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Chapter 112 – Fractures

Author: Quinn Montclair
last update Last Updated: 2025-09-01 18:07:45

Mara

The hard work after a war isn’t the burying. It’s the counting.

I spend the morning with ledgers and discrepancies. Salt, grain, lamp oil, wolfsbane resin bricks, arrow shafts, dried meat, clean bandage rolls, spare bowstrings, iron nails. Every line should marry the next. Today they sleep in different beds.

“Two crates of resin from the south cache,” Orrin says, tapping a quill at a neat column. “Transferred after the battle. Logged here.”

The ink says yes. My nose says no. All I smell in the south shed is tallow, rawhide and pine-sap. None of the sharp-bitter sting resin leaves in the back of the throat that makes even the strongest wolves blink away tears.

“Show me,” I say.

Orrin’s been with me five winters. He’s square-shouldered, careful-handed, and, until this week, reliable.

Inside the south shed, crates are stacked shoulder-high, lids chalked with the tidy block letters of quartermasters. I pry one open with my knife. Arrowheads nested in straw. The next, smoked venison.
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