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“You will not feel your fingers without them.”

“I only need them for an hour.”

“That is not how fingers work.”

The latch refuses to move. I shift my grip and press harder. The bar slips, scraping across my calloused palm without breaking the skin.

Bran reaches toward it.

“I have it.”

“You are kneeling on ice.”

“So are you.”

“I have thicker knees.”

“Your knees are not the part I question.”

I lean against the pry bar. The latch lifts with a brittle crack, scattering frost across my skirt.

“One,” I say.

Bran mutters about stubborn healers and works on the opposite side.

The people waiting remain close enough to hear us. No one leaves. A household can survive without comfort, privacy, or enough food to stop hunger. It cannot survive without water.

We loosen the remaining latches and lift the cover together.

The mechanism beneath is simple. A vertical rod runs from the handle into the lifting arm. Leather seals around the pipe draw water upward. The swollen housing has pushed the iron guide out of alignment. When someone forced the frozen handle, the lifting arm twisted and split the support bearing its weight.

Bran examines the damage. “We need the smith.”

“The smith is repairing a stronghold wagon.”

“He will return tonight.”

“The town needs water now.”

“I know.”

I touch the leather seal. It is stiff with ice but not torn. If it had split, no repair we can make here would restore enough pressure to raise the water.

“We can brace the support,” I say.

“With what?”

I look toward his handcart.

He follows my gaze. “That tiphe belongs to the clinic.”

“The clinic requires water too.”

“You argued over every piece two days ago.”

“I reserve the right to contradict myself during emergencies.”

He selects a straight log from the cart. The wood is thicker than my wrist and dry enough to resist splitting. Sacrificing it will shorten the clinic’s fuel supply, but keeping it will accomplish nothing if every vessel in Lowtown remains empty.