The Cart That Burned

It happened before dawn.

A burst of orange against the pre-sun frost.

One wagon, timbered, canvas-covered, packed with quartered rations and stripped bolts of cloth, lit from beneath and gone in two minutes.

Darin smelled it first.

Not smoke — pitch.

Not bonfire — sabotage.

By the time he reached the edge of the trench wall, the men were already crowding along the ridge. Half of them with spears, the other half with theories.

None of them said what Darin was already thinking.

"It wasn't ours," Raive said quietly.

"No," Darin replied. "But it will be."

By noon, the notices had gone up.

Hand-penned, but inked with courtbrush precision. Tacked to polearms and pike handles across the trench loop.

"Malfeasance suspected. Local units requested for inquiry. Misappropriated flame suspected to originate near trench black."

Near.

Not "from."

But close enough.

Sir Calreth DuVaul arrived that evening.

He didn't ride a horse. He walked, with two retainers behind, both cloaked and silent. He wore lacquered shoulder guards — a ceremonial affectation in mud country — and a yellow-plumed gorget, clean as court silver.

He was young, taller than Darin, with a brow like polished marble and the voice of someone who'd never had to shout.

He walked into the Black Ditch like he owned it.

"I presume I speak to your… lead man?" DuVaul asked.

Darin didn't rise from the stone slab.

"You do."

DuVaul tilted his head.

"My name is Sir Calreth DuVaul. Eighth son of the Baron-Recorder of Lansehall. Recently assigned to the trenchline to my north, about thirty cords from here. My supply cart burned this morning."

Raive shifted at Darin's side.

"We saw."

DuVaul nodded.

"Indeed. Strange timing, no? Firewood shortage, new promotions, and then—pardon—misplaced materials. I'm sure you understand the… tension."

Darin leaned forward.

"We didn't burn it."

"I didn't say you did."

"Then why are you here?"

DuVaul smiled.

"To see what sort of men live in this ditch."

He stepped closer.

"Black cloth is easy to blame, I find. It's hard to tell who wears it for survival… and who wears it for rebellion."

Raive muttered something that sounded like "fop."

Darin stood.

"I don't wear black," he said plainly. "I wear wool."

DuVaul smiled again, thinner now.

"And do you command this wool?"

"No," Darin said. "But they listen when I speak."

DuVaul circled him once, slow, scanning boots, belt, shoulders. Then, lightly:

"I've been told you had a visitor. A quiet one. With ink on his sleeves."

Darin said nothing.

DuVaul shrugged.

"My mistake. Must've been another trench."

Without waiting for dismissal, DuVaul turned and strode back toward the line. As he passed Raive, he dropped a slip of parchment in the mud.

Raive bent, retrieved it, and handed it to Darin.

Five words.

The second cart arrives tomorrow.

That night, Darin stood at the southern ridge with Jorah, watching the wind drag ash across the slush.

"They're trying to provoke," Jorah said.

"No," Darin replied. "They're trying to measure."

"Measure what?"

Darin's jaw tightened.

"How fast I break when blamed."

He turned to Raive.

"Double the watch."

Raive nodded.

"And the second cart?"

Darin looked out at the dark horizon.

"We don't touch it. We don't talk to it. If it burns, we dig trenches until the mud swallows us. If it doesn't…"

He paused.

"We find out which of DuVaul's men carries pitch."

The next cart did not burn.

But when it arrived, it parked thirty feet closer to the Black Ditch than the last one.

And it came with a scribe, not a driver.

Darin did not speak to the scribe.

He didn't even walk out.

He sent Raive with a shovel, a stew bowl, and no questions.

The scribe left with nothing to record.

That night, Jorah lit a fire using dung and pine only. Slowly. Painfully.

He looked up at Darin and asked, "Is this how war is won now?"

Darin stirred the pot.

"No," he said. "It's how wars are survived."

And somewhere up-chain, behind a curtain and a ledger, a record was made:

Ditch black: stable. Provoked. Did not rise.— Recorded by Order of Triquetra, under Bannerwatch

Which meant they would have to try something new.