Ash-Ring Census

Darin first heard the name two days before it mattered. Just a whisper in the camp lines, passed between dice throws and cooking-pit cursing.

"Ash-ring," someone had muttered, pointing with a greasy knuckle at the southern quarter. "Field dogs eat twice if their name's there."

Darin hadn't thought much of it. Slang came and went. But when Raive brought back the wax scraps, he paid attention.

"They're relisting the ledgers," Raive said, placing the crumpled strips on Darin's fire-warmed plank. "Not by barracks. By influence."

Darin didn't move. "Meaning?"

"Meaning: those who follow you get food faster."

He studied the wax, still damp. It wasn't a full scroll — just scraps. That meant someone in supply was reusing old tallies, melting old names. Burning them, maybe. Ash-ring. He exhaled through his nose.

"Who's doing it?"

"Not the scribes," Raive said. "Worse."

The next morning, Darin walked the long track past the supply tent — not into it, but along its ditch wall, where the burned scrap barrels sat.

He waited.

After the third rotation bell, the field tax-writer emerged: Doman, liver-spotted, always humming through his nose like a bee stuck in brine.

"Quartermaster Doman," Darin said evenly, stepping into view.

The old man flinched, hid his scroll like a guilty monk. "Sergeant. No, not even that — what do they call you now? 'Blackshoes'?"

"Only behind me," Darin said.

Doman sniffed. "I heard you had a list."

"I heard you had mine," Darin replied.

Doman scowled. "There's rules, you know."

"I know who eats and who doesn't."

"And you think you decide that now?"

"I think I notice it," Darin said, calm as snowfall. "Which is more than can be said for the third trench line. Or the wounded."

"They're on my roll."

"Then your roll is lying."

The old man waved a hand. "Listen here, I'm not your enemy. I'm just a man with ink stains."

"And an eraser."

That was the thing about wartime administration. It wasn't the sword that bled you dry. It was ink. And Darin had learned enough about scribes to know this: those who erase know they're gods.

Later that night, the rumor hit him like a thrown stone.

Not to his face — to Raive's.

"You're marked," Raive said bluntly, dropping a folded linen token on the plank floor. It was gray. Char-smeared. A black ash ring seared in the middle.

Darin picked it up.

"This supposed to be warning?"

"Invitation."

"Who's inviting me?"

Raive hesitated. "Call themselves 'The Ledger Keepers.' They started in the southern quarter — old scouts, cooks, supply handlers. Call it justice."

"And I'm on their list?"

"No. You're off it. For now."

Darin folded the linen. Not burned it. Not hidden it. Just kept it visible — on the edge of his belt sash. Let the firelight find it, and leave the message where it would be seen: I know what you're doing. I'm not afraid of it.

Two days later, a junior ration-runner approached camp with two sacks missing. Claimed fog, claimed confusion.

Except fog don't steal, and confusion don't tie knots like that.

By the end of the week, twenty-three men under Darin's name had been served half-rations. Three had been reassigned without transfer notice.

It was quiet sabotage.

Ledgers had become a weapon.

So Darin made one of his own.

That night, he gathered the names — not by rank, but by fireline, by who shared wood, who shared boots, who pulled guard even when their name wasn't on the board. He listed not soldiers, but reliable hands. Eighty-three names.

He called them Ashlight.

Not a company. Not a banner.

Just a roster the ink couldn't erase.

Then, he did the unthinkable.

He sent a copy to Quartermaster Doman.

No note. No threat.

Just names.

In ink.

One line below:"Let's both remember who starved and who didn't."

The next ration cycle? No delays. No gaps.

But a new name appeared next to Darin's in the outer logs:

"Field Liaison: Provisional"

No rank. No seal. Just a phrase.

And it wasn't given by a noble.

It was left unsigned.

Still, everyone saw it.

And when Darin stood at the ration line that night — arms crossed, boots ash-wet, face windburned — he was handed the bag first.

He didn't eat first. He passed it down the line.

But the motion was noted.

By morning, two new figures waited at the outer tents. Not soldiers. Not scouts.

Scribes. Real ones. With wax badges and clean hands.

Watching.

Counting.

Marking.