CHAPTER 51: BLACKOUT DUCT SWEEP

The wind-spire at dusk looked like a black needle stuck into a gray throat. No lanterns. No rune-strip glow. Just rope lines, the square hum of ward posts, and our breath.

Liora set us in two cells at the maintenance hatch. "Cold tools only," she said. Platinum braid tucked tight, soft blue eyes steady. "No sparks, no aura bursts. If you smell resin: log first, touch second. If your hands shake, put them in your pockets and wait for someone whose hands don’t."

She pointed to the chalk board. "Cell One: Armand, Lyra, Mira. Cell Two: Cael, Ariadne, Rhodes. Dorian floats."

We clipped safety lines and checked packs. My kit was light and quiet: Bone Lantern, Bone Sapper, the new Bone Moth in a felt-lined tin, wedges, bone pick, chalk, two seal bags. Marrow and Hollow stayed in Shade, threads tight. No silhouettes.

Lyra met my eyes once. Calm face. Brass badge at her collar. "I’ll keep plates from rattling," she said. "Low chord, not a wall."

"Good," I said.

Mira checked her runes on a short slate and tucked it away. "I’ll read and tag," she said. "You call tools."

We slid into the hatch. Wind ran a thin line through the throat and died in the bend. The duct was a crawl two men wide, metal ribs set at even hands. I set the Bone Lantern in the crook of a rib and breathed on the count—four in, hold two, roll three out. The Lantern didn’t shine; it hushed. Shadows softened, hairlines showed, everything else stayed honest.

"Staggered Weave," I said low. "Lantern and Sapper to start. Moth stays asleep until I call it. No triple overlap."

"Copy," Lyra said.

I set the Bone Sapper on the floor and gave it a tap. It walked ahead on thin legs and tapped tiles—tick...tick...tick—never faster than my breath. The sound told me when a bed was full and when it lied.

We moved on elbows and knees. Lyra hummed a low note through her teeth, soft enough to notice only when it stopped. The hum made plates rest instead of sing. Mira leaned where I pointed and read the cut marks on comb teeth with two fingers. Her voice stayed level. "Flow normal. No choke."

At Tooth A-3, the Sapper’s tick went dull. Not dead—dull. I eased the cover in, rolled the rope with two fingers, set the pick under the tooth, and lifted slow. Sticky pull. Pine and iron in the nose.

"Shim recovered," I said. "Bagging." Mira held the bag open; I dropped the thin smear onto wax paper and slid it in. She sealed and labeled: Anchor A, tooth three, minute mark, our initials.

"Match Gate Six?" Lyra asked.

"Same blend," I said. "Feels thinner."

We logged and moved. The duct bent left, then right. Air pressed us from behind for three breaths and then let go. We all stilled without talking. Dorian’s quiet voice slid down a tube somewhere: "Crosswind resetting. Hold your elbows. Do not grab the vane if you wouldn’t grab a saw."

"Copy," I said.

Two turns later, Mira leaned toward a pressure vane to read its maker mark. The vane twitched. Not a lot. Enough to catch her cheek if she drifted closer.

Lyra cut her hum so fast the silence rang. "Hold," she said.

I set my heel, pulsed Anchor on contact, and eased a bone pick into the vane throat. Two-count. No shove. No show. The vane settled against the pick. I pulled it back a finger’s width and let it sit. The duct stopped pretending it wanted to bite us.

Mira swallowed. "Thanks."

"Keep your face out of throats," I said. "Read with a mirror next time."

"Copy," she said, quieter.

We reached a cross-joint with a peek slot set high. I slid the tin open with my thumbnail and set the Bone Moth in my palm. It weighed less than a leaf. "Wake," I whispered. It lifted a hand-span, held, and settled on the rim. No noise. No fuss.

"Up," I said, and let it climb through the slot.

I held my breath and watched my leash, not the hole. Ten seconds. Down. The Moth slipped back and rested on my knuckles as if it had never left.

"Movement ahead," I said. "Not ours. Single figure past the next bend."

Lyra lowered her chord to a thread and then widened it like a curtain, soft sound that masked the scrape of our elbows. We went the way you go when you want to be first but not loud. The Moth lifted again and drifted forward, skimming the upper corner.

At the bend, the duct opened on a junction with a maintenance slit cut into the wall. The inner panel was half-latched. A shadow slid through and was gone. The slit clicked shut. We heard fabric rasp on iron once. Then nothing.

We didn’t chase. Those were the rules: evidence, not heroics.

I slid the inner latch with my pick. The slit opened a hand. A small glass vial lay just inside, cork cut clean at a sharp angle. The resin in it was iron-pine brown. Next to it sat a metal ring broken through the thinnest part, stamped with a curled mark—contractor’s badge-ring.

"Bag both," I said.

Mira slid them into separate bags. "The cork’s cut with a draw knife," she said. "Not a city stock cut. House-made. Look at that shear line."

Lyra’s hum flickered. "Chord’s picking up vibration from... farther in," she said. "Not wind. Something steady."

I pressed a knuckle to the metal. Felt the dull beat travel through the plate. Like a pump cycling wrong. Not an explosion waiting—just a wrong setting that could become one.

"Log," I said. "Signal Liora."

Mira tapped the slate twice and held the string tied to a floor stud. The prickle of ward-ink rolled back along the line toward the hatch.

We turned to go and the duct shoved us. Not a lot. Enough to take an elbow off a rib and make a head hit metal if you didn’t plan your bones in advance.

"Pressure," Lyra said, voice level.

I set my heel, put my shoulder against the vane throat, and drove a rib wedge into the lip. Not a hammer blow. A set. The wedge bit. The push eased a hair and then leaned back harder.

"Load’s increasing," Mira said. "Two-count cycles."

"Armand," Liora’s voice came through the tube, low and sharp. "Hold your lane. Do not move. Whoever’s on the other side is still here."

"Copy," I said.

The push rose again. I pulsed Anchor only when my heel met metal, nothing extra. Lyra planted her palms and widened her hum to a low strip along the floor. The sound hit the plates and made them agree to stay where we put them. Mira set her back to the wall and held the bag tray flat out so nothing slid.

The push passed. Came back. Passed again. Each shove was measured, not wild. That was worse. It meant a hand on a valve and eyes in the dark.

Liora’s voice again, softer. "Cell Two is holding the far side. Dorian is in the middle. We’re closing both hands. Armand, keep your wedge. Lyra, keep that hum. Mira, eyes on those bags."

We didn’t speak. We held. My shoulder cramped and then remembered how to be a shoulder. The wedge stayed set. The duct stopped trying to make us fall into it.

A scraping noise ran along the upper plate ahead and then died. The pressure bleed eased. Dorian spoke once, very quiet. "Left-hand slit sealed."

Liora returned, not much louder. "All cells, steady. Bring it in. One at a time. Same order you went out."

"Copy," I said. I pulled the wedge slow. The plate stayed honest. The Moth slid back into the tin. The Sapper clicked twice and went quiet.

We backed down the duct together—no rush, no story—until the hatch showed as a black square with a rectangle of gray beyond it.

Liora waited on her knees at the rim. "Bags," she said. I handed them to her like they were full of glass rain.

"You held," she said.

"We held," Lyra answered, and closed her hum with a breath.

"Good," Liora said. She looked past us into the throat like she could see through metal. "He’s in there. Not for long."

We slid out, one by one. The wind off the spire felt cold and clean. My elbows were scraped. My knees would bruise. I didn’t care.

Dorian came up out of another hatch without a sound. "Saw the slit, not the face," he said. "Workman boots. Careful hands."

"Contractor badge-ring broken," Mira added, holding up the bag.

Liora didn’t smile. She didn’t scowl. "Chain this," she said. "Then we go again."

We logged the time and the lane and the tooth. We sealed the seals and wrote our names. We waited for the next order with our cold kits in our laps and our mouths closed.

The ducts were quiet now. That wouldn’t last.