CHAPTER 69: CHARTER

Dawn came clear and cold. The yard smelled like wet rope and iron. Students moved in quiet lines the way they do after a real scare—talk low, eyes up, no extra swagger. Verrin’s name didn’t pass lips, but everyone felt the shape of it.

I ran heel pulses on the rear flags: four in, hold two, three out. The leash hummed steady. Two threads clean. I didn’t reach for a third. Not here.

Cael joined me without a word. We set a light spar—three passes at half speed, no tricks. He pressed my guard, I reset my feet, he smiled once at the change he felt and didn’t say it.

On the third pass he stepped off and rolled his shoulder. "You held three, yesterday," he said, like noting weather.

"Long enough," I answered.

He nodded. That was the whole speech. It felt better than clapping.

A runner in gray found me by the trough. "Saintess requests you," he said. "Ethics room two."

"Now?"

"Now."

Room two was all white stone and simple benches. Liora stood at the far table, hair so pale it almost took the light out of the air, soft blue eyes steady. Dorian leaned against the wall like a well-built pillar that had chosen patience as a job. On the table: chalk, a small brass metronome, three clay bells.

"Morning," Liora said. "We’ll keep it short."

"Understood."

She set the metronome ticking—soft, steady. "You will form Marrow at half mass, Hollow as standard, and one micro construct. Sustain Weave-3 at sixty seconds while I speak to you. You will answer what matters and ignore what doesn’t. You will not flood. No fuzz. If you feel fuzz, you will cut at once. Ready?"

"Ready."

"Shade," I said, and felt the hound slip into the world like a shadow deciding to be honest. "Wing." Hollow came light to my wrist bone. "Wake," I added, opening the tin. The Moth rose and held above my palm, no bigger than a thumb joint.

The tick tick tick of the metronome got under the skin. Breath matched it. Heel pulsed only when bone met floor, not just because nerves wanted something to do.

Liora began in a regular tone, like a teacher reading names. "State your binding rule on human remains."

"Illegal," I said. "No human material. No parts that used to be people. No gray lines."

"Define nonlethal intent with constructs."

"No puncture to trunk, no crush to joint, no pressure longer than needed to remove a weapon or break a charge."

She reached and flicked the far clay bell. It chimed once. "Refuge priority during drills?"

"Door clear, headcount steady, intake stops if wardline flickers."

She flicked the middle bell at the same time. Two notes overlapped. She kept speaking. "Can you form a fourth silently?"

"I can," I said, "but I won’t."

"Good answer." Her voice didn’t speed, but the metronome did: tickticktick. "Describe your own threshold."

"Three threads clean for sixty in calm," I said, honest. "Under pressure, forty to fifty. Fourth is emergency only, under ten seconds. After, breath and leash reset."

"Show me cut," she said.

I dropped the Moth first. "Down." It settled light. I slid Hollow back to Shade with a thought and a thumb on the wrist seam. "Shade." Marrow followed at a word and a touch to the spine. The leash went quiet.

Dorian finally spoke. "No fuzz on drop."

"None," I said. "I felt the edges. That’s new."

"That’s Artisan," he said, simple as that.

Liora set the bells down and turned the metronome off. Silence felt loud. She nodded once. "You’re ready for a provisional charter."

I held still. "Terms?"

"Simple," she said. She slid a single sheet across. "Three active constructs at most in public drills. No human remains. Mandatory verbal command on any restraining action. You keep a log: date, use, duration. You show that log to me weekly. If I see slop, the charter goes away."

"That’s fair," I said, and meant it.

She placed a fountain pen by the line. "Sign."

I signed: Armand Valcrey. She countersigned, then handed me a small brass token stamped with a circle and three dots. "Wear this when you field constructs outside a yard," she said. "It tells the proctors to watch you closely and tells the donors we are not savages."

"Understood."

She looked at my face for a beat, then softened her tone a fraction. "Breakthroughs feel like permission to run. Don’t. Walk faster. Don’t run."

"I’ll walk," I said.

"Good." She glanced at Dorian. "Tell him."

Dorian pushed off the wall. "Two notes," he said. "One: your presence is heavier now. People will mistake it for threat. Trim your edges when you don’t need them. Two: Cael’s aura pushes floor and blade. Yours pushes timing and choice. Don’t imitate him. Build your path."

"I will."

Liora tapped the brass token. "Return to drills. Pierce set a check-run this afternoon. Tomorrow, Ravine in the morning, Night Run after moonrise, short form. Restraint remains the rule. Dismissed."

I thanked them and stepped out into hallway noise. The token felt heavier than it should in my hand. Responsibility weighs more than metal.

Lyra waited by the stair with a folio. Her brass coordinator badge caught the light. "You signed," she said, eyes on the token.

"Provisional," I said. "Three only. Logs. Weekly audits."

"Good," she said, and meant it. "You’ll like this." She held out a thin sheet. "Refuge addendum. We tested your funnel language in yesterday’s panic drill. It worked with two less bodies. That saves people."

I read. The phrasing was clean: short lines, no room for pride. "Adopted," I said, and signed.

Her ears went a little pink. "Tea?" she asked, like offering rope.

"Tea," I agreed.

We took cups by the rope rack. She leaned a hip on the bench and watched the yard without pretending not to. "You felt different yesterday," she said. "Not bigger. Clearer."

"Cleaner grain," I said. "That’s how it feels. Less noise in the current. The leash listens faster."

She nodded. "I heard it in your voice. Fewer words. Better words." She drank, then added, dry, "Don’t get proud about it."

"I won’t," I said.

Gareth trotted up with a sack of bread. "Tell me you signed a thing," he said. "You look like a man who signed a thing."

"Provisional charter," I said, showing the token.

He whistled. "Look at you. Responsible necromancer. My mother will faint."

"Don’t tell her," I said.

Pelham arrived with his hat stitched straight and his mouth set normal. "Cael wants a short run on the back path," he said. "Not to prove anything. To feel footing."

"Coming," I said.

We finished the tea. Lyra passed me a small wrapped bundle. "For later," she said. "Dried fruit. You forget to eat when you write logs."

"I won’t," I said, but took it.

The back path ran along the north wall, tight turns and uneven stone. Cael and Marcus were already there, talking in short lines about wind and pebbles. We set a pace that let lungs work without stealing brains. On the second lap Cael spoke over his shoulder. "Pierce paired our routes again. We’ll watch you on the gate station."

"Good," I said.

Marcus matched my stride for a few steps. "Artisan feels like this," he said, tapping his chest twice. "Everything sits where you put it, unless you lie to yourself."

"Then don’t lie," I said.

He smiled. "Sound advice."

We cooled down with slow steps and hands on hips. Pierce’s bell called captains to the board. We jogged over.

"Check-run at second bell," he said. "Three stations. Rope drop, stuck gate, panic drill. We pair routes A and B again. Watch each other. Learn."

"Copy," I said.

"Valcrey," Pierce added, pointing at my token. "Wear it."

"I will," I said, and pinned the circle-with-three-dots to my collar.

The check-run went smooth. Not boring—useful. We handled the drop without noise. We found the hinge bind at the gate without kicking the frame. Mira called paths in the panic drill and I kept words short. Cael’s team did the same in their turn. Pierce chalked "clean" once for us and twice for them. He looked pleased without smiling; that’s as close as he gets.

After, I took the Bone Warden to a bench and looked it over with new eyes. The ribs held shape better now that my imprint carried cleaner. I loosened two pins, shaved a whisper off a stubborn edge, and waxed the axle. Small work, the kind that keeps a thing honest.

Ariadne appeared like a bell that rings on time. Clipboard, blue wool, posture straight. "Restitution," she said. "You’re ahead of hours. Don’t assume that buys you freedom to skip."

"I won’t."

She glanced at the token on my collar, then at the Warden. "Keep it small in public," she said. "And write everything down."

"I am."

Her mouth softened a hair. "Good." She looked at my hands. "No shake."

"Not today," I said.

"Keep it that way," she replied, then added, very quiet, "I’m glad you didn’t die."

"Me too," I said.

She left before the moment turned into a thing it didn’t need to be.

Seraphine took her place as if the air had saved a spot for her. White hair like frost, amethyst eyes bright. She held a folded card. "Donor dinner," she said. "Three nights. You’ll attend."

"I know."

"You’ll be charming."

"I’ll be honest."

Her smile curved. "Honesty can be charming. Wear blue. It admits good light."

"Noted."

She tilted her head, as if listening to a thought. "You feel different," she said. "Better."

"Cleaner," I said.

"Don’t waste it," she replied, and drifted away like silk deciding where to go next.

Evening brought cloud. I found a quiet corner and wrote the first lines of the construct log Liora wanted:

— Marrow: patrol check-run, station two. Duration 00:42. No restraint. No puncture.

— Hollow: same. 00:42. No contact.

— Moth: test only. 00:12. No drift. Cut clean.

It looked simple. It felt like a promise.

Cael found me at the end of the page. He didn’t sit. "Night Run tomorrow," he said. "Short."

"I’ll carry light that doesn’t trip wards," I said, tapping the Lantern tin.

He nodded at the token. "Wear it. And... congratulations," he added, a beat late like the word didn’t fit his mouth but he made it fit anyway.

"Thanks," I said.

He left. The yard thinned. Lamps hummed on. I tucked the log away and let myself think of my old kitchen at dusk—two kids arguing over who got more noodles, Lila pretending to be stern and failing. The ache came clean, not dull. I let it sit for a count of ten, then folded it back where it belongs. Not because it mattered less. Because my hands had work.

A bell rang from the watch house—short, short, long. Not alarm. Summons.

Pierce’s voice followed, amplified and flat. "Notice. City Watch requests two mixed squads for a short assist, south culvert. Charter holders only. Report to Gate Three with quiet kits."

I stood. The token felt heavier again. I clipped the Warden harness, checked the Lantern clasp one more time, and headed for Gate Three.

Tomorrow would be Ravine and Night Run. Tonight, a culvert.

Small, quiet, useful. And ready, if quiet wasn’t enough.