Logistics was not meant to be seen.
It was ledgers and routes, weights and counts—decisions made far from banners and blood. Men passed through it briefly, learned its shape, then moved on.
He was placed there without comment.
His work was simple. Carry records. Stand where told. Observe movement. Mark what was missing and what arrived late. He was not asked for opinion. He was not expected to have one.
That suited him.
The depot sat near the river, just inside the walls. Stone warehouses lined the bank, their lower courses darkened by years of damp. Barges moved slowly past, poles scraping softly against the current.
The ground there was old.
He noticed that on the second day.
Not because it felt wrong—only because it felt tired. Stone worn smooth by use. Earth pressed flat by centuries of weight.
He did not dwell on it.
On the third day, a shipment failed to arrive.
Nothing critical. Spare axles. Rope. Pitch. The clerk frowned at the empty space in the ledger and made a note in the margin.
"They'll be late," he said. "River's been slow."
No one argued.
An hour later, a barge grounded just upstream of the depot.
Not hard. Not dramatic. Just enough for the current to pin it awkwardly against the bank. The crew worked poles free, cursing under their breath. The hull scraped stone where it should not have.
They freed it eventually.
By then, the tide had shifted.
The shipment was marked for the next day.
That evening, as ledgers were closed and lamps lit, a crack appeared in the wall of the nearest warehouse.
Not wide. Barely visible. A thin line running upward from the base through old stone.
Someone noticed and marked it with chalk.
"Settling," the foreman said. "It happens."
The chalk was gone by morning.
The crack was not.
On the fourth day, the river rose.
Not in flood. Not suddenly. Just enough to lap higher against the stones than it had the day before.
Men moved supplies away from the lowest shelves. Routine. Sensible.
As they worked, a section of the warehouse floor sagged.
No collapse. No injury. Just a low groan and a shallow dip that sent men stepping back without being told.
Silence followed.
The foreman knelt and pressed his hand flat against the stone.
It felt solid.
He stood. "Mark it. We'll shore it later."
They did.
Later never came.
At dusk, he stood at the edge of the depot and watched the river slide past stone that had held for generations.
The ache did not come.
That unsettled him more than if it had.
He shifted his weight.
Nothing answered.
Behind him, a clerk muttered, "This place was built wrong."
"No," another replied. "It's just old."
He did not correct them.
He did not know how.
That night, as guards walked the walls and lamps guttered low, part of the warehouse foundation gave way.
Not all at once.
Just enough.
Enough that by morning, half the depot would be closed. Routes redirected. Supplies delayed across the garrison.
Enough that questions would be asked.
Not yet the right ones.