The chain sang twice more, closer. A grate climbed, teeth rasping. Air pushed out of a ceiling throat. It tasted like oil and wet stone.
Light spilled from the next room—brassy, flickering. A "Watch" placard hung crooked. Inside, a rack had dumped weapons everywhere and a dummy "watchman" lay pinned under a bar. Sparks spat from a busted sparker on the bench and crawled toward a ribbon of spilled lamp oil.
"Clear," Cael said, stepping over fallen spears.
"Fast," I said.
He lifted the bar—easy with aura used like a carpenter uses a lever. I dragged the dummy clear, heel-pulsed the sparker off the bench, and shoved the lamp oil rag under a bucket. The sparks found the rag and died in the water. A bell in the wall spared us a chime out of habit.
"Rung four?" Cael asked.
"Close," I said. The tone chimed a hall later.
