We jogged the last stretch with the wind at our backs and dust in our teeth. The horn gave a short, clipped note. Route B, Team Two crossed the line together. Proctors took flags, checked knots, and wrote without looking at our faces. That was how you knew it counted.
"Time," Pierce called. "Route B, Two: clean."
Clean meant no penalties. Clean meant restraint had beaten showy. Gareth bent, hands on knees, grinning like he had stolen something useful. Mira tucked her chalk and already had a line of notes down her slate. Pelham stood straight because he had earned the right to, not because a crowd watched. Lyra slipped the observer badge from her collar and lifted a hand to me. Not a wave. Work done.
