Dawn on Day 42 broke cold and dry across the Saltglass quarry camp.
At the command wagon’s fold-down frame stand table, Kezra Venn sat on a three-legged ash stool with her bonded survey notebook laid open before her. The chill from the salt flats seeped through her wool gloves. But she didn’t blow on her fingers or reach for the steaming tea Paxa had set beside her elbow. Her gaze was locked onto Page 006 and Page 007. There, the active index of her class lived in eight ruled boxes.
Eight live addresses. The total, unbending ceiling of her capacity.
Across the table, Fellis Dain leaned his good forearm against the pine boards. He watched her pencil hover over the paper. Behind them, Paxa Sel stood with her arms folded across her heavy canvas apron, her sharp eyes studying the tension in Kezra’s shoulders.
“A map maker who can’t let go of old ground is like a mule driver who refuses to untether an empty cart,” Paxa said quietly. Her voice carried the dry, practical power of a field medic. “You have eight slots, Kezra. You need two open slots for the Reach swap—one for the broken road on the cliff, and one for the cut quarry bench. If you don’t clear the clutter now, you’ll have zero buffer for the homeward march through the pass.”
