CHAPTER 53: GATE FOUR AGAIN (1)

We reached Gate Four at dusk. The arch threw a long shadow across the landing. Two wardens stood by the post with spears down and tight mouths. The wardline along the threshold pulsed steady, but the hair on my arms didn’t like it. The air had a thin trace of iron-pine and oil.

"Cold kits only," Liora said. "No aura flares. No speeches. If something moves, make it pick a bad angle. Valcrey, Lantern and tools. Veyron, weight checks. Wardens hold the mouth. Nobody crosses the line unless I say."

"Understood," Cael said.

"Understood," I said.

I took the Bone Lantern from my pouch, set it in my palm, and woke it with a breath. Cold light bloomed without heat. No rune hiss. No spark. I kept it at half.

"Marrow, shade," I whispered. The hound slid into the shadow under the pillar and went statue-still. "Hollow, shade." The bird melted into the arch’s dark like ink under water. The leash hummed but stayed clean. No fuzz.

We stepped inside. The service corridor ran narrow and low, with stone ribs every six paces and a vent throat at each turn. Liora led. I kept the Lantern tight to the floor to kill glare. Cael trailed with a quiet bag and his stance set heavy but not loud.

The first smear showed up two ribs in. A thumbprint of tacky resin where no resin should live. I touched it with the tip of a bone pick and smeared the shine onto a scrap. Iron-pine. Not maintenance grease.

"Mark it," Liora said.

I chalked an arrow low and logged the spot and height on my slate. Keep it boring. Boring keeps you honest.

We hit a gear house. The cover latch wore fresh scratches. Not old wear—straight lines, wrong grain. I crouched, breathed, and lifted the cover two fingers wide. The Lantern showed the inside teeth clean. No grit. But one gear pin had a dark ring where resin had been and was wiped fast.

"Write the wipe," Liora said. She watched the corridor mouth like people watch water that might rise.

I wrote: "resin ring, pin two, wiped, streak north." Cael ghosted a hand over the housing, aura held so far back it didn’t even blur the air. "No load on the shaft," he murmured. "Someone took tension off to work fast."

We moved. The corridor bent left. A thin mist hugged the floor like breath on cold stone. The sound changed—our steps doubled, then fell out of sync, then tried to lead us three tiles right.

Cael stopped dead. No flourish. Just a planted foot that told the floor it was done moving. I set the Lantern down and listened. The air pulled toward a vent at knee height. The pull had a hitch, like lungs that didn’t want to work.

"Moth," I whispered. I popped the tin. The tiny bone moth lifted. Twelve seconds, no more. It floated up, found the draft, and tilted its wings twice toward the vent throat. Bad draw.

"Pocket in the throat," I said. "If it slams, it’ll pull us into the bad plate."

"Hold," Liora said.

I slid a rib wedge under the vent lip, set a thong, and gave a short pulse only when bone touched iron. No flood. Just a bite. The vent throat took the brace and stopped trying to inhale us. The mist steadied. Cael put two fingers on the handrail and breathed once into his stance. The rail decided not to shear.

"Good," Liora said, low. "Go."

We cleared the bad plate. The stone ribs opened to a small maintenance alcove choked with crates and a dead broom. The Lantern showed a scuff trail—small, fresh. I followed it to a false backboard. A thin latch gave. Inside sat a canvas satchel and a wrapped roll.

"Stop," Liora said, not scolding—setting witnesses.

She nodded to Cael. He came close, but not over my shoulder. I held the Lantern so everyone could see.

I opened the satchel. Inside: a cracked contractor badge-ring with a North Quarter hallmark; a small vial half full of resin, cork cut with a draw-knife’s straight bite; two thin shims wrapped in wax paper, hand-cut, with the same stitch pattern we’d seen on that dropped glove by the spire.

"Bag to tray," Liora said.

I slid each into a marked bag, then into a tin tray. Cael held the ledger. I logged each with time and rib count. Liora watched my hands, not my face.

The wrapped roll was heavier. I unbound it one tie at a time. Inside lay a lined wooden box with a wax seal—no house mark. My stomach didn’t like it. I looked at Liora.

"Slow," she said.

I eased the lid and lifted it a thumb. Cold pressed my fingers like damp stone that remembered winter. Inside lay a small bound component—not fully human, not any safe animal I knew. Clean bones tied to a core bead, wrapped in a stained band. It twitched one quarter move when it tasted air.

"Close it," Liora said, fast and flat.

I closed it. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

"Seal. Chain of custody," she said. "Nobody touches it without me."

We sealed the box in a heavy bag, signed over the flap, and packed it into the lockbox tray. Cael’s face didn’t change much, but his eyes did.

"Past pranks," he said quietly.

"Crossed a line," Liora answered. "Keep moving."

We marked three more resin flecks along the next ribs. The trail broke at a junction where the corridor met a grate. Above us, grating cut the dark into a grid. A soft footfall crossed it—light, careful. A shadow flicked across a square and slid through a narrow hatch. We had a target for one heartbeat.

Cael shifted to the ladder. I raised a finger and pushed a short spike of intent into the air—one beat. Not full pressure. Just enough to make a careless man put a foot wrong.

Metal ticked. A shoe scuffed. A breath hitched. Then the hatch banged once and the sound ran into the higher ducts.

"Hold," Liora said. "I want evidence, not a sprint."

We held. We listened. The air forgot how to speak about feet. I chalked the rung. The Lantern washed the hatch and showed nothing new. The last bit of iron-pine in the corridor faded.

We turned back toward the landing, tools light in our hands, the lockbox heavier in the idea of it.

Behind us, the ducts whispered like a throat that wanted to tell a secret and couldn’t decide to try.