CHAPTER 55: CROSSWINDS AND SCORES

By the time the yard filled, the wind had settled and the talk had not. People stood in clumps under the notice boards, waiting for Pierce to pin the results. You could hear the wagers in the way some nobles breathed—tight and hopeful—and the way the first-years shifted—ready to brag if the ink agreed with them.

Pierce walked up with a slate and a stack of sheets. He didn’t clear his throat. He didn’t smile. He pinned the top page with two firm thumbs.

"Ridge Relay results stand," he said. "Sector penalties applied. Unsafe discharge is recorded as such. Coordination and restraint were scored higher than spectacle, as written."

Eyes went straight to the list.

Cael Veyron — first. No one argued.

My name sat under his. A few people blinked. A few others swore under their breath because they had lost money. Elara landed third. Marcus fourth. Ariadne fifth. Aldric found his rank halfway down the sheet with a red mark beside his name: unsafe discharge; anchor damage; caution.

The crowd didn’t cheer. It tilted. Whispers changed flavor. "How?" turned into "Did you see that brace?" and "He called the steps like a foreman." It was the kind of shift you don’t get by shouting. You earn it one clean fix at a time.

Pierce tapped a second sheet. "Commend marks. Blackwater for stable anchors under crosswind. Faewyn for ward-chord funnel without spillover. Valcrey for calling the point before the swing on two occasions. Pelham Gray—" he paused as if he knew the name would surprise its owner "—for holding a counterweight correctly under instruction. That’s what ’restraint’ looks like."

Pelham froze, then went red, then squared his shoulders as if the yard had just set a stone on them and he wanted to prove he could carry it. Gareth made a quiet fist pump he pretended was a stretch. Lyra didn’t change expression. Her ears pinked anyway.

Saintess Liora stood near the clinic doors. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. When she made eye contact, people finished whatever sentence they were in and listened. She looked at me once and said only, "You called your point before you swung. Keep that." It was one line, but I felt the weight of it more than any clapping. Then she moved on to check wrists and sign off bandage counts.

Ariadne found me with a clipboard and a practiced calm. "I reviewed your log," she said. "Rope, brace, counterweight. Clear. Concise." She ticked a box on my restitution sheet. "Two hours credited. Next: teach three first-years the short splice you used. I want five signed verifications by tomorrow evening."

"Three students, five signatures?" I asked.

"Two splices each," she said. "They learn by hands, not words." No warmth. No bite. Just the way things should be written when you care whether they stand. I nodded. She marked another line and moved on to her next problem.

Gareth drifted over with two bowls of broth and all the noise the nobles wished he wouldn’t bring to their corner. "Here," he said, pushing one into my hand. "Eat. You look like a man who forgot what food is."

"It’s been a day," I said.

"Your face looked boring while you tied that brace," he said, grinning. "The crowd made better faces for you."

Mira jogged up with her slate tucked tight to her chest, eyes bright. "I have a thing," she said, not even pretending to lead with hello. "North Quarter stitch. We matched the thread on the glove from Gate Six to a contractor stamp on the ledger. The accounts have fresh money through a donor shell with a name that smells like a noble house’s cousin."

"Proof?" I asked.

"No. A trail," she said. "If Pierce signs a request, I can pull vendor logs."

"Liora first," I said. "Keep your wording flat. No guesses."

"Flat and accurate," Mira said, already turning. "I can do that."

Lyra approached with a sheet and two quiet first-years tucked behind her like commas. "Refuge SOP update," she said. "Add: if the wardline flickers, intake pauses, headcount continues, door stays clear. Sign?"

I read it. Tight. Useful. No fluff. "Add ’two pace spacing for the line,’" I said. "If it surges, you don’t want bodies jammed at the threshold."

She wrote the line without commentary, passed me the quill, and held the page steady while I signed. She added her name under mine and tucked the sheet away. An almost-smile touched her mouth and ran off. Her ears went pink again. She pointed her chin at Gareth’s bowl. "Finish that."

"She’s bossy when she’s right," Gareth muttered, pleased.

Back in the bench room, I lifted the Bone Warden onto blocks. The boar chassis had done honest work under wind. Its hip pins complained. I shaved a sliver from each pin, rubbed wax on the axle, pressed the joint, and rolled the wheel. Quiet. Better. I added a shallow rib brace across the belly so the frame wouldn’t warp if it had to act as a wedge again.

Hollow watched from the lintel, head tilted like a curious bird. I tapped his skull. "Moth stays to twelve seconds, then down," I told him. "No more leash buzz. Clean work, short work."

I opened the small tin and set the Bone Moth in my palm. "Wake." It lifted and hovered, a thin arc of bone and membrane catching nothing but still finding a way to hang in the air. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. "Down." It settled. No tug on the leash. Good.

Ariadne passed the door again and glanced at the Moth. "That is small," she said.

"That’s the point," I answered.

"Keep it small," she replied, and was gone.

Seraphine matched my pace at the arch as if she had materialized from a practiced pause. White hair set in a clean fall. Amethyst eyes soft and watching. "Busy week," she said, voice smooth. "Contractors talk. Donors listen. Be careful where you point findings. Gates are politics as much as stone."

"Change your methods," I said. "I’ll help fix what can be fixed. The offer stands." Same words. Same truth. The only version that mattered.

She smiled the way you learn to smile when rooms pay you to be pleasant. "You do love conditions."

"I love people not getting hurt," I said.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. You can say a lot by leaving the space between two people empty.

Pierce pinned another notice with the same two fingers. "Second Practical Evaluation," he read. "Ridge Relay & Waystation Hold. Two days. No rune-lamps. Points for coordination, restraint, simple fixes. Unsafe discharge is a penalty, not a flourish."

Aldric made a sound he didn’t mean to. Pelham stared at "restraint" like it was a new word with bad manners. Gareth bumped my shoulder. "Your kind of scoring," he said.

"We’ll see," I said.

I checked the Warden one last time. The pins stayed quiet. The roll stayed smooth. The Moth held twelve and gentled down. The Sapper tapped in time with my breath. The leash hummed steady. No fuzz.

Lyra appeared at the rope rack with the two first-years from earlier. "Show them the splice," she said. No please. No fuss. She didn’t need it and neither did I.

I showed them. "Pinch the tail. Dress the knot. It should slide when you tell it to and bite when you load it." The first knots slipped. The second knots held. Lyra signed the first two lines on Ariadne’s sheet. That was her version of "good."

A runner crossed the quad at a sprint and pulled up at Liora’s boots. He offered a sealed tube. She cracked the seal, read, and didn’t change her face. Her voice lowered and sharpened.

"Gate Four," she said to Pierce. "Resin trace. Wardline flicker. Now."

Pierce’s jaw set. "Teams?"

"Quiet teams," she said. "No noise, no crowd. After dusk."

Dorian glanced my way and gave a short nod that said more than a speech. Not numbers. Not praise. Just: you’re useful; bring the right tools.

We broke quietly. I packed the Lantern, the Sapper, and the Moth in a simple kit and kept the Warden on its blocks. This was not a rolling wedge job. This was a hands-and-ears night.

As dusk slid down the walls, the yard thinned to those who had a reason to linger. The rest pretended the boards weren’t interesting anymore and left in the loud way people leave when they want to seem unbothered. The lamps along the walk lit one by one.

Liora passed us once and said only, "No heroics. Plain and steady." Then she was gone again, a pale line moving between tasks.

Cael stood up from a practice circle and walked over. He didn’t ask what or why. He shouldered a small bag and checked his boots.

"Roof loop," I said.

He nodded. "Use the building."

He didn’t say Dorian’s line like a joke. He said it like he had learned it.

We met by the east stair at full dark. The wind carried a hint of pine and iron. Then it didn’t. Then it did again. Enough to make you pay attention.

"Move," Liora said from the shadow of a post, voice low enough that it felt like instruction and not command.

We moved.