Past the high stone wall of the North Annex, the Academy was loud.
The morning bell rang three times, clean and sharp. Then came the sounds of the main quad waking up—the rhythmic scuff of third-year boots jogging in formation, the distant, hollow *crump* of a fire-initiation student failing their target vector, and a group of humanities students laughing as they crossed the gravel path toward the library.
Inside the Annex yard, there was only the sound of Drake's boots.
He was walking the perimeter. His left arm was tucked into his belt to keep it from swinging like a dead weight. His trailing heel clicked against the flagstones, even and deliberate. He wasn't practicing a stance. He was just walking. But he wasn't leaning anymore.
James sat on the lowest step of the barracks, his right boot laced tight, his left laces trailing in the dirt. He had spent twenty minutes trying to tie the left one wrong. His fingers had cramped twice, defaulting to the clean, perfect symmetry of Chawng's heel-lock. He had finally given up and left the strings to drag.
At the iron gate, a bell clattered.
It wasn't the Academy bell. It was a small brass dome mounted on the timber post, operated by a pull-string from the outside.
Xander, standing by the drafty seam of the gate, didn't count the seconds it took for the ring to die. He just watched the gap.
"Rations," a voice called from the other side. Short. Nervous.
James stood up, his unlaced boot flopping against his ankle. He walked to the gate and pulled the iron latch.
A first-year runner in a grease-stained logistics coat stood on the dirt path. He was holding a wooden crate loaded with a gray sack of flour, a tub of lard, and a salt block. He had a grease-pencil behind his ear and a wooden clipboard tucked under his arm.
When the gate swung back, the runner jumped. He looked at James's gray slit eye, then down at James's loose bootlace, then back up.
"Squad Seven?" the runner asked.
"Seven-Gamma," James said.
The runner set the crate down on the gravel outside the threshold. He didn't offer to carry it in. He held out the clipboard, his thumb pressing down on a yellow receipt slip.
"Sign here."
James took the pencil and signed the receipt.
The runner glanced down at the paper. "Just James?"
James shrugged.
"They said you all got expelled," the runner muttered, his eyes darting toward the quiet yard behind James, where Drake was still walking his slow circle. "The second-years in Ward 3 said you broke the tripods and they had to quarantine the whole block because of the smoke."
"No," James said. "They were already dirty."
The runner shrugged, shifting his clipboard. "Whatever. Fourth-years are already betting Lucas is going to top the practicals on Friday anyway. You're not even on the dining hall roster anymore. You get the dry tub on Tuesdays now."
He didn't wait for James to reply. He turned and walked back down the path toward the main quad, his boots kicking up light, clean gravel. Fifty yards away, a group of students carrying leather-bound books stopped to watch him leave, pointing toward the North Annex gate before continuing their conversation and walking toward the lecture halls.
James looked down at the crate.
Thirty pounds of stone-ground flour in a rough canvas sack.
"Leave it," Chawng's voice came from the shade of the wall.
The old man was sitting on a low wooden bench, his birch broom resting between his knees. He wasn't looking at the gate. He was looking at Drake.
"Drake," Chawng said. "The gate is dirty."
Drake stopped his circle. He looked at the heavy crate sitting three feet outside the iron threshold. He looked at Chawng.
"Carry it," Chawng said.
Drake walked to the gate. He didn't strap his shield on. He didn't draw earth mana to reinforce his dead shoulder. He stood over the crate, his right hand gripping the pine handle.
His instinct was to yank it with his good arm, to twist his torso and use his momentum to swing the weight inside the gate.
"Weight is not a pull," Chawng said from the shadow. "It is a line."
Drake let the weight settle. His shoulder stopped fighting it.
Then he lifted.
The wood didn't scrape. The sack of flour didn't slosh. Drake carried the crate across the threshold with one arm, his frame holding perfectly straight, his dead left arm hanging quiet at his side.
He walked ten paces into the yard, set the crate down on the flagstone, and stood up.
His chest didn't heave. His right hand didn't shake. He looked down at the flour, then at his own feet, then back at Chawng.
Chawng didn't nod. He didn't say *good*. He just picked up his broom and stood.
"Sweep the gravel back outside," the old man said, pointing to the stones the runner had kicked into the threshold. "Then we eat."
James watched Drake pick up the broom with his good hand, bracing the handle against his hip to push the stones back toward the path. He did it slowly, leaving uneven lines, but he didn't look at his own arm while he did it.
James looked down at his own left boot, the laces still trailing in the dirt. He took a breath, reached down, and pulled the strings loose entirely. If he couldn't do it wrong, he wouldn't do it at all.
By the stove, Kara was already setting the kettle down.
Over the wall, the world kept moving.
Inside,
the tea was still thin. They had bread to make.