The Empty Cowl

Darin first saw the figure at dusk—standing above the ridge trail, just beyond the timberline, unmoving.

It wasn't the height that caught his attention, or the silhouette—slight, thin-armed, cloaked in common wool. It was the stillness.

Soldiers fidget. Officers lean on something. Scribes shift scrolls or scratch themselves raw.

This one—stood as if carved.

The next morning, it was gone.

Then, it reappeared.

Same place. Same posture.

A hood. No sigil. No color. Just wool—the kind issued to noncombatants.

"Who is that?" Darin asked.

Raive didn't look up from sharpening his belt buckle.

"No one wears a hood like that unless they mean to be noticed."

Two days passed. The hooded figure didn't come close. Didn't speak. Didn't carry food.Didn't write. Didn't ask.Just stood.

Darin changed his patrol routes.

On the third day, it moved.

Not far—just twenty paces closer to the cooking line.

When Darin walked to the quartermaster tent, it was there again—ten paces from the supply stack.

When he walked to the latrine trench?

There again.

It never spoke.

Until it did.

Late evening. Frost forming at the tent-edges. Darin alone at the edge of camp, watching the bonefires fade.

The figure stepped behind him. Not a sound—only the wool rustling like snowmelt.

A voice: "They listen to you when you don't speak."

Darin didn't turn. "Who are you?"

"Someone who counts men by their silences."

The figure stepped beside him. The hood revealed no face—just shadow, deeper than firelight should allow.

"The lords are noticing. But not loudly."

"I didn't ask them to."

"You didn't have to." A pause. "How many men turn when you rise from sleep?"

"I don't count them."

"Someone does."

The figure handed him something.

A scroll?

No—just a scrap of cloth, frayed at the edge.

Red, like a trial sash—but burned. Curled black where it once held ink.

Darin held it.

"What is this?"

"A reminder. You're not the only one who bleeds memory."

Then, the figure was gone.

Not walked—gone.

Darin stood there, alone.

No wind. Just frost. And firelight.

And a scrap of red, smoking in his hand.

Later that night, Harl returned from patrol, face pale.

"Tell me I'm mad," Harl muttered, "but I saw someone on the ridge."

"Wool cloak?"

"No. It was black this time."