Dawn came clean and early. The yard was still damp, the flagstones darker along the seams. A bell called first light. The school woke the way it always did—boots, chalk, clipped voices—like nothing unusual had happened on the roofs the night before.
I met my first restitution task at the rope rack. Three first-years waited, two boys and a girl, hands hidden in sleeves the way nervous people hide. Lyra stood with a folio under her arm and that brass coordinator badge at her collar. She didn’t say good morning. She didn’t need to.
"Short splice," I said. "We’re doing two each. Once wrong, once right. I’ll sign only if your hands can do it without your eyes thinking first."
They nodded. I laid the rope across my palm, showed the steps slow: measure, pinch the tail, dress the lay, slide and bite. I pulled it wrong once to show the slip, then fixed it. The first boy rushed and made a knot that looked like a fist. The second boy did better, then worse, then got angry at his fingers and calmed down. The girl watched, then tried. Her first splice slipped. Her second held. I tapped it. "Good. Again."
Lyra signed the first line of Ariadne’s sheet when we were done. She paused, checked their ends as if a second look might find a hidden mistake, and signed the second line too. "Bring the tags back if you practice more," she told them. "Don’t leave cut tails on the grass."
They ran. She didn’t move. Her eyes went to my hands. "No shake," she said.
"Kept the leash short," I said. "Twelve seconds at most."
"Good," she replied. "Keep it small." Her ears went a little pink. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was heat and a lot of words she wasn’t going to spend.
Ariadne arrived with her clipboard like a rule wrapped in blue wool. "Five signatures," she said. "Met. Next: one hour in Refuge this afternoon. Headcount. You’ll log it clean."
"Understood."
She nodded once, checked the time, and turned as Saintess Liora crossed the yard.
Liora’s hair looked almost white in morning light, her soft blue eyes taking stock. She raised a hand. Conversation faded on its own.
"Ridge Relay," she said in her calm voice that made people finish fidgeting, "starts in one hour. Five sectors, rotating wind. No rune-lamps. Flags must be planted at each sector’s post. Points for coordination, restraint, and simple fixes. Unsafe discharge is a penalty. Today, a sponsor will observe Route B." She didn’t look at Seraphine. She didn’t have to. "Teams gather by boards. Captains confirm kits. Any questions, ask now, not at the rope."
Pierce tapped a slate. "Assignments posted. Watch your route letters. No trading."
The crowd moved like water with banks. Names found names. Teams collected.
My draw: Route B, Team Two. Gareth again, which was good. Pelham Gray, which made sense. Mira, which was useful. And Lyra—only for the first sector as an observer, then back to Refuge. Seraphine stood near our route marker with a small group in Duskveil colors and an older man in a dark coat without a crest. Sponsor, then. He had hands like a clerk and a mouth that had learned to smile without showing teeth.
Seraphine’s gaze found mine, polite as a letter opener. "Good morning," she said. "We’ll be watching Route B today. We hope to see restraint."
"Then you’ll be pleased," I said.
Aldric hovered near the rope coil, lightning on his mind and the word restraint trying to find space there. He smirked at Pelham. Pelham looked at his boots.
Cael passed with his team on Route A. He glanced my way. It wasn’t a question. It was a check the way builders check if beams align. I lifted two fingers. Fine. He gave one short nod and moved on.
We did the kit check. Gareth had stakes and a hand auger. Pelham had extra line and a good knife for rope, not flesh. Mira had chalk and tags and a decent way of running while writing. I had the Bone Warden on a simple harness, the Lantern, the Sapper, the Moth, and the leash kept to two: Marrow and Hollow, both in Shade until I said otherwise.
Lyra slid into our small circle. "Sector One has a narrow ridge with a side gust," she said. "Stay low. Plant behind windbreaks. Don’t stand up on the high side to look brave. At the switchback, the rope sways. Hands on, eyes on, no speeches. If the whistle blows twice from the wrong direction, ignore it. It’s an echo."
"Copy," I said.
Gareth grinned. "We like boring."
"Boring keeps people unbroken," Lyra said. A quick nod, then she backed away. She never lingered in a circle she wasn’t assigned to. She liked her lines clear.
The horn went long and low. Teams filed to their starting markers. Proctors checked straps and counted heads. The sponsor set his hands behind his back and made his face polite.
"Route B, Team One," Pierce called. They launched.
"Route B, Team Two," he called next.
"Move," I said.
We jogged into Sector One. The ridge rose in a clean line, thin and stubborn, wind running along it like a dog on a wall. White paint marked post holes every thirty paces. The gust didn’t shove; it tugged. The kind that pulls you step by step off balance until you are surprised to be falling.
"Low," I said. "Gareth, stakes. Pelham, line. Mira, mark." I took the first flag out of the satchel, ran it through the loop, and handed it over. "Plant. Don’t fight the wind. Let it tell you when to lean."
"Copy," Gareth said. He drove the auger with short, honest turns, sank the stake behind a rock lip, and nodded. Pelham fed line. We tied the flag, checked the pull, and moved.
The sponsor watched from below. He didn’t speak. Seraphine stood with her hands folded, posture like a line in a drawing class. Only her eyes moved, quick and bright.
At the switchback, the rope sway started. It hung from two old iron rings in the rock. The rope itself was new enough to trust but old enough to creak. The wind played it like a weak instrument. People ahead of us had tried to walk it upright and made it worse, standing tall to balance and gifting the gust more body to push.
"Hands and knees," I said. "Three points of contact. Don’t be pretty."
Pelham hesitated for a heartbeat because Pelham always wanted to be seen doing things the way the old Armand had taught him: big. Then he looked at the drop, looked at the rope, and went down. Good. Gareth laughed once under his breath and followed. Mira went without comment, chalk hooked in her teeth like a carpenter with a pencil. I locked on behind them and felt the rope’s rhythm through my palms. It had a count that matched my breath if I let it.
Halfway across, a whistle blew twice from the left when it should have come from the right.
"Echo," I said. No one turned. We finished the crossing, planted the second flag, and ran the narrow to Sector Two.
Sector Two opened into a bowl where the wind came from three directions and fought itself. Flags had to go in along the left bank. Half the teams set their posts tall and proud on the lip and watched them wobble. We put ours down behind low stone and tied them short so the cloth barely lifted. The sponsor’s mouth made a small shape that was almost a frown. Seraphine’s eyes narrowed a fraction, then smoothed.
"Third flag," I said.
"On it," Gareth answered.
Aldric’s team cut across our line at the far side of the bowl. He laughed too loud, threw a bit of lightning at a stuck stake to loosen it, and got a proctor’s chalk mark for "unsafe" from fifty paces. He saw the mark, saw the sponsor not clapping, and smiled harder like that would erase the line on the slate.
We moved into Sector Three, the narrow stair cut in the ridge. Dust made the steps slick. Someone ahead had slipped and left scuffs. The flag post here sat in a stupid place by design—on a short landing where a strong person could wedge and show off. Points didn’t care if you wedged and showed off. Points cared if you planted without making trouble. New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on novel✦fire.net
"Gareth, give me a lip," I said. He pulled a simple earth rise under the post hole so the base had a flat to sit on. Pelham set the line low, not around the waist-high peg that begged for a picture. Mira marked the exact set depth and moved on. We planted, tugged, and left the landing clean.
Halfway up the stair, a gust came out of nowhere and took Pelham’s hat. It went sailing. He reached for it out of habit. I caught his wrist, pressed down. "Later," I said. He stared at the hat like a friend falling. Then he shook his head, the way a person throws a thought away, and kept climbing.
At the Sector Four marker, a run of dead brush hugged the rock. The right move was to step over it and ignore it. The wrong move was to clear it and get a fire point when a spark from someone’s boot heel made the brush glow. We stepped over. Someone behind us didn’t. A proctor’s bell chimed. The sponsor didn’t turn.
We planted at Four, then at Five where the ridge flattened and the wind came from behind like a hand. We planted low again. It looked plain. It held.
"Back to start," I said.