CHAPTER 68: SMOKE, THEN SPARK

Morning drills moved clean. No one mentioned Verrin in the open, but the story hung in the air like smoke that hadn’t found a fire yet. Cael and I ran a quiet spar and stopped before pride made us stupid. Gareth brought bread and salt like he was practicing to be someone’s uncle. Pelham showed up with his hat stitched and said nothing, which was the right amount.

At mid-bell, the messenger flags went up on the admin tower—white over blue. Pierce’s voice followed a breath later, amplified by the speaking cone.

"Notice," he said. "Due to yesterday’s interference, Ridge Relay adjustments stand. This afternoon’s sector will be replaced by a check-run: short course, three obstacles, focus on restraint and communication. Captains report to the board in ten."

"Short course," Gareth said. "Thank all Saints."

"Don’t thank them yet," I said.

At the board, Pierce pointed with chalk. "Three stations. One: rope drop, no rune-lamps. Two: stuck gate with false failure. Three: civilian panic drill." He looked right at me. "Panic drill means words, Valcrey. Not killing intent."

"Understood," I said.

"Teams," he went on, "will be paired to watch each other. Learn something that isn’t your own reflection." He pinned the pairings. We were paired with Cael’s route.

"Fine by me," Cael said.

"Fine," I said.

We ran the rope drop first. Short descent, bad angle, easy to make noisy. We kept it quiet. Pelham adjusted his grip the way I’d shown. Gareth checked anchors without fuss. Mira marked time and tie. Cael’s team watched, then did it cleaner. He laughed once. "Beat you by a breath," he said.

"Barely," I said.

At the stuck gate, the trick was a false fail that made people kick the frame. We didn’t. Gareth found the true bind at the hinge, tapped, and the pin slid. Mira chalked "hinge, not face" for the next team. Cael’s group did the same, faster. We clapped each other without making it a scene.

The panic drill was the real test. Two dozen students played "civilians," tasked to push, argue, and block, all at once. Points for clearing a path without shouting or swinging your rank.

"Words," Pierce reminded me, deadpan.

"Words," I agreed.

We set the bones of a funnel with bodies, not walls. Mira took the front with her voice, low and steady. "This way. One at a time. You’ll all get through." Gareth took the flank. Pelham acted as a human post. I kept my shoulders broad but not threatening and used my hands to point, not push.

A boy playing too deep into his part grabbed my sleeve and tried to climb me. I peeled his fingers off and pressed his hand into Gareth’s, never raising my voice. "With him. This way."

It worked. More important, it worked without leaving bruises.

Cael watched, then ran the same drill. He said less than I did. People moved anyway. Different kinds of heavy.

After, Pierce chalked fast. "Clean," he said. "Both teams. You can teach this."

"Put it in a sheet," Mira told me, already writing.

"Lyra has one," I said.

"We’ll merge," she said, and kept writing.

The horn blew mid-afternoon for a short assembly no one expected. We followed the flow to the main yard. Liora and Pierce stood on the steps. Dorian a step behind. A guard captain I didn’t know by name at their side.

Liora didn’t raise her voice. The yard went quiet anyway.

"Two items," she said. "First: Verrin left campus under escort. He will not return. Second: we found resin traces at Gate Four and Gate Six. The issue is not over."

A ripple ran through the students. Not loud. Not quiet.

"We will not spread panic," she continued. "We will tighten procedures. You will follow them. Refuge will be drilled twice as often. Gate drills will be honest, not cruel. And—" she looked at me and Cael without naming us— "you will not go hunting. Understood?"

"Understood," the yard said with various levels of enthusiasm.

"Last," Pierce added, "Second Practicals will continue. Tomorrow morning: Ravine Traverse. Afternoon: Night Run—short version. No rune-lamps. Sponsor oversight continues."

Marcus leaned in. "Night Run," he said. "Short version means traps without teeth. Usually."

"Usually," I said.

Seraphine drifted by with a letter shaped like a smile. "Dinner," she murmured. "Donors like heroes. Do be charming."

I raised an eyebrow. "I can try."

"You don’t have to try," she said, amused, and was gone.

Lyra stopped me at the rope rack. "Your words in the panic drill were good," she said. "Short. Honest." A beat. "Don’t overuse them."

"I know," I said. "I liked yours more."

She blinked, then looked away. "Tea, if you want it."

"I want it," I said.

We drank standing, not making anything of it, which somehow made more of it.

Evening came with cloud and a breeze. I took the Warden to a side bench and checked the cracked belly again. I peeled two remaining plates, sanded edges, and re-riveted the ribs with a quieter hinge. Moth test: eight seconds, down. Lantern clasp: firm. Leash: two threads, clean. I didn’t chase the third unless I needed it.

Cael walked by, tapped the Warden with his knuckle. "You’ll need it tomorrow," he said.

"I know," I said.

He nodded at the sky. "It smells like rain."

"Good," I said. "Rain keeps egos honest."

We didn’t end the day with a speech. We ended it with checks and lists. Flags packed. Knots tied. Water skins filled. The kind of preparation that looks boring and keeps people alive.

On my way back to quarters, Ariadne intercepted me with a new page. "Donor dinner," she said. "Your presence is requested."

"Whose request?" I asked.

"Duskveil Foundation. Three nights from now."

I sighed. "Fine."

Her eyes searched my face. "You can be polite without becoming what you were."

"I plan to be," I said.

"Good," she said, then added, softer, "I’m glad you cut the wand."

"Me too," I said.

She departed, steps sharp. I watched her go and thought about lines drawn and lines crossed.

In my room, I sat on the bed and took Liora’s advice: small, quiet, useful. I wrote out my kit list. I sharpened the sabre. I folded the letter from Seraphine into my log without opening it. I stared at the ceiling and let myself think of noodles and laughter and a blue sweater for a count of ten. Then I put those thoughts back where they belong—not because they mattered less, but because I needed my hands tomorrow.

Sleep took me with the sound of wind in rope.

Tomorrow, the ravine. And after that, the dark again—short this time, but dark all the same.