Eighty-three hours remained on the Last Guest’s clock when the six soldiers of Captain Arda Dorn’s escort filed under the dripping canvas of the river aid station.
Up in the Hall of Witness, Noll Vey stood beside the stone balustrade of the south gallery, his consciousness anchored into the boundary token hidden beneath Fen’s medicine shelf. Through the copper link, every rasp of iron armor, every wet squelch of mud on timber, and the bitter reek of damp wool came across the valley with cold precision.
The six soldiers stood in a tight line near the tent entrance, water running in rivulets from the brims of their helmets onto their leather chest guards.
On the table in front of them lay Dorn’s sheathed sword, her unbuckled belt with its heavy brass buckle, and the cracked vellum of her commission.
Dorn stood behind the scrubbed pine board in her grey wool tunic. Without the weight of her officer’s steel at her side, she seemed taller, the line of her shoulders spare and unyielding against the grey canvas walls.
“You saw the placard posted at the battery line,” Dorn said, her voice quiet. “Major Brek has placed my name on the casualty finding for Drift Nine. The March Ledger claims my delay crushed Private Hald, Corporal Vess, and Private Toren. If you march back to camp under my standard, you march under an officer accused of treasonous negligence.”
