They built the course against the wind.
Three stone spires staked the ridge like fingers. Between them ran lines strung with flags, bells, and weighted hoops. Gust lanes cut across the stone where the mountain liked to flex. The rules were simple: no lights, no magic that overwhelms the course, keep your team intact, don't drop your load, don't be stupid.
Pierce read off teams from a platform. "Spire to spire, transfer two coils, one tool chest, one dummy casualty. Method points heavy today. Unsafe discharge earns you a penalty. Yes, Voss, I saw your hand."
Snickers. Aldric put on a lazy smirk.
My team: Lyra, Gareth, Pelham, and Mira—a rune tech with quick hands and a quiet voice. Good group. No peacocks.
We staged under Spire One. The wind bit. Lyra set her palms on the stone, closed her eyes, and hummed. A thin line in the air took shape in front of us—a Chord Wall. Not thick. Not bright. Just a surface that caught wind and nudged it aside.
