The sweeper steps aside. The guard moves past — close enough that they catch the rust and sweat of his livery — and plants himself before the stem. The hum does not slow. He sets his gauntleted hands against the pale gold surface and leans his weight into it, the way one moves furniture that has no business being where it is. For a moment nothing shifts. Then the mushroom yields — not cracks, not splinters, yields, the way wet earth gives under a heel — and from the gap at its base a long, cool exhalation uncoils across the cobblestones. The crowd exhales too, collectively, watching. The sweeper's hand tightens on the broom handle. The taste in the back of their throat — copper and clover — sharpens without warning. And the guard's hands, still pressed flat against the stem, do not pull away.