The afternoon wasn't glory. It was splices and headcounts.
Ariadne met me at Refuge with her clipboard and a fresh page slotted under the last sheet. "One hour," she said. "Record entry, exit, and any line stops. Use the new SOP: wardline flicker, pause intake, continue count, keep the door clear."
"Copy," I said.
She looked at my cheek. "You should have let the nurse stitch that."
"Salve," I said, holding up the tin.
"Better than your pride," she said dryly. Then, softer: "I read your statement. Clean."
"Plain words," I said.
She wrote something on her form that wasn't for me and then left me with Lyra and two commoners who had learned not to gawk.
Lyra didn't waste time. "Door," she said. "You're on call-and-count."
We fell into rhythm. "Ten in," I called. She ticked. "Five out." She ticked. A stalled wagon down the lane held us a minute; we paused intake, kept count, and kept the door clear. No one tried to argue. Clear rules make people willing.
