We jogged the last stretch with the wind at our backs and dust in our teeth. The horn gave a short, clipped note. Route B, Team Two crossed the line together. Proctors took flags, checked knots, and wrote without looking at our faces. That was how you knew it counted.
"Time," Pierce called. "Route B, Two: clean."
Clean meant no penalties. Clean meant restraint had beaten showy. Gareth bent, hands on knees, grinning like he had stolen something useful. Mira tucked her chalk and already had a line of notes down her slate. Pelham stood straight because he had earned the right to, not because a crowd watched. Lyra slipped the observer badge from her collar and lifted a hand to me. Not a wave. Work done.
Aldric’s team came in hard and loud. Two flags leaned. One stake quivered. A proctor flipped his slate and wrote fast. The sponsor watched with a neutral face that meant money might find a different road. Seraphine stood beside him with her hands folded, posture perfect, eyes giving nothing away.
"Route B results," Pierce said. "Two, then One, then Three." We had won our lane. He did not smile. The board said enough.
Applause would have been wrong. Instead the yard exhaled. Boots shuffled. Tension let go by a notch. I rolled my shoulders and felt the leash hum steady under my sternum. Marrow and Hollow stayed in Shade. No stage.
The sponsor approached with Seraphine half a pace back. Up close he looked like a ledger that had grown a coat. "Competent," he said. "You planted for weather, not for a portrait."
"Portraits blow down," I said.
A corner of his mouth tried to learn to smile. It did not. He turned to Pierce and spoke about "deliverables," as if students were cargo you could sign for.
Seraphine lingered. "Restraint looks good on you," she said. "Route B thanks you for not embarrassing us."
"I do better work when I’m not trying to be seen," I said.
"You were seen anyway," she answered, and her gaze slid to Lyra, who was adjusting her folio strings and treating the sponsor like a breeze. "The coordinator kept you honest."
"She keeps everyone honest," I said.
"Of course," Seraphine replied, polite and edged. Then lower: "The sponsor noticed the rope crossing. And the echo. I have meetings later. If you have requests, send a note. I’m in a generous mood."
"Change your methods," I said. "That’s my request."
Her mouth made the small shape it made when she wanted to laugh and didn’t. "Consider it noted," she said, and drifted away in a pale line of silk.
Gareth bumped my shoulder. "Do all nobles talk like that?"
"Only the ones who think words are coins," I said.
Lyra came up with the slate. "Verify marks," she said. "Three flags short-tied. Two behind breaks. Rope crossing logged."
I checked and signed the captain box. Her fingers brushed mine when she took the slate back. Warm, callused, steady. Her ears went a little pink. She tugged her folio strings. "Pelham didn’t showboat," she said to the page. "That is growth."
Pelham heard and pretended he hadn’t. "I am trying," he muttered.
"You did well," I told him. His shoulders eased.
Pierce tapped the board. "Break. Water. Debrief in twenty." He pointed his slate at Aldric. "Voss: see me."
That was a conversation the yard wanted to hear and didn’t get to. Gareth and I hit the pump, splashed faces, and drank. Mira hovered until I nodded. "You saved our score when you ignored the echo," she said. "Teams Three and Four turned. Their time slipped."
"Lyra warned us," I said.
Lyra made a small motion that meant stay factual. "It’s in the brief," she said. "People don’t read." She hesitated. "Your charm lines are neat."
"My what."
"Rope knots," she said, flushing. "Knots."
Gareth choked on his water. I didn’t look at him. "Thank you," I said.
Debrief ran tight. What worked. What didn’t. One line each. We logged the echo, the brush, Aldric’s unsafe discharge, our placements, and three small fixes. Liora watched from the edge with soft blue eyes and a calm that made the yard stand at ease. When it ended, she spoke to me alone.
"Good call at the switchback," she said. "Next time, plant two anchors at the first post. Gust lanes shift before teams loop."
"Understood," I said.
She glanced toward Seraphine and the sponsor by the arch. "Politics will try to own what you build," she said. "Keep it useful. Keep it clean."
"I plan to," I said.
We found shade near the rope rack. Gareth split a heel of bread. Pelham took a piece. Mira ate while writing. Lyra didn’t sit. She stood with her folio. I nodded at the spot beside us. "Rest," I said.
"I’m not assigned to rest," she said, but sat anyway, back straight. "One minute."
"Take two," Gareth said, leaning until the beam found his shoulders. "We earned it."
A breeze slid through the yard and carried a faint line of pine pitch and iron. It reminded me of gates and the way metal sings when it wants to break.
Pelham cleared his throat. "Armand," he said, careful. "At Convoy, I reached for my hat. Today, I didn’t. That is because of you."
"It’s because you chose better," I said. "Keep choosing."
He nodded once, like a vow said to an empty chapel.
Mira capped her ink. "Proctor says sponsor liked short ties," she reported. "He wrote ’efficient’ in the margin."
Gareth groaned. "We bled for an efficient."
I laughed. It felt good, then turned quiet. I saw Lila in a small kitchen, pushing a stray hair behind her ear. The laugh faded. I looked down at my hands. No shake. Only memory.
Lyra saw and did not ask. "Refuge at third bell," she said. "You’re on headcount."
"Copy," I said.
Seraphine drifted past, now alone. She noticed our small ring of shade and the way it felt like a table, not a stage. She looked at me as if trying on a question and set it aside. "The sponsor will send letters," she said. "Some will ask for your time."
"Address them to Refuge first," I said. "Or Ethics."
Her eyes widened a fraction; then the amethyst cooled. "That answer will make the right people curious," she said. "And the wrong people annoyed."
"I can live with that," I said.
"I know," she replied, meaning more than the yard.
Third bell neared. The yard thinned. I stood. Lyra rose at the same time. We stepped the same way and stopped, an arm’s length apart.
"Good work," she said.
"You too," I said.
Her mouth chose a small line. "Don’t make Refuge a stage," she said, and went.
I let the quiet settle, then went to count heads. Clean tasks keep your feet on the floor. The board held a fresh notice beside the rankings: Convoy Under Crosswinds at dawn; routes at first light; no rune-lamps; unsafe discharge is a penalty, not a flourish.
I ran a thumb over the wax on the Bone Warden’s axle, checked the Lantern clasp, patted Marrow’s skull in Shade, and told myself, again, to keep it useful and clean.
The yard, finally, had room for that. I thought of the kitchen I had left behind, the small plant in the window, two kids with light-up shoes. Grief came like a tide and went. Work steadied it. Tomorrow would be harder; that was fine.
When the horn marked third bell, I headed for Refuge and the next line of boxes. Lyra would have a slate ready. I would write neat. After that, I would sharpen pins, count rope, and sleep in pieces. Dawn was close enough to touch. This text is hosted at Nov3lFɪre.ɴet