After we perished, the fighting carried on. Just drifted away without looking back.
Close now, they neared the edge.Down the hall they went, just how Orren said it would be - tight spaces, clear path, cutting east beside the supply route straight to the edge where maps forgot to block things off since nobody ever came up from here. Fast steps, backs bent, slipping past cover while chaos rang out behind them, letting gunfire drown their movement, each stride building space between danger and breath, moving like those who know what happens if feet slow down.
Out three hours already, they spotted the border crossing on Orren's map - just a couple of hours' walk away - when shells started hitting nearby.
It wasn't on purpose - those men weren't marked, nobody followed them, the officers didn't even notice four troops from the east had stepped back from combat. Fire support aimed at a shift along the left edge, two hundred feet ahead of where they stood, rounds dropping in sequence until one veered off track.
Afterward, Kael stayed unaware of what happened next.
Back he drifted, bit by bit, like thoughts stitching together after a long gap - noise at first, then feeling, then meaning creeping in. On the dirt he lay. A sharp hum filled his ears, wiping out every other sound. Above him stretched the sky. Grey it stayed, just as it had been for weeks, blank, offering nothing.
His fingers shifted, then followed through. The second one tried, stumbled at first, yet still went along.
His gaze shifted sideways.
There sat Orren, crouched at his side, lips forming silent phrases just out of reach. Past Orren, Bren stayed on his feet, steady, a red line trailing from a gash near his brow, gaze sharp. Numbers slipped through his fingers, one by one.
Ysse.
Up went his head.
Out near a tree, Ysse sat ten feet off, eyes wide. A hand pressed hard into her side. Her face stayed still, too still, holding back what the gesture meant. Quiet tension filled the space where pain might have spoken.
He got up.
On stiff legs he moved anyway, even though every muscle argued against it. Toward her he went, step by uneven step. From four weeks beside the medical tent - watching gestures that soothed, ones that made things worse - he'd gathered small truths. Her gaze met his, sharp and clear, no fog in those eyes. Then came her voice, shaped quiet on purpose, meant for ears like his
"Still functional."
"Yes," he said.
"How far is the junction?"
"Two hours."
"Then we're going."
From somewhere far off, past the noise inside his head, fighting still moved like slow machinery. Eastward troops stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge, becoming barriers without consent. Above tents where orders flew, cloth banners cracked in short bursts. Her image showed up on crates stacked near the rear. Folded sheets lay quiet in sleeves - maps meant to take over once today's ground stopped counting.
Fine weather greeted the troops that morning. Plans had been followed without change. Officers nodded at their maps. Every movement matched the timetable. Success seemed built into the schedule.
Out there, beyond the group of four, it kept going. Someone might have logged them as casualties inside a spreadsheet somewhere - or maybe just left them off entirely, forgotten mid-step, another blip in the difference between what's claimed and what actually happened. Come evening, no file will show where they ended up. The following day, their spots along the edge may get taken by others or stay empty; movement pushes forward either way.
After they vanished, fighting still went on.
Just erased those memories, like a blink wiping dust off glass.
Kael watched the three who stayed - Orren calm on his feet, Bren bruised but upright, Ysse limping forward - and sensed the flame inside, fainter now yet somehow sharper, so he faced east, aimed at the border crossroads and whatever waited past it.
Inside his hands sat the history logs.
There was a map in his hands.
A weight sat inside him, built up week after week. Four full cycles of quiet honesty packed tight, refusing to break apart.
Names stayed with him. His team's, those lost without count, Sorin's too. Not touched by what came after. Never will be.
Step by step, he moved forward. Each movement followed the last without pause. One foot landed ahead of the previous. Forward motion came slowly. Progress showed in small shifts. His pace stayed steady throughout.
He walked east.
Back there, the spear rested against him, its surface marked by a sign he couldn't understand. The marking stayed put through time, just like the weapon had never left that spot. Meaning slipped away each time he tried to grasp it.
Yet he remained present.
He meant to get answers.