CHAPTER 64: BREAK OR BREAKTHROUGH (1)

Verrin stepped toward Lyra like the crowd didn’t exist. The wand drew a thin line in the air. Wind stacked behind it, ready to do something ugly.

"Move," I snapped.

Lyra didn’t freeze. She dropped her folio, kicked it backward so the pages stayed clean, and pivoted off the line. The cut shaved her sleeve and chewed a groove in the stone where her arm had been.

Cael hit Verrin’s flank. No shout. Just weight. Verrin rode the hit and didn’t fall. He whipped the wand low at Cael’s ankle. Cael took it, turned, planted—floor honest.

The anchor pin under my palm kept creeping. If it worked free, the bridge would sag. People would drop into the ward net and bounce hard. The ox would panic and drag the wagon sideways.

"Gareth, pack," I barked.

He jammed soil against the lip in short, hard strokes. Pelham kept tension on the prusik so it would bite when the sway came.

"Lyra, center line, two steps back," I called.

She moved without wasting a word. Her mouth stayed flat. Her eyes steady.

Verrin’s wand cracked again. He didn’t waste motion. Every stroke asked a clean question: can you keep your feet, your hand, your breath.

"Let go of the pin, Armand," he said, never looking away. "Or I take a throat and make it your fault."

"Try," I said.

He did.

He feinted at Cael’s eyes, slid inside, and drove the wand at my wrist. I let the pin go, let the wand pass, and took the cut on the flat of my sabre. The shock rang up my arm. I caught the pin again before it slid. Cael jammed his shoulder into Verrin’s ribs. Verrin bled the force and bounced out like a man who had learned to fall on purpose.

"Stop saving people," he said lightly. "Fight me."

"I am," I said.

He laughed once, short and dry. Then he went straight for Lyra.

He didn’t look. He didn’t wind up. He turned and snapped the wand across the space where her neck would be in half a step. She dropped. The cut sheared a lock of hair from a girl behind her who hadn’t moved fast enough. The ward net hummed. The bridge swayed. The prusik sang.

Cael’s aura sank deeper. His heel bit stone. "Armand," he said. We were out of time to be neat.

I opened the leash a finger wider.

Marrow slid forward, low and quiet, skull angled at Verrin’s wand hand. Hollow dropped from the beam and clicked once at the wand tip. Not to break it. To mark timing.

Verrin flicked his wrist to stun Marrow. The gust skated off bone; the hound dug claws into grit and kept coming. Verrin adjusted. His wand pivoted toward my face.

"Eyes," Cael warned.

I stepped inside, hip to hip, and let his wand skim my cheekbone. It burned. I ignored it. The sabre’s point kissed his wrist. Not deep. Enough to sting. He flinched—small, trained—and Marrow clamped his forearm.

"Off," I said. Marrow obeyed. Verrin tore free with a stripe of red and a new respect. His smile died.

"Better," he said.

He cut a low circle and ripped both my feet toward the drop. I caught the anchor with my free hand and held. He followed with a high snap at Cael’s temple. Cael ducked by inches. The wand shaved hair and hit rock.

"Pin," Pelham shouted.

The metal moved. I slammed my palm down and pulsed only when iron answered bone. The pin seated a breath. The bridge steadied a fraction. The Warden’s ribs groaned.

Pressure built in Verrin’s stance. He was done testing.

I heard my breath. Marrow’s claws. Hollow’s tiny tap. Lyra steadying the line. Something in me let go.

Not restraint. A lock I hadn’t known I kept. The cold sat cleaner. The beats lined up. Two threads and a spare turned into a tight braid.

Weave three, no fuzz.

Artisan wasn’t a title. It was a click. "Do these at once or fail."

"Hollow, peck," I said. "Marrow, heel-cut."

Hollow tapped the tip—timing. Marrow slid in and tapped both paws against Verrin’s instep, a half-trip.

"Cael—now."

He stepped. Aura down. Weight where Verrin’s foot wanted to be.

I let go of the pin with one hand, lifted the sabre, and cut once at the tendon above Verrin’s wrist. Not to maim. To say stop.

He parried—quick, neat—but he had to split focus now: bird at his tip, hound at his feet, floor taking his line, my point arguing with his skin.

He still almost beat us. He rolled the wand under my blade in a way that would have disarmed me if Hollow hadn’t nudged the balance a hair off perfect. My point glanced. Cael’s shoulder hit him from the blind side. He slid, planted, and came back with a whip-snap at my throat—

—and I was already moving. Heel. Hip. Hand. One count.

The wand grazed my collar instead of my windpipe. The sabre edge kissed cloth. A line of red opened on his forearm where Marrow had marked him earlier. His grip changed to keep blood from making the wand slick.

"Step," Cael said.

"Set," I answered.

"Slip," we both finished.

We weren’t fast. We were right.

Verrin stopped going through us and went over us. The wand cut high; wind clamped my shoulders for a breath. He cleared our guard, bounded past, and aimed for Lyra again with a clean thrust meant to end her.

"Down," I shouted.

She dropped. He was ready for that too. The thrust turned to a rake for her face.

I threw the Moth.

It lit in midair for a heartbeat. Enough to distract. Verrin’s eyes flicked—the only sin he’d shown. Hollow hit the wand with a hard peck and drove it an inch wide. The rake took Lyra’s cheek instead of her eye. Blood drew a thin line. She rolled under the rail and grabbed the rope to block the student behind from stumbling forward.

"Mine," Cael said.

He wrapped Verrin’s waist and lifted. Not to throw. To hold. Aura stamped the ground. Wind stuttered on mass.

"Finish it," he hissed.

"I need a cuff," I said.

The Warden’s belly was cracked. I tore four palm plates from its side, snapped a thong through, and made a ring. I drove it over Verrin’s wand arm like a crude cage.

It held for three seconds.

Verrin snarled, ripped, and the bone split.

He freed the wand and spun it toward Lyra’s ankle under the rail. The tip was a hook. Bad angle. If it caught, it would snap her off the rope.

I moved.

Sabre down. Shoulder into Cael to add weight. Heel pulse to keep the anchor honest. Hollow clicking at the tip. Marrow paw-tapping to steal balance.

Steel met treated wood and copper.

The wand bucked in Verrin’s hand.

Not enough.

He looked at me over Cael’s shoulder, eyes flat and black as wet stone. He bared his teeth.

"Break," he said.

Wind stacked behind the wand like a wall about to fall.

If I held the anchor one more heartbeat, everything else would break instead.

I let go of the pin. I took the cut to buy a second.

"Cael," I said, voice low and sure. "Now."

And we moved.