Verrin stepped toward Lyra like the crowd didn't exist. The wand drew a thin line in the air. Wind stacked behind it, ready to do something ugly.
"Move," I snapped.
Lyra didn't freeze. She dropped her folio, kicked it backward so the pages stayed clean, and pivoted off the line. The cut shaved her sleeve and chewed a groove in the stone where her arm had been.
Cael hit Verrin's flank. No shout. Just weight. Verrin rode the hit and didn't fall. He whipped the wand low at Cael's ankle. Cael took it, turned, planted—floor honest.
The anchor pin under my palm kept creeping. If it worked free, the bridge would sag. People would drop into the ward net and bounce hard. The ox would panic and drag the wagon sideways.
"Gareth, pack," I barked.
He jammed soil against the lip in short, hard strokes. Pelham kept tension on the prusik so it would bite when the sway came.
"Lyra, center line, two steps back," I called.
