The door to the Captain's office opened, and a young soldier stepped inside. His posture was stiff, and he offered a short, respectful bow.
"Sir, you summoned me?"
Rhan, who stood by the window with his arms folded, turned to face him. "Yes. Raimaz, correct? You were responsible for stocking the storage room this month, am I right?"
Raimaz's face stiffened slightly. "Ye—yes, sir… but I—I didn't do anything. I swear. I have no involvement with what happened."
"No one's accusing you of anything… yet," Rhan said calmly, stepping closer. "We're trying to understand what happened. That explosion could've killed someone."
Raimaz nodded quickly, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.
"Then tell me," Rhan continued, "why was flour in the storage room? We never store it there. We stock wheat grains, grind them when needed, and store flour only in the kitchen area. That's been our process for years."
Raimaz swallowed hard. "Ugh… I mean…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "When I went to the kitchen's back room to pick up the grains… they told me they'd ground three bags more than they needed. I didn't ask why they did it. But since we use flour every day, I thought it was no big deal. I just grabbed the bags and brought them to the storage room. Tossed them in like I do with everything else."
He paused, then added quickly, "I even told the cook that they should use those two bags first. Get them out of the way before any more grinding happened."
Rhan narrowed his eyes slightly. "And you didn't think twice about putting them in a room we don't usually use for flour?"
"I didn't really think about it, sir," Raimaz admitted. "We store food. That's what I do. Whether it's grain or flour or dried roots — if it's food, it ends up there. And it was just three bags. I didn't think they'd cause any problems."
Rhan leaned forward slightly. "What does flour have to do with the explosion, you're wondering?"
Raimaz nodded slowly, confused. "Yes, sir. I mean… it's flour. What could it possibly do?"
Amukelo explained. "Flour is more dangerous than most people realize. If the air in a small space gets filled with flour dust — and then a flame touches it — it can explode."
Raimaz's eyes widened slightly. "Explode? Just from flour?"
Amukelo nodded. "Yes. It's flammable. Not in the way you'd expect — not like oil or pitch. But the particles in the air are like tiny bombs. You stir enough of it into a closed room, even just accidentally, and a single torch can ignite the whole place."
The young soldier looked genuinely shaken now. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then finally said, "But… the bags I moved — they were sealed. Nothing leaked. At least… I didn't see anything fall out."
"Were they tied properly?" Amukelo asked.
"I didn't check closely," Raimaz admitted, voice softer now. "I mean, they weren't torn or open. I just lifted them, put them on the cart, and stacked them in the room. Nothing spilled. Not a single grain. So I figured they were fine."
Rhan stepped in again. "Did you see anyone open them after that?"
Raimaz shook his head. "No. I left it alone after that. I don't monitor it day to day. If anyone opened the flour, it would've been someone from the kitchen."
He hesitated, then added, "They're the only ones who need it. I mean, who else would touch it? If it wasn't me… then it must've been the cook. Or someone working in the kitchen."
There was a long pause after that. Rhan glanced over to the others. No one spoke for a moment.
Finally, Rhan exhaled through his nose and said, "Alright. That's it."
Raimaz blinked. "Sir?"
"You're free to go. You're not under suspicion. But before you leave, bring the cook who gave you those bags. I want to speak with them directly."
Raimaz gave a stiff nod. "Yes, sir. Right away." He bowed again, then quickly turned and left the room.
Once he was gone, Bral leaned back slightly in his chair and said, "He didn't seem like he did anything on purpose."
Pao crossed her arms. "But someone had to open those bags. And someone had to bring a torch into the room."
"It's standard," Rhan said, "we use torches in the storage. No proper lighting in there."
"Exactly," Idin said. "So someone could've set it up — left the flour open, stirred it, waited for the next person to walk in with a torch. But if their goal was the parchment..."
"They failed," Idin finished. "It's still where we left it. Untouched."
"Then maybe it was just a mistake," Bral said. "Or maybe not. Either way, if they really were trying to create a disturbance or cover a theft… they'll have to try again.
The door creaked open again, and a middle-aged man in a grease-stained apron stepped in. He gave a quick, practiced bow.
"Sir? I heard that the flour was the problem?"
Rhan gave him a nod, arms still crossed. "Good, saves us time explaining. Did you use that flour this morning?"
The cook shook his head. "No, sir. We didn't touch it. We still had a few bags already opened from the last batch. Should be enough to last at least another three days — just until the next grinding cycle starts."
Rhan nodded slowly, absorbing that. "So it was sitting there untouched. Alright. Then answer this — why did you grind too much in the first place? We're not talking about one sack. We're talking about several."
The cook scratched his chin. "I don't really know, sir. I don't usually oversee the grinding personally. After dinner, I'm busy washing the pots and pans, and believe me, that takes hours. By the time I'm done, the day's pretty much over."
There was a beat of silence, then the cook added with a shrug, "But if you want to know why too much was ground… maybe you should ask the ones who did it? I assume they'll remember. It was very recently, after all."
Rhan glanced to the others, then gave a short nod. "Fair enough. Let's go."
As they stepped into the kitchen, they found a few cooks already at work. One was chopping vegetables, another kneading dough.
"Hey, did you hear what happened today?" one of the kitchen hands whispered.
"Yeah," another murmured, "some kind of explosion at the outpost. Wonder what happened…"
The low chatter stopped immediately when Rhan entered the room.
One of the cooks stood up straighter, smoothing their apron. "Sir. We weren't expecting you in the kitchens. How can we help you?"
Rhan didn't waste a moment. "Who was responsible for grinding the wheat into flour yesterday?"
There was a tense silence. Then two young men, both in their early twenties, stepped forward reluctantly.
"Ugh… sir," one began, "it was us. Well — us and a few folks from town, but they're not here right now."
Rhan narrowed his eyes. "Why did you grind too much? I think you, more than anyone, should know exactly how much flour we use. Twenty-one sacks per week. That's standard. Even I know that. So why did you grind twenty-four?"
The two men exchanged a glance. One scratched the back of his head and said, "Well… it was the quartermaster's order. He told us they'd need more bread than usual for something. I don't remember the exact details. Some kind of patrol, I think?"
The other cook chimed in, "We didn't really want to do it. You think we like staying here past hours grinding grain? One bag takes around five hours for one man. That's a full shift by itself. We were already behind on prep for today because of that. If you want to know why, ask the quartermaster."
Rhan let out a long sigh, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ahh… I'm sick of this cat and mouse thing. Every time we dig, someone points us to someone else."
There was a beat of silence. The kitchen workers stood still, not daring to speak.
"I still have a pile of paperwork to deal with," Rhan muttered, rubbing his temples. Then, finally, he turned toward the others. "Whatever. Let's go to the quartermaster."