CHAPTER 62: CROSSWIND ROUTE, FIRST HALF

We hit Sector One faster. The ridge didn’t change its mind; it just reminded us it was higher than we were. The wind tugged. We let it. Gareth planted behind stone, Pelham tied short, Mira marked, I checked, and we moved. No one stood tall where the gust wanted a target.

At the switchback, the rope creaked louder. The span had warmed under hands and cooled under shade, and that back-and-forth made fibers complain. A team ahead of us wobbled on their feet and fed the sway. We went to hands and knees again. The rope count matched my breath if I let it.

Halfway, a loose knot ahead made the sway worse. The right move wasn’t to scold the air; it was to fix the knot when we reached it and tell the next team without turning it into a speech.

"Hold on the landing," I said. "I’ll clear the tie."

We crossed. I checked the knot, pulled the slack, dressed the lay, and set the bite. The line hummed cleaner. Mira chalked a small arrow on the rock: check here. We moved.

Sector Two’s bowl had grown teeth. Gusts fought and then decided to cooperate long enough to be rude. We kept to low placements and short ties. Flags on the lip fifty paces away slapped themselves silly and made their owners proud. That pride wouldn’t earn points. Our flags moved just enough to show wind and not enough to pretend brave.

Aldric’s team cut across our route to shave seconds. He grinned and didn’t look at the proctor who marked him again. "Unsafe," the proctor said the way someone says the time. Seraphine didn’t react. The sponsor’s pen moved once.

Sector Three’s stair took a bite at Pelham’s boots and found less purchase than before. He kept his feet. He didn’t reach for the missing hat this time. We flattened the landing again, tied low, and left it cleaner than we found it.

At Sector Four, dead brush whispered at our ankles. I stepped over. Gareth did the same. Pelham paused a half-beat, then followed. Mira didn’t even look down. Someone behind us scraped their heel and learned why the brush was placed there. A bell chimed. A proctor’s chalk lifted.

We planted Four, then stepped into Five where the ridge flattened and the wind pushed from behind like a helpful hand. Too much help tilts people forward. We shortened ties, angled flags into the push, and planted low. It looked plain. It was right.

"Back to start," I said.

We jogged, checked straps, and rolled our shoulders. My leash hummed steady. Marrow and Hollow stayed in Shade. The Lantern stayed latched. The Warden’s pins kept quiet like well-oiled hinges. We took water and looked at the rope map.

"Bridge on Sector Two is the crux," Gareth said.

"Agree," I said. "If it goes sloppy, we brace. No heroics."

Pelham nodded. "Copy."

Mira rolled her pencil between fingers. "If you call a fix, say it once. I’ll repeat."

"Good," I said.

Pierce lifted his hand. "Route B—final pass. Teams, move."

We moved. Sector One and the switchback went clean. The knot I’d dressed held. I tapped it anyway. Mira added a check mark next to her earlier arrow and kept running.

We reached Sector Two’s bowl and cut left to the rope bridge. Two wagons waited with mannequins loaded as civilians. The first team on the bridge had stopped in the middle. The rope swayed more than it should have, the motion feeding itself.

"Hold," I said. We watched. The bridge anchors were sunk into rock. The near one hummed true. The far one had a wobble it shouldn’t. One of the main wheels on the far wagon had a cracked rim. An ox at the front shifted and refused to step. Wind hit the span broadside, found the sway, and made a song out of it.

"Why are they standing?" Gareth asked.

"Afraid to make it worse," I said. "But standing feeds the sway."

"Options," Mira said, breath steady.

"Three," I said, counting. "Brace the near anchor. Rig a prusik line under the sway to take load. Calm the ox."

"Ox is yours," Gareth said. "You say animals like they’re people."

"Sometimes they listen better," I said.

We moved to the near anchor. I set the Warden to wedge at the post base. Gareth packed soil hard along the rock lip. Pelham laid line out of the bag without tangles. Mira wrote the fix in clean words: rib wedge, soil pack, prusik brace.

Wind hit again. The bridge answered rudely. The far wheel flexed and complained; the ox balked harder.

"Prusik," I said. Pelham fed the line. I tied the knot on the standing rope under the bridge, fingers working clean. Anchor pulse only when the knot bit. No flooding. No fuzz.

"Set," I said.

"Set," Pelham echoed.

I leaned into the line. The sway dulled a notch. Not enough.

"Marrow—post," I said. The hound took position against the wedge like a brace that didn’t know how to fail. The leash hummed and held.

"Ox," Gareth said, nodding at the far end. "How?"

"Voice and space," I said. I cupped my hands around my mouth and pitched my tone low and even. "Easy," I called across. "One step. Then stop. One step." I kept my words steady and counted on two things: that the handlers were trained to listen, and that fear listens more to calm than to volume when someone offers it.

The handler on the far end looked up at the voice that wasn’t shouting. He touched the ox’s neck and echoed me exactly. "One step." The ox flicked an ear. The bridge swayed under a gust. The prusik took strain and complained, then held.

I felt weight shift in the line. The ox moved one pace. The cracked wheel groaned. The sway built again.

Aldric’s team showed on the bowl lip, eager and loud. He raised his hand, spark playing between fingers like a nervous habit.

"Don’t," I said, not looking up. "You’ll panic the ox."

He heard me. He smiled, wider, and did nothing. For now.

"Again," I called. "One step."

The handler repeated me. The ox moved. The bridge sang a bad note. The far wheel protested like it had been waiting to quit.

"Armand," Mira said, voice steady, not loud.

"I see it," I said.

The wheel cracked through with a clean, ugly sound. The wagon corner dropped a hand-width. The ox froze, eyes white.

The sway found the drop and liked it. The bridge rolled heavier. My prusik went taut and sang. The Warden wedged harder. Gareth’s soil lip held. Wind pushed like it had money on the outcome.

"Hold," I said.

My breath found count. Heel, hip, hand. Anchor pulse only when the line needed. No show. No panic.

The bridge leaned another inch.

We were out of time.