On the fifth day of entering Redrock Gorge,

  we lost the lieutenant.

  There were no signs.

  No battle.

  She’d led a team of three to scout ahead—route clear, timetable precise.

  They were due back before dusk.

  She didn’t return.

  That night, it snowed.

  By morning, all tracks were buried.

  We dispatched a team to follow the path.

  They returned empty-handed.

  The men looked shaken,

  as if afraid they’d vanish next.

  I listened to the report and said only one thing:

  “She moved without authorization.”

  No one objected.

  It was the first time the lieutenant had disobeyed a tactical order.

  No request.

  No note.

  No intel returned.

  She simply vanished.

  I knew she wasn’t weak-willed.

  But she was young—

  Too eager to prove her strength.

  People like that don’t always betray.

  But if anyone’s going to stray first—it’s usually them.

  I ordered her tent cleared.

  All records handed to the alchemist.

  Unlogged materials destroyed.

  The men complied quickly.

  No questions.

  I stood before her now-empty tent.

  No farewell.

  No blood.

  No supplies taken.

  It was as if she had been lifted away.

  Or as if she’d peeled herself off deliberately.

  A betrayal without malice.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Without residue.

  Like a page torn from a book—

  light, silent, unrecoverable.

  There can be no gaps.

  Her position was filled within the day.

  A junior officer took over.

  Sharper tone, quicker step.

  The formations tightened.

  I overheard someone whisper,

  “Maybe this is better.”

  I didn’t intervene.

  I only looked at outcomes.

  We don’t mourn personnel shifts.

  Human society is about succession, order, continuity.

  A vacancy is a node, not an end.

  The Fiendkins will never understand this.

  They cling to blood, whispers, emotion.

  They worship individuals—not systems.

  Every retreat they make is laced with emotion.

  They fear loneliness.

  They fear command.

  They fear an army like ours—that never turns around.

  And we—because we never turn around—do not shatter.

  The mess-girl disappeared three days later.

  She wasn’t a frontliner—

  Just worked distribution and water purification.

  Last seen heading to the south stream with a bucket.

  No battle that day.

  No confusion.

  No attack.

  But she didn’t return.

  I ordered the creek downstream searched for two miles—no traces.

  Camp records showed no departure filed.

  No signs of violence.

  Final report: “Cause of disappearance unknown. Moderate likelihood of voluntary action.”

  I wrote two words on the report:

  “Disregard it.”

  She came voluntarily.

  She wasn’t officially enlisted.

  She was never in the chain of command.

  She once said,

  “I came to cook for those who win.”

  Now she was gone.

  I would not mark a monument.

  Would not send a retrieval team.

  She was not on a mission.

  Not a resource.

  Not a command.

  I wrote one sentence in my journal:

  “If a person cannot remain in the formation—

  then perhaps they never belonged to it.”

  That’s reason enough.

  For me.