As Tom Carver vanished down the arcade stairs, young Tavi sprang forward. His eyes were bright with fight-or-flight rush, his hand reaching for his oilskin cap. “Let me go with him, Eren! I can run twice as fast as Master Carver! I can slip through the side chimney pipes and reach the Eastern Gate too!”
Eren Tal’s massive, calloused hand clamped down on the boy’s shoulder like an iron vise, stopping him dead in his tracks. The wheelwright turned the boy around until Tavi was facing the large wooden escape map mounted beside the gallery door.
“Look at that board, Tavi,” Eren said, his voice dropping into a stern, unmoving register. “Look at the red chalk marks. There are forty families from Brewery Lane being moved into the church loft right now. Who’s logging their names? Who’s checking whether widow Os’s children have dry straw? Who’s recording which cellars are flooded?”
“I... I was doing that,” Tavi mumbled, looking down at his chalk-stained fingers.
“And that’s where you stay,” Eren commanded, his grip softening into a firm, paternal warmth. “Running into a dark tunnel to prove you’re brave is easy, lad. Staying at a dry table, keeping an honest record, and making sure nobody’s grandmother is left in a wet cellar—that’s hard. That’s what an engineer does. Take your chalk, Tavi, and don’t leave this board until every name is signed.” The boy swallowed hard, wiped his nose on his sleeve, picked up his yellow chalk. Then he turned back…
