The Last Light (The Wandering Inn, #5)

by Pirateaba

Pawn found a spot along the wall. It didn’t stand out from any other spot. He dipped a finger into the bright green paint. And then he pressed it against the wall. Pawn slowly drew on the wall of the barracks. The other Soldiers watched as Pawn traced on the hard-packed dirt with green paint. He drew a star. The star that had been on the Soldier’s chest. It was small. It was green. It was a tiny thing in the vast barracks. But it was there. Painted on the wall, marked. A memory. So long as no one damaged the paint, no one destroyed the wall, it would remain. And if they did? If an earthquake happened, or Klbkch told him to get rid of it? Pawn would repaint the star elsewhere. Because he remembered. He remembered that star, and he would for the rest of his life. And so did the others. Pawn turned as a Soldier moved. The Soldier found a jar of purple paint. Slowly, carefully, taking all the time in the world, he drew purple slashes down the wall.

Oh no purple slashes died?