A Name for the Ledger

It was the cold that woke him.

Not the screaming. Not the bootsteps. Not the mule bucking behind the latrines.

Just the cold.

Darin sat up, cloak stiff with frost, and realized it wasn't morning. The camp torches still burned low, and Raive's tent flap had just opened.

"Up," Raive growled.

Darin obeyed.

The inside of the quartertent was warmer, but only by inches. Two scribes hunched near a table, ink frozen into its own crust along the inkwell edges. One held a candle near the page as if begging the ink to move.

Raive stood beside the camp's ledger scroll. Wide as a boar's hide. Heavy with seals.

He didn't look at Darin.

"Say your name," he said.

"You know it."

"Say it."

"…Darin."

"Again."

"Darin. Just Darin."

Raive turned to the younger scribe. "Mark this entry. Shield-rank, lowfile, no house claim. Noted for duel observation, ration conduct, and forward presence. Camp Ridge of Thirel, Frost Night Sixteen."

The scribe blinked. "But sir, no recognition writ—"

"I'm not giving him a writ," Raive said flatly. "Just putting the name where it belongs."

The older scribe nodded and reached for the ink. "Still need a sigil, even for a blank."

Raive looked at Darin. "Choose something."

"…What?"

"A mark. Your name's too plain. Pick a sign. Doesn't matter what it is—could be a burned line, a sun, a dead fox. You'll need it on dispatches."

Darin hesitated.

His fingers grazed the inside of his coat—where the old blade was still bound in cloth.

"Draw a broken wheel," he said.

The old scribe raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

The quill moved. Scratch by scratch. Curve. Notch. Notch. Notch.

It was done.

Darin of the Broken Wheel was now inked into a king's war.

When he stepped back out into the frost, the night no longer felt the same.

The same men would shout. The same nobles would sneer. The same camp would stink of unwashed linen and boiled bone.

But now—he could die remembered.