- Chapter 048 -

  Chiseled from Disappointment

  The first thing he registered was the quiet hum of a distant, impossible engine.

  It was the sound of a starship, a silent, majestic vessel gliding through the star-dusted cosmos of his own making. He had spent the night on his small, self-made moon, a silent observer in a universe that answered only to him. But the ghosts were persistent, more so than ever before. Scratching at the edges, looking for a way in or past his canvas of stars .

  He had spent hours reinforcing the fragile reality of his star-field, adding a swirling nebula in a distant quadrant, a focused task of pure creation designed to push the unwanted memories back into the void. The final move had given him victory, but at a cost of less true sleep and more mental expenditure, The EAS Agamemnon, its shadow visible against the cloud of dust.

  The morning routine was grim, the stretches, washing and getting dressed a required struggle. His choice for the day was the blue tunic the Oracles had provided him with, a uniform for a job he didn't want, but was now happy he had. The protections it offered with defined and clear, but as with any meeting with arrogant parties, they only provided protections when supported and enforced.

  Toast and bacon made a quick easy breakfast as he cleared the ad-hoc command center, each stack of papers from the audit now returned to its chest and set by the door, awaiting collection by one of Deirdre's team. He was happy to see them gone, he was now blaming their existence on his foggy memory, something he had never had issues with before. That and it was probably best not to have them on display, there was a good chance Eric was unaware of his role in the audit, and he was unaware of how far Deirdre had taken it so far.

  The knock at the door was a sharp reminder of the day's progression, thankfully it didn't trigger an immediate flashback of flying or splintered wood. The game had started, and he needed to prove to himself as well as to other observing parties that he was not just a strange anomaly or tool to be used, he was more than a forgotten history.

  He pulled the splintered, groaning door inward.

  The man on his doorstep was a picture of calm, bureaucratic order. It was George, the senior clerk from the library, his face kind and his posture one of unassuming professionalism. He wore simple, well-tailored grey robes, and he held a slim leather portfolio clutched in one hand. He was exactly the kind of procedural support Mark had hoped for.

  Standing a half-step behind him, however, was not the militia representative he had imagined.

  She was young, barely out of her teens, and she vibrated with a nervous, unfocused energy that seemed to be at war with the crisp, formal lines of her Militia uniform. Her armor was clean, the leather still stiff and new, the polished steel of her gorget gleaming in the morning light. Her hand kept twitching toward the hilt of the short sword at her belt, a fidgety, repetitive motion she seemed completely unaware of. Her eyes, wide and alert, darted from Mark to the interior of the house, to the street behind her.

  George offered a polite, professional nod, a sharp contrast against the young soldier's crackling energy. "Mark Shilling. I'm George, we met in the library. Jenny sends her apologies and her best wishes for a productive meeting."

  Before Mark could reply, the young woman snapped to attention. "Guardswoman Anabella Rhine, sir!" she announced, her voice a fraction too loud in the quiet morning air. She executed a crisp, formal salute. "Militia Guild. Here to take statements and provide assistance!"

  Her declaration hung there, a small, awkward explosion of military formality on his doorstep. Mark looked from George's patient smile to Anabella's wide, earnest, and deeply anxious eyes. He had requested a militia representative, he had expected a tank of a person, or someone with the intimidation capabilities of Sam. He was embarrassed to be thinking that the library had sent him a child playing dress-up in their place.

  "Of course," Mark said, his voice a calm, welcoming counterpoint to Anabella's rigid formality. He wheeled his chair back, gesturing them into the house. "Please, come in."

  He led them to the now-cleared dining table, the morning sun streaming through the large window and illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. George took a seat with a quiet, efficient motion, placing his leather portfolio on the table with a soft thud. Anabella remained standing, her posture ramrod straight, her eyes scanning the room as if searching for hidden threats in the furniture.

  "Tea?" Mark offered, already wheeling himself toward the kitchen. "It's no trouble. and please take a seat."

  The simple, domestic task was a welcome moment to collect his thoughts. As he prepared the mugs he could hear George and Anabella behind him, their voices a low, professional murmur.

  "Note the unauthorized structural modifications," George's calm voice instructed. "Main living area, rear wall. New primary entrance to a previously non-existent subterranean extension."

  "Subterranean," Anabella repeated, the scratch of her pencil on the page sharp in the quiet room. "Got it."

  Mark returned with three steaming mugs of the Breakfast blend, the malty aroma helping his alertness. He placed one before each of his guests, then wheeled himself to the head of the table.

  He let them take a sip before he began. He laid out the sequence of events with cold precision, attempting to keep emotion out of the equation for now. He wasn't telling a story of a victim, he was presenting facts.

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  "Approximately two weeks ago," he began, his voice even, "I was assaulted at my front door by a representative of the Masons' Guild, a Mister Alex Smith."

  Anabella's pencil flew across the page.

  "During my subsequent, and rather extensive, stay at the infirmary," he continued, his gaze steady, "my state-provisioned accommodation was, for all intents and purposes, broken into." He let the deliberately chosen words hang in the air for a moment. "Vast and unsolicited alterations were made to the property."

  He gestured with his head toward the new doorway leading to his bedroom. "As you've noted, they carved a new wing out of the mountain. They also gutted and rebuilt the entire upper floor." He paused, then delivered the final, critical piece of the puzzle. "Yesterday, I received a message from the Masons' Guild. An invoice, of sorts. They are demanding repayment for these alterations, and for the medical costs of the man who assaulted me."

  George, who had been listening with a placid, professional calm, set his mug down with a soft, deliberate click. He opened his portfolio and made a single, precise note on a fresh sheet of parchment.

  "For the record," he stated, his voice the very definition of bureaucratic certainty, "the library was not consulted, nor did it authorize any such additions. These modifications, while extensive, have also significantly increased the market value of the property." He looked up from his notes, a flicker of what might have been grim satisfaction in his kind eyes. "An interesting legal position for them to be in."

  Anabella's head snapped up from her notebook, her earlier fidgeting replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. "Assault is an infraction under Collective law, sir," she stated, the words crisp and clear. "And forced entry, combined with unauthorized modification of Guild-owned property... that's a different level of trouble entirely." She met Mark's gaze, her expression now one of earnest, professional confidence. "A formal grievance can and should be filed. I can help you with the paperwork."

  Mark offered her a small, appreciative nod. She was green, yes, but she was competent. She apparently knew the rules and was happy to assist.

  The knock, when it came, was more a demand than a request. Two sharp, impatient raps that vibrated through the damaged wood of the door.

  Anabella jumped, her hand instinctively flying to the hilt of her sword with a soft rasp of leather. George simply paused, his pen hovering over his notes, his calm expression tightening by a fraction.

  Mark took a slow, steadying breath. He wheeled himself away from the table, the smooth glide of the chair a silent, deliberate motion. He crossed the living area, his mind clear, his resolve solid. This was his house, at least for now. And this was his meeting, that they agreed to join.

  He again pulled the splintered door inward.

  The man who stood on his doorstep was a monument of tailored arrogance. He loomed, his height and broad shoulders accentuated by an impeccably cut, high-collared jacket of dark grey, worn over a fine tunic. Intricate red embroidery traced the lines of the collar and cuffs, an expensive declaration of status. His face looked like it had been chiseled from disappointment, a face that had probably never smiled.

  His gaze fell upon Mark, a slow, dismissive sneer curled his lip.

  "Eric Chambers. Senior Administrator," he announced, his voice smooth and condescending. He didn't offer a hand. He didn't wait for a reply.

  With a flick of his wrist, he dropped a rolled-up sheaf of papers into Mark's lap that landed with a small, insulting thud.

  "That's your contract," Chambers stated, his sneer deepening as he looked down his nose at Mark. "Terms are non-negotiable. It outlines your assignment with the Masons' Guild. You'll report to my office at the Guildhall tomorrow morning. Sign it."

  He tapped a finger impatiently on his own sleeve, a man who truly believed his time was far too valuable for this.

  "And do it quickly," he finished, his voice dripping with disdain. "I have more important matters to attend to than babysitting the infirmary's latest charity case. Don't waste my time."

  As Chambers spoke, Mark felt a strange, insidious pressure building at the foggy edges of his awareness. It wasn't the clumsy, angry shove of Tori's magic, nor the serene, clarifying presence of the Oracles. This was a subtle, persistent nudge, annoyingly insistent whisper in the back of his mind suggesting that this was all perfectly normal. ‘Of course you'll sign’. ‘It's a generous offer’. ‘It's the right thing to do’. ‘Agree’.

  The sensation was as unwelcome as it was unnerving. He had felt it before, a faint echo at least, he could now recognise the same feeling while he reviewed Esto's files. Deirdre had mentioned how she suspected Eric's ability to smooth over discrepancies. A Heart of Community. A tool for fostering trust.

  Chambers's gaze flickered past Mark, his eyes snagging on the wooden chest by the door, the one containing Esto's neatly stacked and now audited ledgers. A flicker of something predatory crossed his face before it was smoothed over by his arrogance.

  "And those," he said, gesturing with his chin toward the chest, "don't belong to you. Guild property. I'll be taking them with me once you've signed."

  The mental pressure intensified. The nagging suggestion to agree became a dull, throbbing demand. ‘He's right’. ‘They're not yours’. ‘Just let him take them’. ‘It's easier’.

  Mark felt his hand begin to reach for the pen tucked into the side of the contract. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, an action driven by a suggestion that was not his own. He stopped, his fingers hovering over the paper.

  A decade of professional instinct, a career built on the hard-won lesson that "non-negotiable" was merely the framing bid in a negotiation, slammed into place like a steel door. His mind screamed with the bitter experience of a hundred bad contracts and the soul-crushing consequences of unread fine print, recoiled from the suggestion with a visceral, almost violent refusal.

  “Never sign what you haven't read.”

  The manager woke up.

  He pulled his hand back, the small act of defiance a monumental victory against the unseen pressure. The mental nagging didn't vanish, but its power was lost, becoming an irrelevant buzz at the back of his thoughts.

  He wheeled his chair backward, pulling away from the doorway and the man who filled it. He offered Eric Chambers a smile. It was a thin, sharp-edged expression, utterly devoid of warmth.

  "Mister Chambers," Mark said, his voice a smooth, professional calm that was a perfect mirror of the man's own arrogance. "You're just in time."

  He gestured with an open hand toward the dining table, to the two silent, waiting figures of George and Anabella.

  "We were just about to discuss the terms of your Guild's... generous offer," he continued, the word 'generous' laced with a cutting irony. "Please, come in. Have a seat. I'll get to your contract as soon as I've had a chance to properly review it, of course."