What remains vanishes without a trace. Gone means gone, no second ending.
Kael found the record book by accident.
A twist of bad directions led him past matching gray shelters, searching for the supply clerk to question a food count - Ysse spotted yet another mismatch, slighter than the earlier march shortages but there, steady, same pen strokes scrawled in the edges. Midway through the command row, near the heart of camp, he veered off course, squeezed between paired dull tents, stumbled into a tight alley behind them. Underfoot, partly buried beneath a loose canvas flap that slid from its knots, lay a bound volume, stitched in worn leather.
Almost missed it entirely.
He stopped.
It was him who grabbed it.
A battered notebook lay open on the table - meant for tracking soldiers, where they served, who fell, who earned praise. Issued to each unit without exception. On its front, a mark caught his eye: first clash of the eastern coalition troops. He exhaled slowly. This document listed every loss from the fight he walked away from.
He opened it.
Down the page they ran - row after row, tidy script, unit marks tucked next to every label. His eyes moved across the Low Quarter entries. Spotted soldiers he knew. Saw one who'd dropped into the grass when arrows first flew.
Later, a page turned up close to the end.
A bit farther down, hand changed mid-thought. No title up top. Not listing who died. Just names, then alongside each - only one word where details should go. Meaning unclear. Some private sort of mark instead. Each label unique. Scratched in quick, like notes meant for only one pair of eyes.
That symbol meant nothing to him.
One name stood out to him.
His own.
Stillness held him in the tight space between canvas walls. Open in his palms, the record book showed his name - written where it did not belong. Beside it sat a word he could make no sense of. The kind of book meant to stay hidden from men in uniform.
Out of habit, his hand moved to the weapon behind him. The shape came clear under his touch - round mark, straight cut, small dent.
It started long ago, that name on paper. Not just now, but back when peace still held. Way earlier than the drills in the mud. Years ahead of pens scratching names near the river markets.
A voice once spoke his name aloud. It lingered, uninvited, in the quiet air.
The book snapped shut. Into his coat it went, tucked away without hurry. Out he moved through the narrow way, steps even, never breaking into a run, eyes forward, not turning toward the tents behind. Ysse came to mind first - she'd make sense of figures quick. Then Orren - he'd know how maps work, what they ask.
Long was the list of things still unclear to him. Now it stretched further than before.
For once, there was an object resting in his palms.