- Chapter 070 -

  Just A Window

  The Oracle of Death did not float. He did not glide. He walked with the brisk, efficient stride of a man who had a 2:00 PM meeting and intended to be on time.

  "Petra," the Warden said, his voice a smooth baritone with a distinct, polished American accent. It was the voice of a top-level manager, the kind who fired people over a lunch they paid for. "Good to see the transition was handled efficiently. Eric was... enthusiastic, but messy."

  He turned his gaze to Mark. It was like being looked at by a spreadsheet that had become sentient and found a discrepancy.

  "And you must be Mark Shilling," the Warden said, extending a hand. The cuff of his charcoal shirt was pristine, the cufflinks simple silver skulls. "I am the Final Warden. The Keeper of the Threshold. The Auditor of the End."

  Mark took the hand. It was cool, dry, and firm. A handshake that closed deals. He didn't feel fear. He felt a strange, jarring sense of familiarity. This wasn't a god. This was a stakeholder.

  "Mark Shilling," he replied, meeting the Warden's gaze. "Civic Consultant. Unaligned."

  Petra watched them, her eyes narrowing slightly. She seemed to be waiting for Mark to flinch, to drop to his knee, or perhaps just to wet himself. His lack of reaction was noted, filed away in whatever mental dossier she was compiling on him.

  "You'll have to excuse the comment," Mark said, releasing the handshake. "But you are... not what I expected."

  The Warden raised an eyebrow, a gesture of polite inquiry. "Oh? And what were you expecting, Mr. Shilling?"

  "Robes," Mark admitted. "A boat, maybe. Or at least a scythe. The classical embodiment of death usually comes with more... agricultural accessories."

  The Warden threw his head back and laughed. It wasn't a booming, divine sound. It was warm and genuine, the sound of a CEO enjoying a joke at a shareholders' meeting.

  "Charon and the Reaper," the Warden said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "Yes, I suppose for one with your background, the iconography would be... specific."

  He adjusted his tie, a perfect Windsor knot in silk as black as the void.

  "My counterparts enjoyed the robe aesthetic. Found it added gravitas," the Warden explained, his tone conversational. "I find it impractical. Death is not a performance, Mark. It is a process. A transition. It requires management, logistics, and a clear head. The scythe is messy. A pen is far more efficient."

  He smiled, a professional expression that didn't quite hide the ancient, cold intelligence behind it.

  "And besides," the Warden added, smoothing his lapel. "The suit commands a different kind of respect. Don't you think?"

  Mark looked down at his own borrowed tunic, then back at the impeccable tailoring of the Oracle.

  "I think," Mark said, "that I need the name of your tailor."

  The Warden shook his head, a gesture of mild regret. "Sadly, that is one contact I cannot share. This," he gestured to the charcoal fabric, "is a bespoke piece from a lovely little shop on Fifth Avenue. New York Tailors. They closed in 1998, I believe. A tragedy."

  He looked Mark up and down, his gaze lingering on the memory of the suit Mark had worn in the mindscape, or perhaps the one currently waiting for alterations back at the house.

  "Though I must say," the Warden added, his tone appreciative. "You should not be ashamed of your Marks & Spencer. It lacks the hand-stitching of a true bespoke, but the cut is honest. And compared to the tunics around here..." He glanced at Petra's shimmering gold ensemble with a hint of amusement. "It is a cut above."

  Mark felt a strange, surreal connection. He was discussing menswear with Death in a tomb under a mountain. It was absurd, and oddly comforting. The Warden spoke the language of a world Mark thought was gone forever.

  "As much as I would love to discuss the merits of a good wool blend," Mark said, leaning on his cane. "I assume you didn't manifest just to critique my wardrobe. You're a busy man. Time is... well, maybe not money for you, but certainly a resource."

  Petra nodded slowly, her eyes darting between them, trying to parse the subtext of a conversation she didn't have the context for. She obviously was not used to being on the outside.

  "Direct," the Warden said, approvingly. "I like that. Yes, there is business."

  He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace, his shoes clicking softly on the stone.

  "It concerns Vincent's investigation," the Warden said. "Into you. Into the anomaly of your existence." He stopped, turning to face them both. "The rules regarding the Displaced are strict. Information is restricted. But those rules have been broken twice now. Once by Eric Chambers in his unauthorized digging, and once by you, Petra, in your... candid dismissal of Mr. Shilling's importance."

  Petra stiffened. "I merely stated facts, Warden."

  "You stated classified precedents," the Warden corrected gently. "But the cat is out of the bag, as they say. Because the seal has been broken, I am permitted a degree of... latitude."

  He looked at Mark, his expression serious.

  "I can share a little more regarding the lineage of Shilling. Or rather, the issues with it."

  "What issues?" Petra asked, stepping forward, reasserting her presence. She wasn't used to being sidelined. "The man has no lineage. He fell from the sky."

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  "That is the popular theory," the Warden agreed. "But Vincent found records. Names. Dates. Mark Shilling of California. Magnolia Shilling of Titan. Cid Shilling of Whisperfall."

  He looked at Mark.

  "Three lives. Three deaths. Three endings of a line that should not exist. And now, a fourth Shilling stands before me."

  The Warden's eyes seemed to darken, the corporate mask slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the endless void beneath.

  "Eric's research was sloppy, but his instinct was correct. There is a connection. And because Petra here was so eager to recount the history of the Weaver and the Screaming Woman..." He smiled at the Guildmistress, an expression that was all teeth. "You have opened the door for me to clarify a little more."

  "Cynthia Tilden," the Warden said, the name rolling off his tongue like a ledger entry. "That was the screaming woman. A tragic case of biological shock. Her heart simply stopped."

  Mark shifted his weight, the cane taking the strain. "Should this be a private conversation?" he asked, glancing pointedly at Petra. Discussing the intricacies of his impossible existence felt like something that should happen behind closed doors, not in front of a Guildmistress who had already dismissed him as a clerical error.

  Petra didn't even blink. "I see no reason for privacy," she said, her voice cool. "If this concerns Guild security or historical anomalies within my jurisdiction, I should be present."

  "I agree," the Warden said smoothly. "Petra has favor within my domain. The Masons maintain these tombs with diligence I appreciate. A well-kept house is a sign of a disciplined mind."

  Mark opened his mouth to object, favor or not, this was his life they were dissecting, but Petra cut him off.

  "Warden," she said, stepping forward, effectively placing herself between Mark and the Oracle. She reclaimed the stage with the ease of a veteran politician. "Please continue. This anomaly requires clarification."

  The Warden smiled, a knowing expression that suggested he saw the power play and found it adorable.

  "This way," he said.

  He turned and walked toward a side archway Mark hadn't noticed before. They followed, leaving the main cavern behind. The air grew cooler, stillness settling heavier on their shoulders.

  They entered a side chamber. It was large, the walls lined with shelves that stretched up into the gloom. On the shelves rested thousands of books. Identical. Bound in plain brown leather. Nameless.

  It was the archive similar to what Vincent had used. The library of the dead.

  The Warden walked to the center of the room, his footsteps silent now. He gestured to the wall of books.

  "The records," he said. "Every soul. Every end."

  He turned to Mark.

  "You asked if you belonged to anyone. Vincent told you the records were absolute. He was right."

  The Warden walked to a shelf, his hand hovering.

  "But absolute does not mean simple."

  "If it's not simple," Mark asked, his voice echoing slightly in the archive, "is there an answer? Does Mark Shilling have connections on The Ark? Or am I just a glitch in your filing system?"

  The Warden didn't answer with words. He waved a hand, a casual gesture.

  The air shimmered. Three figures coalesced from the silver light. Magnolia, the stern administrator. Mark of California, the soldier. Cid, the desperate settler. They stood in silence, ghosts of a history Mark didn't share.

  He glanced at Petra. She wasn't fearful. Her eyes were darting over the apparitions, cataloging details, clothing, insignia, posture. She was taking visual notes, assessing the value of the dead.

  "We know these three," the Warden said, dismissing them with a tone of familiarity. "The branches of a tree long withered."

  He raised his hand again.

  "But a tree must have roots."

  A fourth figure appeared.

  She was different. The others looked like they belonged to this world, robes, armor and rags. This woman looked like she had just stepped out of a coffee shop in London. She wore jeans. A fleece jacket. Hiking boots. Her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail.

  Mark stared. He knew her. The recognition was instant and visceral, a punch to the gut that left him breathless. But the name... the context... it slipped through his fingers like smoke. He couldn't place her. Was she a friend of a friend? Someone he'd met at a conference? A face from a commute? Someone closer? Family…

  "Alice Shilling," the Warden said. He didn't offer a date. He didn't offer a cause of death.

  Mark stepped closer, leaning heavily on his cane. He walked around the spectral figure, studying her. And then he saw it. Clipped to the fleece jacket was a lanyard. A simple, plastic ID card.

  [ATLANTIS EXPEDITION]

  [Wind Sorcerer]

  His mind reeled. Atlantis. An expedition. And the title... Wind Sorcerer. It was a collision of worlds. The mundane reality of a laminated ID badge clashing with the fantasy of the title. Alice was here. She had been on The Ark. But she looked... normal. She was a bridge. A link to a time he was so far displaced from.

  "What is this, Warden?" Petra interrupted, her voice sharp. She was staring at the ID badge, clearly trying to decipher the alien script and symbols, Mark noticing that she could not read it, that perhaps the language ritual did not apply beyond the grave.

  "This," the Warden said, his voice solemn, "is the first Shilling on The Ark. A progenitor. And the closest blood relative to you, Mark."

  He looked at Mark, his dark eyes filled with a weight of ancient knowledge.

  "All other Shilling lines started here. You are not a descendant of the end, Mark. You are related to the start."

  Mark's mind was a storm of questions. How? Who was she? How did she get here? Was she the one who...

  He opened his mouth to ask, but the Warden held up a hand.

  "I am not Knowledge," the Oracle said gently. "Those answers are Alice's to share, not mine. I keep the records. I do not write the stories."

  Petra let out a soft sigh, the sound of someone realizing a meeting has gone on too long. She looked at the silent ghost of Alice, realized the spectre wasn't going to offer any actionable intelligence, and lost interest.

  "Well," Petra said, smoothing her tunic. "Fascinating history, Warden. But ultimately academic." She turned to Mark, her dismissal complete. "You will seek out my help when, and if, you ever become interesting, Mr. Shilling. Until then, you remain just a relic of a dead world."

  She gave a curt nod to the Warden and swept out of the chamber, her gold-blue tunic shimmering in the gloom.

  Mark didn't watch her go. He couldn't take his eyes off Alice.

  "One final thing," the Warden said, his voice soft. "Should you someday come to recognize this woman... to find a true connection, however small... she can speak with you. Until then, this will remain just a window."

  The Warden faded, dissolving into the shadows like a CEO leaving the office for the night. The ghosts vanished.

  Mark was alone in the archive. The truth hurt more than the confusion. He knew her. He knew her. But the memory was gone, a hole in his mind where a person should be. Was she a distant cousin? An aunt he'd met once at a wedding? Or...

  A cold dread settled in his stomach. Had Clyde taken this too? In his desperate, clumsy rummaging through Mark's mind, had the specialist destroyed the one memory that truly mattered?

  He gripped his cane, his knuckles white. He tried to push the idea aside, but it clung to him, a new and terrible ghost to haunt his nights.

  He turned and walked out of the tomb, the silence of the mountain heavy on his shoulders. He had a name. Alice. It was a start. Or perhaps, it was just another dead end.