The Shield Wall rotation had been moved to the eastern parapet, which meant Cade spent the first hour of his shift staring at the same stretch of grey stone he'd been staring at for three months. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn. The wind hadn't.
He stood at his post with his weight balanced evenly, both feet flat, shoulders squared. His brass gauntlet rested against his hip, humming low with thirty ergs of held thermal draw. The cold didn't reach him. It hadn't reached him in months.
Below, the lower courtyard was busy with the morning practical rotation. He could see the second-years running through their kinetic drills, the sharp crack of practice bolts against iron targets, the proctor's voice carrying up through the cold air. Normal. Everything normal.
His ankle had stopped swelling three days ago. He'd wrapped it tighter since then.
Proctor Miller was standing at the end of the parapet, a slate tucked under her arm. She glanced toward the lower east stair, then back at him.
"The lower east stair is failing," she said. "Maintenance needs someone to hold the upper landing while they replace the third step. You're on the rotation list."
"Understood."
He followed her down the parapet stairs and through the eastern archway. The lower east stair was a narrow stone flight that connected the outer wall to the secondary armory. It had been built during the original expansion, and the third step had cracked sometime during the winter. The maintenance crew was already there—two fourth-years and a third-year with a tool satchel—standing at the base of the flight, looking up at the damaged step with the particular expression of people who had been told to fix something and hadn't yet figured out how.
"We need to lift the load off the step before we can replace it," one of them said. "The whole flight is carrying the archway above it. If we pull the step, the landing drops."
Miller nodded. "Cade will anchor the upper landing. You replace the step."
She left.
Cade looked at the stair. It was a simple problem. The landing above the third step was supported by a stone corbel that had cracked when the step failed. If someone held the corbel in place while the step was removed, the replacement could be seated without the landing shifting.
He climbed to the upper landing and set his feet. He pressed his gauntlet against the corbel. Thirty ergs of held thermal draw meant the stone wouldn't shift from temperature. He added a kinetic anchor—a steady downward pressure through his palm, holding the corbel in place against the wall.
It was a simple problem. It should have been simple.
The maintenance crew wedged a pry bar under the cracked step. The stone groaned. As it came free, the corbel shifted—just a fraction, but enough that Cade felt the load transfer onto his palm. His gauntlet hummed as the thermal draw compensated for the sudden change in pressure. He locked his elbow. The stone settled. He didn't adjust.
One of the fourth-years glanced up. "You good?"
"Keep going," Cade said.
They seated the replacement. The new step slid into place with a dry scrape. The corbel ground against the wall as the load redistributed. Cade held. The whole process took twelve minutes.
He could have released when the new step was seated. The load was stable. The crew was already packing their tools. But releasing meant admitting the hold had been harder than it should have been. He kept his palm against the corbel until the fourth-year spoke.
"You can release now."
He released.
His shoulder had locked. He'd been holding the anchor for twelve minutes without shifting his weight, without adjusting his stance, without letting his focus drift. His right hand had gone numb somewhere around the eighth minute. The numbness spread up his forearm. He flexed his fingers, but they didn't respond immediately. The feeling returned slowly, like water seeping into dry ground. His ankle was throbbing—he'd been standing on it wrong, compensating for the corbel's angle without noticing.
He stepped back from the landing and flexed his fingers again. They still didn't respond the way they should.
"You all right?" the fourth-year asked.
"Fine."
He walked back up the stair. Miller was waiting at the top, slate still under her arm.
"Landing secure?"
"Secure."
She looked at him for a moment. Then she looked at his hand, which was still flexing.
"Your gauntlet's warm."
He glanced down. The brass had retained heat from the twelve-minute hold—more heat than it should have. He'd been channeling continuously, never letting the draw stabilize. Holding the anchor hadn't required that much output. But he'd held it anyway, because releasing and re-engaging would have meant admitting the hold was heavier than he'd expected.
"Thermal retention," he said. "It'll cool."
Miller didn't argue. She made a note on her slate and walked away.
---
The rest of the shift was uneventful.
Cade returned to the eastern parapet. The wind was still blowing. The lower courtyard was still running drills. He resumed his position, weight balanced evenly, both feet flat, shoulders squared. The gauntlet had cooled.
He didn't think about the stair. He didn't think about the twelve minutes. He didn't think about the way his shoulder had locked, or the way his hand had gone numb, or the way he'd kept the draw running because stopping would have been the same as failing.
He just stood at his post and watched the courtyard, the way he always did.
---
That evening, in the lower barracks, he unwrapped his ankle.
The swelling had returned. Not badly—just enough to be visible, a soft thickness around the outer joint. He'd been standing on it wrong during the anchor, compensating without noticing.
He sat on the edge of his bunk and looked at it for a moment.
Then he reached for the linen tape and wrapped it tighter.