CHAPTER 61: CONVOY PREPARATION

The board went up at second bell. Pierce slapped the slate, chalked columns, and let the yard crowd itself into a ring.

"Second Practicals," he said. "Wilderness Convoy: Crosswind Route. Five sectors. No rune-lamps. Scores for coordination, restraint, and simple fixes. Unsafe discharge is a penalty. Captains confirm kits. Sponsors will observe Route B."

No one cheered. A few nobles groaned. Aldric rolled his shoulder like he was itching to throw lightning at the sky. Seraphine stood near the sponsors with her hands folded and her face arranged into polite interest. She didn’t need to say the word optics; it lived in the way she angled her chin.

I checked the roster. Route B, Team Two: me, Gareth Blackwater, Pelham Gray, Mira Kade. Lyra listed for Sector One as Refuge observer. Good.

Gareth found me first. "Your kind of exam," he said, grinning. "Fix things and don’t set them on fire."

"Let’s try to keep it boring," I said.

Pelham hovered, eyes on the ground, mouth set like he was saving his words for a better day. Mira jogged up with a slate under one arm, hair pinned back with two clips that would survive wind.

We circled up by the rope rack. Lyra slid in with a folio and her brass badge. She didn’t waste time on greetings.

"Sector One," she said, tapping the folio, "narrow ridge with a side gust. Plant behind breaks. Don’t stand high. Switchback rope sways. Hands and knees. If a whistle blows twice from the left, ignore it; it’s echo. If a flag wobbles, shorten the line, don’t add height. I’ll observe, then peel back to Refuge."

"Copy," I said.

Her gaze flicked to my hands. "Leash?"

"Two threads," I said. "Short bursts. No show."

She nodded once. Her ears went a little pink. Not embarrassment—heat under pressure and too many words unsaid. She stepped back to give us space.

We did the kit check. Gareth had stakes and a hand auger that looked like it had met rocks and won. Pelham carried extra line and a rope knife with a clean edge. Mira had chalk, tags, and a way of writing while moving that didn’t tangle her feet. I ran my thumb across the Bone Warden’s pin holes; waxed smooth. The Lantern clasp held. The Sapper ticked in my palm like a heartbeat. Marrow and Hollow stayed in Shade until told otherwise.

Aldric drifted close enough for his voice to reach us without being a conversation. "Try not to trip," he said to Pelham. "Route B is for people who can count to five."

Pelham’s jaw clenched. I said nothing. Gareth laughed once like a man who had already spent his anger on better targets.

Cael passed with his team on Route A. He gave me a quick look that wasn’t a question. I lifted two fingers—fine. He nodded and kept moving.

Pierce pointed his chalk. "Route B—Team One, step."

They went. Sponsors watched. Seraphine’s amethyst eyes tracked lines and faces, noting who used good rope and who used their bodies like flags.

"Route B—Team Two."

"Move," I said.

We jogged light to the starting marker. The wind found our sleeves and tested seams. I breathed four in, two hold, three out. Anchor Step kept my heel honest when the ridge tilted.

Sector One rose as a clean spine with white circles painted every thirty paces where posts wanted to live. The gust didn’t shove; it tugged sideways, the kind that steals balance by small degrees.

"Low," I said. "Gareth—stake. Pelham—line. Mira—mark."

Gareth sank the auger with short turns, found a lip out of the wind, and set the first post behind it. Pelham fed line and tied a clean hitch. Mira marked the tag and jogged three steps ahead to sketch the next set point.

Lyra shadowed us five paces back, eyes on hands and feet, not faces. When Pelham started to rise to check his knot, she said, "Don’t stand into the gust. Sit and check." He sat and checked. The flag barely lifted. It held.

We moved. At the switchback, the rope span creaked. Two iron rings sunk in the stone carried a line that was newer than its mounts. The wind played it like a weak instrument. Marks on the dust showed where someone ahead had tried to cross upright. Their boot scuffs wandered.

"Hands and knees," I said. "Three points. No speeches."

Gareth went first, laughing once like he always did before something that disliked pride. Pelham hesitated one heartbeat—habit—but dropped and moved. Mira set the chalk between her teeth and went like a carpenter with a pencil. I took rear, palms reading the rope’s count. It had a rhythm. My breath matched it.

Halfway across, two whistles blew from the left.

"Echo," I said.

No one looked. We finished the crossing. Gareth planted the second post behind a natural break. Pelham tied short. Mira marked. The gust pulled; the flag stayed.

We slid into Sector Two: a bowl where wind came from three directions and confused itself. Teams that planted on the lip watched their flags wobble. We kept ours behind stone shoulders and tied short. It wasn’t pretty. It was right.

Down in the bowl, Aldric threw a spark to loosen a stubborn stake. A proctor chalked him from fifty paces. "Unsafe discharge," the proctor said, voice flat. Aldric smiled harder, like that would erase the mark. Seraphine didn’t turn. The sponsor beside her made a small note.

Sector Three was a narrow stair cut in the ridge. Dust made the steps slick. Someone had slipped ahead of us and left a story in the grit. The flag post was placed on a landing that begged for a strong person to wedge and show off.

"Flat it," I said.

Gareth raised a simple soil lip under the hole. Pelham set line low, not around the waist-high peg asking to be used. Mira marked set depth, drew an arrow for counter-pull, and moved on. We planted and tug-tested. The landing stayed neat.

A gust stole Pelham’s hat and threw it into space. His hand twitched to grab it. I caught his wrist and pressed down. "Later," I said.

He stared after the hat like a friend falling. Then he let the thought go and climbed.

Sector Four hugged dead brush to the rock. The right choice was to step over. The wrong choice was to clear it and earn a fire point when a heel spark found dry thorns. We stepped over. Another team didn’t. A bell chimed. The sponsor didn’t look. Liora, standing with Pierce at the overlook, did, and then returned to the routes that were going right.

We planted Four. Sector Five flattened and gave us a kind wind that tried to help too much. We tied short and set low. Boring. Boring keeps people unbroken.

At the return marker, Lyra checked the tags, signed our card, and tipped her chin once. Praise, her way. She peeled off to jog back toward Refuge. Gareth watched her go and smirked at me. I ignored him. Or tried.

We jogged back to the start to wait our next turn through. The sponsor shifted his weight, unreadable. Seraphine’s eyes slid to me with that soft, practiced look that meant she had already written three possible speeches. I wasn’t interested in any of them.

"Second pass," Pierce called.

We lined up again. Gareth rolled his shoulders. Pelham flexed his hands and didn’t look at Aldric. Mira squared her slate. I breathed, counted, set my heel, and kept my leash short. We didn’t need grandeur. We needed the same thing done clean again.

We moved.