The breath came again—soft, measured—from the dark ahead.
Cael's shoulder stayed wedged against the rack. My knife held the bad catch on the flat. Marrow braced the leaning gate like carved furniture. Hollow perched on the pipe, head tilted toward the sound.
"Decision," Cael said, voice low.
"Hold the rack," I answered. "If it dumps, Refuge turns into thorns."
He nodded once. We didn't have a hand to spare for heroics. Good. I prefer work.
The thing in the hall took one step. A flat scrape, not claws. Another step. The dark peeled back and made a shape: long, low, plated—like the boar-thing from the training yard, only this one had iron bands pinned into its hide and a black glass bulb where an eye should be. A brass tag rattled at its throat. A test animal you don't want running free.
"Ballast warden," I said. "Designed to push. If it hits the gate, the catch goes."
"Can you talk it down?" Cael asked.
"No," I said. "But I can make it choose a different line."
