- Chapter 085 -

  Rarely a Static Thing

  The morning light was dull, filtered through a heavy curtain of falling snow. Winter had stopped knocking at the door of the Iron-Tooth and had simply chosen to kick it in. From the living room window, the view of the valley had been replaced by a swirling wall of white. The normal industrial sounds of Enceladus fading to a strange, ghostly murmur.

  Mark fastened the toggles of his heavy winter coat, checking his pockets: notebook, pencil, coin pouch. Leaving the house was becoming more complex as the weather deteriorated, but remaining inside was not an option. The air inside felt stale, recycled too many times adding to the sense of claustrophobia.

  The altercation with Carl was settled. Their partnership had been defined in the aftermath, boundaries set. But the memory of that grip, the sheer, casual power of a Garnet Artisan losing his temper, that continued to play in Mark's mind. He had talked his way out of it, used their friendship and the logic of the situation, but words were a fragile shield against a man who could punch through stone.

  He needed more than words.

  He walked into the living room to grab his cane. Dawn was there, sprawled across one of the plush armchairs in a posture of aggressive relaxation he hadn't seen from her before. Usually, she was a coil of energy, cleaning a blade or watching the street. Today, she was just... lying there. Staring at the ceiling, one leg draped over the armrest, looking like a teenager on a Sunday morning, had mobile phones been invited,

  "You're going out in that?" Dawn asked, not moving her head. "Visibility is ten feet. Only Taz can enjoy something like out there."

  "I have appointments," Mark said, checking the lace on his boot. "And I need the air. The heating in here is stifling."

  He straightened up, testing his weight on the cane. He looked at the huntress. She was the expert on violence in his small circle.

  "Does Sam do personal defense training?" Mark asked. "Beyond the conditioning we are working on. Combat training?"

  Dawn turned her head slowly, her eyes tracking him with a lazy, cat-like amusement. She didn't ask why. She didn't need to.

  "I heard about the scuffle outside the Drake," she said. Her voice was unconcerned. "News travels fast when you are shoved by a craftsman in public."

  She sat up, swinging her legs down.

  "Don't worry about Carl. He’s got a temper, but he realized he crossed a line. He won't do it again." She shrugged. "He's a builder, Mark. He likes things put together, not taken apart. That grip on your arm? That was the limit he allows himself and is probably regretting what he was thinking now."

  "It's not just Carl," Mark corrected. "It's the principle. I have a reliance on diplomatic resolution, I can’t defend myself."

  He thought of Eric Chambers. Of Alex Smith. Of the next person who might decide that talking was a waste of time.

  "Sam can teach you," Dawn said. "He trained half the garrison recruits before he made them question their life choices."

  She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the cane and the way he favored his left hip.

  "But he won't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because right now, you're one sneeze away from collapsing," she said bluntly. "You throw a punch, you'll end up dislocating your own shoulder. You try to dodge, that hip will buckle and you'll be on your back before the fight starts."

  She leaned back, closing her eyes again.

  "Sam sets people up to win. He won't let you play at being a toy soldier. When you can walk to the garrison without that stick... then ask him about hitting people."

  Mark gripped the silver head of the cane. It was frustrating, but valid. Forcing him to recognise the stupidity of the item, at least for now.

  "Understandable," Mark said. "Remind me to invent pepper spray or a taser."

  He turned to the door.

  "Pepper? Whatever, try not to freeze," Dawn called out. "I'm not coming to dig you out of a drift."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Mark said before stepping out into the whiteout.

  The walk was mercifully short. The path leading from the residential quiet of Silver-Vein Terrace to the local administrative hub was the only stretch of pavement in the district that wasn't trying to kill him. The Masons, true to their nature, kept their own doorstep impeccable. The flagstones here were dry and warm to the touch, some kind of subterranean runic grid that laughed at the concept of winter. It was a subtle and probably expensive flex of institutional power: We control the stone, and by extension, we control the weather.

  The local office wasn't the sprawling, timber cathedral of Finnian’s sawmill. It was a bunker dressed up as a bank. The exterior was almost modest, a blocky structure of a dark and textured stone that seemed to absorb the grey light of the morning. It lacked the artistic flair of some of the Artisans buildings or the warm organic chaos of the Carpenters. It was a projection of stability and permanence.

  Mark pushed through the heavy and perfectly balanced doors. The wind died instantly.

  Inside, the modesty vanished. The interior was a showroom of geological dominance. The floor was a single, seamless expanse of polished white marble, veined with gold. The walls were panelled in granite, carved not with scenes of history, but with geometric patterns so precise they hurt the eyes. It smelled of stone dust and floor polish. The variety of materials used made him regret not paying attention in geology, it was a true showcase.

  A reception desk, carved from a block of obsidian, dominated the far wall. Behind it, staff in the blue and gold livery of the Guild worked with quiet efficiency.

  No one looked up as the door closed. Mark was just another petitioner, another contract dispute or permit application walking in from the cold.

  Mark leaned his cane against the desk. He unbuttoned his heavy winter coat, shaking the loose snow from the shoulders. He pulled off his wool hat and unwound the scarf from his neck.

  The receptionist, a young man with the bored expression of someone midway through a ten-hour shift of paper work glanced upwards. "Name and purpose of vis—"

  The words died in his throat.

  The young man’s eyes widened. He stared at Mark, then darted a look at the cane, then back to Mark’s face. The boredom was replaced by a sharp jolt of recognition.

  The silence in the room changed. It went from the quiet of work, to the quiet of holding one's breath. At the desks behind the receptionist, pens stopped scratching. Heads turned.

  They knew who he was. He wasn't just any consultant. To those that knew, he was the one who had walked away from a confrontation that left one of their hired enforcers with a shattered jaw and somehow leaving their Senior Administrator dead in a frozen warehouse.

  Mark smoothed the front of his blue tunic. He didn't smile. He let the weight of their own gossip do the heavy lifting.

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  "Mark Shilling," he said, his voice echoing slightly on the hard surfaces. "Here to see Acting Guildmaster Novak, or make an appointment if possible before she leaves town."

  The names, both his and Novak’s, triggered a cascade of administrative panic. The young receptionist retreated, replaced almost instantly by a severe-looking woman with a high collar and the harried expression of a middle manager dropped into a PR crisis. She didn't look at him directly, her eyes focused on a point just past his ear, as if acknowledging his presence might cause even more issues.

  "One cannot simply request an audience with the Acting Guildmaster," she stated, her voice tight. "Mistress Novak's schedule is calibrated to the minute. Her time is a valuable resource of the Guild, more so when she is visiting locally."

  She paused, a pen hovering over a notepad.

  "Regarding what business? I will not interrupt her for... general inquiries."

  Mark leaned on his cane, projecting an air of relaxed patience he truly didn't feel. "Please convey to Mistress Novak that while I remain as unremarkable as she previously assessed, the subject matter I wish to discuss is... decidedly more interesting."

  He let his gaze drift around the opulent lobby, landing on a display of granite samples.

  "And do mention that if she finds her schedule too constrained to satisfy her curiosity, there are other parties in town, specifically those who work with brass and steam, who have expressed a keen interest also."

  The threat of the Engineers was a blunt threat, but effective. The woman’s lips thinned. She turned on her heel and vanished through a heavy door behind the desk.

  Mark waited. The silence in the lobby was heavy, the other staff pretending to work while watching him with peripheral terror. The choice of stonework, colors and size was starting to remind him of some of the classic bank designs back on Earth, just smaller in this instance.

  Five minutes later, the woman returned. She looked annoyed.

  "Mistress Novak has an opening," she said, the words clearly tasting sour. "Three hours from now. You are instructed to wait here in the lobby until called."

  It was a standard power play. Make the petitioner sit on a hard bench, stare at the clock, and stew in their own insignificance until the meeting began on the superior's terms, so much like back home he was tempted to do just that. Mark had pulled the same move on junior vendors a dozen times. He knew the game, and nostalgia aside, he had no intention of playing the pawn.

  He looked towards the sun through the high windows.

  "I apologize," Mark said, pushing himself off the desk and adjusting his coat. "But waiting isn't really an option. Given how... wonderful the weather is today, I’d hate to waste the daylight indoors."

  He glanced at the snow swirling against the glass, his tone dripping with dry sarcasm.

  "I’ve a relative in the area," he continued smoothly. "Local resident. I've been meaning to pay my respects. I'll take this time to visit them."

  The woman stared at him. The confusion on her face was absolute. Everyone knew the rumors. The Displaced man had no family. He had fallen from the sky.

  "A... relative?" she repeated.

  "Indeed," Mark said, turning toward the door. "I'll try to be back in time for the slot. If not, well, I'm sure Petra will understand family obligations."

  "What... what should I tell the Guildmaster?" the woman stammered, her bureaucratic script completely derailed.

  Mark pushed the door open, letting a gust of freezing wind cut through the heated lobby.

  "Please tell her exactly that," Mark said.

  He stepped out into the cold, leaving them to wrestle with the impossible logistics of his family tree.

  The path connecting the Masons' local office, the Silver-Vein Terrace, and the Tomb was a testament to the Guild's obsession with infrastructure and their refusal to let the elements dictate their logistics. Mark walked it with a steady rhythm, his cane clicking on the dry stone, grateful for the respite from the slush.

  He reached the great stone archway just as the wind picked up, howling through the peaks above. He stepped across the threshold, out of the biting cold and into the silent, silver-lit stillness of the mountain's heart.

  Vincent was waiting.

  The Warden's Assistant stood exactly where he had been the last time, and the time before that. He was a statue in grey robes, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, his dark eyes watching the entrance with an eternal, patient calm. He didn't seem surprised. The identification circle at the gate had likely flagged Mark's arrival the moment his boot hit the stone.

  "Mr. Shilling," Vincent said, his voice a soft echo in the vast chamber. He inclined his head slightly. "How may the Warden's sanctuary be of service today? It is rare for the living to brave such weather without a casket to carry."

  "I have a few hours to kill, if you will excuse the expression." Mark said, brushing melting snowflakes from his coat. "I needed to clear my head. Current events are... loud. I thought perhaps the past might be quieter."

  He walked further in, the silver lines on the floor blooming to life to guide his path. The silence here was heavy, but it wasn't the suffocating pressure of a boardroom or the tense quiet of a negotiation. It was the silence of dust and finality. It was restful.

  "The past is always quiet," Vincent agreed, falling into step beside him. "That is its greatest virtue. It does not argue. It simply is."

  Mark stopped near the entrance to the side chamber, the archive of the dead. He looked at the robed man.

  "The Warden mentioned an offer," Mark said. "Regarding Alice Shilling."

  He leaned on his cane, the memory of the dream, the fog, the zoo, the woman in jeans and a fleece jacket.

  "He said if I found a connection, however small, she could speak with me. I'm not sure I have a connection, not really. Just a face in a dream and a feeling of... recognition." He met Vincent's gaze. "Is it possible to see her?"

  Vincent studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable, followed with a small nod.

  "Recognition is a connection, Mark. Sometimes the soul remembers what the mind has lost."

  He gestured to the archive.

  "This way."

  The side chamber was colder than the main hall, a pocket of stillness where the air felt thick with the weight of unspoken words. Vincent moved to the shelves, his hand hovering for a moment before selecting a volume indistinguishable from the thousands of others. He placed it on the small lectern, the leather cover falling open without a sound.

  He offered no preamble, no ritualistic chanting. He simply traced a line on the page.

  The air in the center of the room shivered. Silver light coalesced, pulling together from the shadows to form a silhouette. The ghost of Alice Shilling stepped into existence.

  She was different.

  The fleece jacket and hiking boots were gone. The woman standing before them looked younger, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She wore a simple t-shirt and shorts, her hair tied back in a messy bun, thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. The Atlantis Expedition lanyard still hung around her neck, a constant in this new image.

  But it was her left arm that drew the eye. Her shoulder, her skin was marked by a complex, glowing tattoo. It pulsed with a steady, deep red light. Garnet tier.

  Mark walked a slow circle around the projection, his cane clicking rhythmically on the stone.

  "Why has the image changed?" Mark asked, studying the casual, summer attire that seemed so out of place in the freezing tomb. "Last time she was dressed for a hike. Now she looks like she's on a lunch break."

  "The record is not a photograph," Vincent explained, his voice low. "It is a window to the soul. And a soul is rarely a static thing. It reflects itself as it chooses to be seen in that moment, or perhaps as it remembers itself most fondly."

  Mark stopped in front of her. He looked into her face, searching for the spark that he’d seen in his dream.

  For a second, it was there. A flicker of familiarity. A phantom sound drifted through his mind, tinny and distorted, synthesized Christmas music, playing over a cheap speaker in a foggy garden. He reached for it, trying to pull the context forward, the face, the name, what was the connection…

  The green fog rolled in.

  It wasn't external. It was internal, a sickly, mental smog that oozed from the cracks in his own psyche. The memory of the garden party was swallowed by the heavy, toxic pressure of the library in his head. The connection was broken, replaced by a dull, throbbing headache and the taste of toxic ash.

  He let out a sharp breath, pushing the pain aside. Those memories, like others, appearing to be held hostage.

  He lowered his gaze to her arm. The red light of the tattoo was steady, a beacon in the silver gloom. He leaned in, squinting at the geometry. He had spent the last week memorizing the Guild registry, studying the standard Heart designs for Engineers, Masons, and Healers. He knew the patterns, how their differences were shown, and even some of the rare evolutions like Gold..

  This was unlike any of them. The lines were jagged, spiraling in a way that defied the Collective’s more structured designs. It looked turbulent. Almost unstable.

  "That Mark," Mark said, pointing with the head of his cane. "It's Garnet, clearly. But the design... it's not in the current registry. I've read the books. This isn't standard."

  He looked at Vincent. "What is it?"

  Vincent stepped closer, his own brow furrowing as he compared the glowing projection to the script in the book. He traced a line of text with a pale finger, his lips moving silently.

  "Fascinating," Vincent murmured. He looked up, a genuine look of academic puzzlement on his face. "You are correct. It is not standard. In fact, I believe it is a design that has been lost to the current age."

  He tapped the page.

  "The book identifies it as the Heart of Gales."