The silence behind the medical wagon stayed for a long moment, heavy with the weight of seven unburied dead on a distant shale plateau.
Paxa Sel didn’t offer comforting words or easy absolution. As a field healer who had spent twenty years setting broken bones and sewing arrow wounds in border skirmishes, she understood the brutal arithmetic of military logistics. Words spoken in the shade of a wagon were cheap. Verifiable evidence was the only currency that carried weight in the ledger of survival.
“A deserter’s tale is easy to tell when the army is fifty leagues behind,” Paxa said. Her voice was calm, level, and entirely devoid of malice. “What record exists of this march outside your own memory, Yseld?”
Yseld didn’t flinch at the question. She reached deep inside the inner lining of her heavy leather pack belt, unpinning a small, stitched pocket hidden behind the bronze buckle. She drew out a thin, folded slip of oiled parchment. She was tied with waxed linen thread and sealed with a dollop of red beeswax that had been cracked by long wear.
She handed the slip to Paxa.
“This is my duplicate route clearance sheet,” Yseld said steadily. “Every Route Warden in the Third Logistics Squadron was needed to keep an exact copy of the march manifest, counter-signed by the transport lieutenant, to account for lost mules and broken casks.”
