The hum of the bridge deepened until it was almost a growl.
It pressed into my chest, into my bones, into the hollow behind my eyes where thoughts could not quite form.
The second boy's foot hovered an inch from the seam, his head tilted back toward the swirling flock of glass birds above the far tower. Their wings caught the light like shards of mirror spinning in slow arcs, bright and hypnotic, each reflection flashing and fading before the next began.
"Hey," Lio's voice cut through the air. It was sharp but calm, the kind of tone meant to stop someone without startling them into moving the wrong way. "Step forward."
The boy did not react. If he heard her, he thought she was speaking to someone else. His weight shifted onto his back foot, the heel of his boot brushing the faint seam in the glass.
I stepped past Lio. The bridge under my boots had a slow, subtle rhythm, like breathing that had started to go wrong. The movement was not enough to make me stumble, but it was enough that I felt my body adjusting with every step. My left hand kept the glass book tight against my ribs. My right stayed deep in my sleeve, the warning from earlier clear in my head.
Do not touch the seam with your right hand.
The boy's friends were at the far deck, waving him forward. Their voices were distant, blurred into the constant hum of the span. The seam at his feet shimmered faintly, the air above it bending like heat over stone.
Behind me, Lio said quietly, "Steady."
I took another step. The hum shifted, rising in pitch for the length of a breath, then settling again. A hairline crack whispered somewhere ahead, so faint I might have imagined it if not for the slight vibration it sent up through my boots.
The boy bent forward, reaching toward the shadow of a bird passing beneath the bridge. His fingertips hovered above the seam.
A quiet pop answered him. The crack widened by the width of a hair. The hum bent again, just enough to make my heartbeat stumble.
I lunged the last step and caught him with my left hand, pulling him back before his weight could settle onto the break. His body jolted against mine, and for the first time he looked down at his feet.
"It is breaking," I said, my voice low. "We walk now."
He nodded, his mouth open but silent. We moved together toward the nearest deck, our steps even and deliberate. Every pace sent a faint ripple down the seam behind us, the pitch of the hum tilting slightly with each one.
Lio's voice followed, firm but steady. "Do not look back. Just keep moving."
The boy's mother appeared at the deck's edge, her arms outstretched. She took him into her embrace, her eyes bright with fear. She murmured something into his hair, rocking him once before holding him still.
The book in my arm warmed.
New words formed on the page, as if traced there by an invisible hand.
You may save the bridge, or you may save yourself.
Choose.
A shout rose from the far side of the span. I turned to see a woman in a green coat kneeling halfway across, one arm around an elderly man whose legs barely held him. His head was lowered, his steps dragging.
The seam near the crown had split further, the crack creeping toward them like a shadow across ice.
Iven's voice called from the deck behind me. "Row, get off the bridge."
Lio's eyes flicked toward me for only a heartbeat, but I felt the weight in that glance. "I can hold it a little longer," she said. "But if that crack reaches them…"
I looked at the glowing words in the book.
You may save the bridge, or you may save yourself.
The seam hissed, the sound of water poured onto hot stone.
I stepped back onto the glass.
The hum jumped, climbing higher, almost sharp enough to sting. The surface beneath me felt tighter, harder, as if the whole span braced against my weight.
Lio's stance shifted. Her palm pressed more firmly into the fractured crown, the muscles in her arm tensed against the slow give of the glass. "Seconds," she said. "No more."
The woman in the green coat looked over her shoulder, eyes widening when she saw me approaching. She shook her head once, as though to warn me off. But the old man's legs trembled with every step, his hands clinging to her sleeves as if letting go would send him falling.
Seven paces away, I reached them. "We go together," I said.
She nodded quickly and adjusted her grip. I hooked my left arm under the man's other side. His weight was more than I expected, every step a strain, his breath shallow and fast.
The crack was almost at our feet now. I could hear it over the hum, the thin snap of fibers under tension, though here it was strands of glass giving way.
We moved faster. The hum and the sound of the breaking seam blurred into one, rising and falling with each step.
Five steps.
Four.
Three.
The far deck's guards rushed forward, their rope lines ready. One took the man's weight from me, pulling him the last step to safety. The woman stumbled after him, her face pale.
I turned back toward the crown.
The crack had reached Lio's boots. She stood perfectly still, her eyes on the glass, her breath measured.
"You need to move," she called. "Now."
I took a step toward her. The hum bent again, then broke into short, uneven bursts.
The glass beneath her feet quivered. She pulled her hand away from the seam and stepped back.
A high, clear sound rang out — not the hum, not a pop, but something like a bell struck hard enough to shiver the air.
Light burst from the seam in jagged lines, racing along the length of the span. The hum cut out entirely.
The crown sagged, the whole span seeming to take one long breath inward.
For a moment, nothing moved. The glass birds above circled in perfect silence. The crowd on both decks leaned forward as one, holding their breath.
Then the center began to fall.
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