The wind outside had shifted. Warmer now. The streets still empty.
But I wasn't done yet.
I walked back. All the way home. Past the fig trees, through the grove paths, into the edges of the village. The sun was rising now, gold and too soft for what the day would become.
At home, they hadn't woken yet. Or if they had, they hadn't read the note. The house was still still. I slipped inside, gathered a small stack of parchment, and turned around again without a sound.
Then I went door to door.
Old Mrs. Demas, who Zeke helped carry firewood in the winter. She pressed my hand between hers, kissed my cheek, and wrote a tiny crooked message in dark, heavy ink.
The stablehand, Alin, who Zeke once pulled from under a panicked horse during a storm, wrote a single line: You saved my life. That's not forgotten.
Even the apothecary's boy scribbled something. You taught me how to set a bone. I hope you never have to do it again.
I filled a whole sheet. Then another. Men. Women. Even a few kids who remembered Zeke throwing coins during last year's harvest parade.
Thank you for fixing my roof.
Thank you for carrying me to the clinic when I broke my leg.
Thank you for listening when no one else would.
Dozens of names. Dozens of memories. A life worth something.
When the ink dried, I folded the pages, tied them with twine, and slipped them into my coat—next to the pocket where the draft notice had been.
Then I walked back to town.
Back to the square.
Back to the well where the wagon would soon arrive.
I would hand Zeke the bundle there, when I saw him. Before they understood what I'd done. Before anyone could try and stop it.
Because if this was goodbye, it had to be full. It had to be loud with love.
The square was quiet when I got there. A few vendors setting up stalls. The smell of bread and boiled eggs drifting from the inn. Pigeons flapping from roof to roof. The old well stood in the center like it always had, wrapped in chipped whitewash and old carvings, older than anyone who still drew water from it.
I sat on the stone rim and waited.
I could feel the bundle in my coat. Pressed against my ribs. All those names. All those hands. The proof of a life already given, long before uniforms or orders or guns.
The wind picked up. Carried the sound of footsteps. I looked up.
They were coming down the hill.
Zeke first. His coat slung over one shoulder. Dinah at his side, Thalia on her hip. Mom just behind them, holding a little basket against her stomach like she didn't know what else to do with her hands.
They looked tired. All of them. But they smiled when they saw me.
Zeke lifted a hand in greeting as they reached the square. He looked around, then at me.
"This the surprise?" he said, half-smiling. "You sitting on a well looking like a ghost?"
I stood. Shook my head. "No. Not quite."
He raised a brow.
I reached into my coat. Pulled out the bundle of folded papers, bound in twine. Held it out to him.
"What's this?"
"Just… open it."
He took it slowly. Untied the knot. Unfolded the pages. His eyes scanned the first few lines, then stopped. He looked up at me, then down again. Turned to the next sheet. Then the next.
His mouth parted, just a little. He didn't speak.
Mom stepped closer, curious. Dinah shifted Thalia on her hip to see over Zeke's arm.
"Zeke," I said quietly. "That's from everyone. The people you helped. The ones who never said it, or didn't know how. I went around this morning. They all wrote something."
He didn't move. Just stared at the words.
Thank you for carrying me home.
For fixing the door.
For praying with my husband when he was dying.
For standing up for my son.
For being kind.
His jaw clenched.
"I thought…" I started, then trailed off. "I just wanted you to know."
Zeke lowered the pages slowly. His eyes were wet now, though he tried to blink it away.
Dinah touched his arm.
"You're not going for nothing," I said. "Whatever happens… You already did good. You already mattered."
Zeke looked at me, and before I could say anything else, he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug. Tight. Fierce. Like he thought maybe this would be the last time.
"Thank you," he said, voice thick. "I don't know what else to say."
"You don't have to."
He stepped back, cleared his throat, wiped at his face with the sleeve of his coat. Then looked around, tried to smile.
"I'll be back," he said. "Soon as I can. You'll probably be sick of hearing my voice."
"We'll manage," Mom said, her voice catching.
Thalia reached toward him and he kissed her forehead.
Dinah pressed her lips to his cheek.
The sound of wheels creaked over cobblestone. The wagon rolled into the square—flatbed, benches, a driver in a gray coat with the seal of Dominara on the shoulder. Two soldiers sat already on the back, rifles slung across their laps, eyes tired and unreadable.
Zeke turned back to us one last time. He looked at Mom. At Dinah. At Thalia. Then at me.
He nodded once.
Then he turned and walked toward the police station.
Each step seemed heavier than the last.
Mom reached for my hand without saying anything. I let her hold it.
The air was strange—quiet, but stretched tight, like the world was holding its breath.
I felt Mom's hand in mine, warm and trembling. I squeezed it gently, then let go.
"I'm gonna use the washroom," I said, nodding toward the alley near the back of the inn.
Mom turned to me, distracted, her eyes still on the wagon. "Alright, sweetheart. We're heading to the station. Zeke should be coming out any second."
"I'll catch up."
She nodded, then turned with Dinah and Thalia. They walked slow, like maybe if they moved gently enough, the day wouldn't notice them.
I waited until they'd turned the corner.
Then I walked toward the wagon.
No one stopped me.
The officer stood by the front wheel, clipboard in hand, voice dull with repetition.
"Alin Petros."
A boy stepped forward with a pack and nodded. The officer checked his name off the list.
"Gregor Issan."
Another boy answered. Another mark on the page.
The officer turned the sheet. Licked his thumb. Squinted.
"Son of Joshua Vale?"
I raised my hand.
He glanced up, barely even looked at me. Just marked the page.
"Malco Derren."
The line moved forward. The wagon still stood with its bench empty, wheels creaking in place as soldiers adjusted packs and gear in the back.
I stepped aside again. Quiet. Unnoticed.
My name—his name—was called.
And it was answered.
No alarms. No second glances. Just a mark on a page.
The sun had climbed higher, burning off the last of the morning haze. The square buzzed now—not loud, but tight, like air before a storm. Boots scuffed the cobblestones as names were called and bodies boarded.
"Alright," one of the officers called. "Last call. If your name's on the list, get on. We leave now."
The wagon creaked as a few boys climbed up—Alin, Gregor, the Issan twins. The benches were half full now, rifles stacked and ready. The soldiers in the back barely spoke, their faces set like stone.
I stepped forward. My heart was still, strange and slow. I touched the side of the wagon.
Then I heard my name—my real name.
"Salem!"
I turned.
Zeke was charging across the square.
Mom behind him, shouting. Dinah clutching Thalia, calling out my name like it hurt to say.
Zeke closed the distance fast. Before I could react, his hand caught my shirt and he shoved me back, hard, against the wagon.
"You—" his voice cracked as he grabbed the front of my coat, lifted me by the collar. "What the hell did you do?!"
"I—"
"No!" He shook me once. "No. You don't talk yet."
Mom caught up, her eyes wide with panic. "Salem, no, no, what did you—what did you do?!"
Dinah was crying now, trying to hush Thalia, who'd started wailing in her arms.
Zeke looked down at me like he didn't recognize me.
"You turned in the paper?" he said, breathless. "You gave them the notice? You signed it?"
I nodded. His grip loosened just enough for me to speak.
"I had to—"
"No!" he roared. "This wasn't for you! You're fourteen! You're a boy, Salem, you're just a boy—"
His voice broke, and with it, the strength in his arms. He let go. I slid back to my feet.
Tears spilled from his eyes now, hot and angry and helpless.
"You don't even have to go," he whispered. "You're not old enough. You have a whole life ahead of you. You were supposed to live it."
"I know."
"You think I wanted to leave?" he said. "You think I wanted to go?"
"I know."
"Then why—" His breath caught. "Why would you take this from me?"
"I wasn't taking it from you," I said. "I was giving it back."
He stared at me, mouth open, breath coming in ragged shudders.
"I saw what happens if you go," I said quietly. "I saw what happens to all of us."
Behind him, Mom had collapsed to her knees, sobbing into her hands. Dinah stood frozen, rocking Thalia as the child cried into her shoulder.
"You die," I said. "And then she dies. And then Mom. And then Dinah. And Thalia." I swallowed hard. "And I couldn't let that happen."
Zeke covered his face with his hands, turning away like he couldn't bear to hear any of it. His shoulders shook.
The officer in the wagon called out, "Let's move. Now or never."
The boys ahead of me had already climbed up.
I took a breath. I tried to break free from Zeke, but he caught my arm.
"Don't," he said, voice tight with something too big for words. "Don't do this, Salem."
An officer spotted us from across the square. He started over, boots sharp against the stone. One hand near the baton on his belt.
"Hey!" he barked. "Break it up. We don't have time for fights."
Zeke didn't move.
"I said unhand him."
Zeke looked at the officer, eyes raw. "He took my place," he said. "He's fourteen. This isn't his to carry."
The officer frowned. "What?"
"I was the one conscripted," Zeke went on. "It was supposed to be me."
The officer looked between us. "Who has the paperwork?"
I reached into my coat, slowly, and pulled the folded documents from the inner pocket. My signature. My name. My handwriting. The stamp of the Dominion seal across the top like blood dried into wax.
The officer took it, skimmed it with a quick, practiced eye. "This says 'Son of Joshua Vale.' Salem Vale. Reporting voluntarily."
He looked back at Zeke. "You got matching papers?"
Zeke opened his mouth—then closed it. His hands were fists at his sides.
"No," he said.
The officer gave a tired sigh. "Then we have what we need." He held up the signed draft record. "This is the file now. This is the Vale boy on record."
"But—he's just a kid—"
The officer's voice was flat. "They're all kids."
He turned to me. "Get on the wagon."
"Please," Zeke whispered, his voice breaking. "Please don't do this."
I looked at him—really looked. His eyes were shining, jaw clenched like it was holding the rest of him together.
"I love you," he said. "Salem, I love you."
I swallowed hard. My throat burned.
"All those promises you made me keep," I said, "about staying… about remembering you… about being here for them…"
I placed a hand on his chest. "You keep them. For me."
His breath hitched. "You don't have to do this."
"I do," I said, steady now. "Because I can't lose you. They can't lose you."
His shoulders sagged like I'd knocked the wind out of him.
Then he pulled me in, hugged me so hard it almost hurt. His hand gripped the back of my neck like he thought letting go might break the world.
"I'll keep them," he whispered into my hair. "Every single one. I swear it."
I nodded against him. "I know."
Then I stepped back, climbed up onto the wagon without another word. The bench was splintered and smelled like old oil, but it felt like a throne.
I looked down at them—Zeke, Dinah, Mom, little Thalia in her arms.
I gave them a wave. Just one.
And they watched me go.
The driver called to the horses.
And the wagon rolled forward.