The final section of Nym Correl’s fourth volume didn’t read like the journal of an academic or a royal scroll-keeper. It read like a mountain rescue ledger kept by someone who knew she was recording her own quiet funeral.
Kezra turned the stiff, yellowed rag-paper leaves under the warm light of the horn lantern. Beside her, Paxa sat on an empty wooden document box, her chin resting on her palm. She listened with the rapt, sorrowful attention of a physician who has sat by too many deathbeds in drafty upland cabins. Yseld remained standing, her shoulder braced against the square limestone pillar. Her eyes were dark and watchful.
“Once she knew the southwest anchor was shattered,” Kezra said, her voice steady and low, “Nym closed her bonded notebook. She didn’t waste her leftover hours cursing the soldiers or praying for a miracle. She took her ordinary field ledger and organized the escape of Needlehouse.”
For fourteen days in the late autumn chill, Nym had turned the station into a rigging workshop. With the help of the three stonecutters and Master Mason Torin, she had gathered every coil of hemp line, every iron piton, and every leather hoist-sling in the upkeep sheds.
