The ridge ran like a thin knife. Flags snapped on short lines. Proctors watched from the bowl floor, slates ready. The sponsor in the dark coat stood beside Seraphine with his hands behind his back and the polite smile of a man who never ran.
Sector Two's rope bridge hummed. Two wagons waited to cross with dummy civilians lashed tight. The gust lanes made a low song.
We moved to the near anchor. Gareth checked the rock lip. Pelham paid out line without tangles. Mira marked our sets, short notes, clean hand. Lyra stood to the side with her folio and that brass badge, eyes on the crowd and the wind both.
The ward post to our left flickered—one hiccup, then solid.
"Post hiccup," Mira said.
"Log it," I answered.
A man in a contractor's cloak slid out from behind the wagon like he had always been there. Hood up. Tool belt neat. He carried a canvas roll and a coil of copper wire. No crest. No student badge.
"Ward team," he said mildly. "Stabilize and release."
