me like he expected a jab. I pointed to the slot. "Set the blade here. Keep the wrist straight. Lift, don’t pry."

He did it. The tooth came clean. Liora nodded at him. He didn’t grin. He just did the next step without shaking. That was good work.

Lyra worked at a side station with three commoners, keeping the paper tags from blowing. She hummed a low note and held a narrow Chord Wall six inches off the ground. The tags did not move. Her face was calm, ears a little pink from the wind. She looked up once, and I gave her a small nod. She returned to the task without fuss.

At Anchor C, two lanes from where Aldric had fried a rope last week, the Sapper’s tap went dull at the outer wrap, not the tooth. I eased the cover and rolled the rope. The outer strand showed a fresh micro-cut, neat and thin, no fray, just an invitation to a tear later.

I raised my voice enough to carry. "Cut on outer wrap, Section C. I’m logging and swapping to reserve line."

Pierce looked up. "Logged."

I pinched the line with two clamps, cut the damaged span, and spliced in a clean reserve coil. Mira checked the rune stitch. "Stable."

I pressed a strip of wax over the cut end so the rope wouldn’t wick. "Section C swapped. Tagging coil used."

It was not a speech. It was a fix in public with words that belonged to the work. That was enough. Some of the same boys who laughed at Refuge last week were very interested in how the splice lay.

Dorian came close enough for me to hear him without the circle hearing him. "Tool mark pitch is closer to Six than Four, but not identical. Same hand. Different pressure."

"Logged," Liora said, dry. She did not turn her head. She did not invite the circle into that thought.

We finished the first ring. The wind shifted. Liora sent the next team to the second spire. I walked the rope lane and checked the tags. The Lantern hush found two more faint smears under lip bolts. I logged them and bagged the shims. Mira held each bag while I wrote the time and lane on a fresh slip.

Cael drifted by. He watched my hands, not my face. "Clean work," he said.

"Your lane was faster," I said.

"Less to fix," he said, and moved on. That was his version of praise.

Ariadne waited at a checklist desk under a small awning. When I handed her my slate she read each line, checked the plate sketch, and compared my time stamps to Pierce’s. "Sign here," she said. "Then here." She ticked a small box in the top corner of my restitution card. "Two ethics hours credited."

"Thank you," I said.

"Do it again tomorrow," she said.

"I will."

Aldric’s boys hung near the third spire until Liora sent them back two lanes with a look that was not unkind and not optional. Aldric tried to smile and did not quite find the muscles. Seraphine watched me change a bolt with the calm of someone sitting for a portrait. She had a way of making stillness feel like a net.

Pierce posted a small notice at the end of the run. Students edged closer. He read it for those who could not help themselves. "Blackout Duct Sweep. Night section. Cold tools only. Teams assigned at dusk."

Lyra glanced up from her tags. Her eyes met mine for half a breath and then went back to work. Mira tied the last coil and checked the stitch. Gareth tugged a glove and grinned at the rope as if the rope had learned a lesson.

We closed the last anchor. Liora stepped forward with the sealed bags lined up on a tray. "These go to lockup," she said. "Do not discuss blends in the dining hall. If you smell resin, you log it. If you hear something you cannot name, you write it and bring it to me."

The crowd started to thin. As they did, a grounds boy near the tool cart flinched and looked at his heel like something had tugged it. A small sensation tugged in the back of my mind at the same time, soft as a thread humming. Hollow, tucked high under the rail, clicked once and went still.

Liora came to my shoulder. "Night sweep," she said. "Same kit. If you can make that new moth fly by dusk, bring it."

"I can," I said.

"Then bring it," she said. "Good work. Now go eat before you faint."

I packed the Lantern, the Sapper, and the chalk. The wind off the ridge carried resin to me for a breath and then let it go. I looked back at the row of sealed bags. Same hand as before. New pressure. Bolder.

We would be back in the ducts by dark. The building would teach us what we missed.

I planned to listen.