THE ASHES OF A FALLEN KING

THE MISSING PIECE

The report was dated six months before the attack, and Marcus stared at the date long enough for the faint scratching of the clerk's quill behind him to become irritating. He checked the entry again, then pushed the document across the desk while the uneasy silence between them stretched across the records hall.

"When did the eastern convoy attack happen?" Marcus asked.

"Six months after this report was filed," the clerk replied, leaning over the page with a puzzled frown.

Marcus tapped the date with one finger. "Then explain this."

The clerk's eyes moved between the date and the report, and the confidence drained from his face as he slowly shook his head.

"I cannot explain it, Commander."

"Try harder."

"I have never seen this entry before."

Marcus watched him carefully, but the clerk's trembling fingers suggested that whatever he was hiding, he was not comfortable hiding it. Marcus picked up the report again and ran his thumb along its worn edge before looking back at the man.

"Who filed this?"

The clerk glanced at the bottom of the page. "The Quartermaster's Office."

"Whose authorization?"

The clerk hesitated before answering.

"Silas Rook."

Marcus's jaw tightened at the name. He folded the report and slipped it beneath his coat, then turned toward the shelves lining the far wall as the clerk watched him with growing unease.

"Where are the other convoy records?"

"There should be three more," the clerk said.

"There are only two."

The clerk swallowed. "I will check the lower archive."

Marcus followed him, his boots disturbing the thin layer of dust covering the floor while pale sunlight slipped through the narrow windows and fell across shelves that seemed to stretch endlessly into the darkness. The records hall was still quiet, but Marcus had learned that quiet places often concealed more than noisy ones.

The clerk pulled out one ledger, then another, while Marcus searched through the reference numbers. One entry led to another, then another, until the trail finally moved several years backward and ended at an old logistics register with a cracked leather spine.

Marcus opened it and found the eastern convoy route listed beneath Silas Rook's authorization. He traced the entry with his finger until something caught his attention, and his hand stopped when he saw a small symbol stamped beside the authorization.

Three lines surrounding a hollow centre.

The Black Mark.

Marcus had seen the symbol before, first on the black courier seal, then on the token recovered from the burned warehouse, and finally on the ring worn by Severin Vale when Marcus stood before the execution block. What disturbed him was not seeing the mark again, but finding it attached to an event he had never known was connected to the conspiracy in his first life.

Marcus turned the page and found another reference number leading to a restricted archive at the back of the hall. He looked at the clerk and held out his hand.

"Open it."

The clerk's face tightened. "That section requires the records master's authorization."

Marcus held his gaze. "You have ten seconds to decide whether that requirement matters more than my order."

The clerk stared at him for a moment before reaching for the key, and the lock finally clicked open with a sound that seemed unusually loud in the silent hall.

Inside were older military files covered in dust, some tied with faded cord and others stacked carelessly against the walls. Marcus stepped inside and began searching through the records while the clerk remained near the doorway, clearly unwilling to enter.

"What exactly are you looking for, Commander?" the clerk asked.

"Something someone tried to hide."

The clerk gave a nervous laugh. "That describes half the archive."

"Then you should be useful."

Marcus continued searching until he found the reference number and pulled out a thin folder. The first page contained troop movements, the second listed supply routes, and the third made him stop because it was a preliminary report concerning the eastern convoy.

Marcus read the first line, then the second, and his expression hardened when he saw the convoy's exact route, the number of soldiers, Captain Elias Vane's name, and the estimated time of arrival.

Six months before the attack.

Marcus slowly lowered the page while the clerk stepped closer, unable to hide his curiosity.

"Commander?"

Marcus held up the document. "Read it."

The clerk took the page with both hands, and his eyes widened when he reached the date.

"That is impossible."

"It happened."

"But how could someone know the route six months before the convoy left?"

Marcus looked at the black symbol stamped at the bottom of the page.

"Someone knew."

The clerk looked at the mark and immediately released the document. "Where did you get that?"

Marcus picked it up from the floor and studied him. "You recognize it."

"I have seen it before."

"Where?"

The clerk shook his head. "I do not want trouble."

Marcus stepped closer. "Neither do I, but trouble has already found me."

The clerk looked toward the corridor before lowering his voice. "I was told never to ask about that mark."

"By whom?"

"I do not know."

Marcus studied him for another moment. "You are lying."

"I am not."

"Then you are frightened."

The clerk said nothing, and Marcus returned his attention to the files. The Black Mark had not appeared because of the warehouse fire, and it had not appeared because Marcus had changed the convoy's fate. It had already been there, hidden inside a military record long before he understood what he was looking at.

He reached for another file and froze when he saw the name written across its cover.

Voss, Marcus.

For several seconds, Marcus did not move, and even the clerk seemed to understand that something had changed.

"Commander, what is it?" the clerk asked.

Marcus opened the file and stared at the date.

Three years before his first command.

His eyes moved down the page until they reached a single line beneath his name.

Subject under observation.

Marcus's fingers tightened around the paper as the room seemed to narrow around him. Three years before he became a commander, someone had already been keeping records on him, and whoever had created the file had considered him important enough to watch.

He turned the page.

There was nothing else.

No explanation.

No signature.

Only another reference number.

Marcus closed the file and placed it beneath his coat.

"Where did you find that?" the clerk asked.

"It was waiting for me."

The clerk's face paled, but before he could say anything else, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Both men turned toward the doorway as the measured steps approached, stopped outside, and left the room in silence.

Marcus reached for his sword while the clerk backed toward the archive wall. After several seconds, Marcus moved toward the doorway and looked into the corridor, but there was no one there.

When he returned, the clerk was staring at the shelf behind him. "There is another register," the clerk whispered.

Marcus followed his gaze as the clerk pulled out a thin book and opened it to the final page. One entry had been added recently, and the fresh ink stood out against the faded writing around it.

Eastern Convoy: Altered.

Beneath it was a second line.

Subject remains active.

Marcus touched the ink with one finger and felt his expression harden. Someone had noticed the convoy, someone had noticed him, and whoever had written those words knew that the future had changed.

"Forget you saw this," Marcus said.

The clerk nodded quickly.

Marcus stepped out of the archive and walked through the silent records hall, keeping one hand beneath his coat where the file containing his name rested against his ribs. He had entered the room looking for proof that the Black Mark was connected to the convoy, but he had found something far more dangerous: someone had known about the convoy before it happened, someone had known about Marcus before he became a commander, and now someone knew that he was changing the future.

Marcus reached the end of the corridor and stopped, listening to the silence behind him before continuing toward the exit. For twenty years, he had believed his death was the beginning of the mystery, but the evidence in his coat told him otherwise.

His death had only been the end.

The beginning had happened long before he ever knew he was part of the game.