The chain fell across the road one vehicle ahead of them.
Eli heard its links strike the paving before he saw the soldiers move. Two pulled the chain taut. A third dragged a red board across the pedestrian lane, forcing a woman with a basket to retreat into a wagon wheel. Above the gate, the barrier lamps changed from white to amber in a sequence too orderly to be a fault.
Bram stopped walking.
“Don’t put your hand on the packet,” he told Ilyan.
The archivist’s fingers were already curled around its strap. He loosened them, leaving the sealed case against his ribs. Beside him, the observer took out the movement inventory. No one needed to tell her that the city boundary was about to become a different kind of crossing.
A captain stepped between the chain posts. Eli recognized the thin scar dividing his left eyebrow.
In another life that man had opened a supply gate for refugees after his own command abandoned the district. Eli remembered mud on his boots and the exact relief of finding someone willing to disobey. He almost said the captain’s name with the familiarity of a man greeting an old ally.
The captain looked through him.
