The city gates opened with a hiss of steam and shadow. Lucian stepped through after Rosa. His scuffed boots tapped against the stone as the palace loomed ahead—each spire glittering like teeth in the mist.
The guards bowed to him as he passed. Every soul could feel the shift in him now. His grip on life loosened with every assignment—but offering a memory accelerated it.
Rosa's safe for three days. That's all that matters. Lucian tried to ignore the hollow space in his ribs. He reached into his coat without thinking. A cigarette? A coin? A letter? But there was nothing. Just fingers brushing against fabric, searching for a shape that no longer existed.
"Lucian Bowcott," The steward announced as the castle doors opened. "Her Majesty will see you at once."
+
The throne room had grown colder since he'd last stood there. Instead of warm red fireplaces, the flames were the color of ice. The Queen sat tall, veil down, black-gloved fingers folded with imperial calm. The stained-glass window made her body shine in morning hues—amber, rust, and a deep midnight blue.
Lucian bowed low out of habit than reverence.
"I read your report," the Queen said quietly. The flame behind her eye socket glowered. "Well done."
He straightened, a little startled. Her praise didn't warm him like it once had. It echoed hollowly through the chamber.
"She was fading," Lucian said, grip tight on his walking cane. It pulsed back, as if the magical artifact understood his feelings.
"I acted fast."
"You acted desperately." The Queen corrected, her dead half completely displeased. The flame behind her eye socket threatened to singe her veil. "Reverse Offerings aren't to be used lightly. You offered a memory without weighing the cost."
"I didn't have time to wait."
A heavy silence blanketed the throne room.
Then she asked, "And what did it take from you?"
Lucian opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I don't know."
The Queen's lips pressed together. "That is what disturbs me."
"But it worked, didn't it?" The Spymaster emerged from the shadows, his voice warm in all the wrong places. "A soul was stabilized, and a tether established. Such delightful progress."
Today he looked like an elegant gentleman with a hat, holding a dainty drinking glass. But his legs were far too spindly and his smile had too many teeth.
Lucian didn't look at him.
The Queen turned her head slightly and looked at Rosa. She bowed deeply. "There's something else. Rosa isn't decaying—she's unraveling. Her whispers mentioned a wrong soul…a wrong name."
"I heard it too," Lucian said nervously. "She said someone lied."
The Spymaster's grin widened, and he swore its shadow doubled in length. "Oh yes. Isn't that delicious? Perhaps someone wanted to trap a different spirit in her shell. Either a foolish mistake…or a message."
Lucian frowned. "What message?"
The Queen had already risen and walked toward a silver tray near an iron lantern. At once, the Spymaster placed a scroll on it, black oil and smoke sliding off as he did so. "I fear we're too late to analyze it."
With one look, the tray floated in front of Lucian and the scroll unfurled. "Someone from a town called Staesis requested aid."
Lucian took the scroll. The paper was rough, brittle. The seal: cracked wax bearing no crest.
"What's wrong there?" he asked, brow furrowing.
The Queen hesitated. Her fingers twitched as if reaching for something long lost. "In Atraeum, the dead are merely restless. Staseis is similar, except their dead…keep working."
Lucian blinked. "Working?"
She nodded. "Labor. Without rest. The town claims it's efficient and productive. But the link to Death itself is… missing."
The Spymaster clapped once, gently. "A thrilling little mystery, wouldn't you agree? Perfect for our dear mortician to solve."
Lucian stared at the scroll. Staseis. The name sat heavy on his tongue.
"When do I leave?"
"Tonight," the Queen said, her voice quieter now. "And Lucian…"
He looked up and thought he saw a tear fall from her living eye. Honestly, it could have been a trick of the candlelight.
"Don't give away any more of yourself unless you have to."
His throat tightened. "Yes, Your Majesty."
As he left, the Spymaster's voice floated after him, poisonous and pleasant.
"Careful, little Mortician. Staseis doesn't just steal rest. It changes the living too."
Lucian didn't answer.
But something in his chest—whatever remained—braced for what came next.
+
The carriage wheels sang against the road with a soft whine beneath the steady rhythm of hooves. Unlike Sweetwater's winter and Candlemere's summer, the road was just…there. Not notable in the slightest.
Lucian sat across from Rosa, hands clenched in his lap. Next to him were his Grimoire and the walking cane. He observed her, and was pleased.
Rosa sat upright once more, but her knitting needles stayed in her lap. A half-formed row of yarn dangled from one hand and the other rested on her knee. She looked puzzled, like she had no idea what it was meant to do.
She looked up and caught his gaze. "Thank you," she said again, softer this time. "Something was dragging me away. Not toward peace…it was much colder than that."
Lucian nodded, though his chest still ached from the cost. "It wasn't a natural progression."
"Yes," Rosa whispered, her stitched lips trembling. "It felt like someone was…trying to overwrite me. Like it wanted to snip a bad seam."
He frowned. "Someone tampered with your rite. I didn't even know that was possible. I just thought the undead started to rot."
She nodded. "The priests said it would start slow. I wouldn't think drinking or eating was important the longer I decayed. This…it was like someone wanted to kick me out of my body."
Lucian frowned. "Someone tampered with your decay. But you weren't the actual target."
Rosa blinked slowly. "Then who was?"
He didn't answer.
+
Silence was the first thing Lucian noticed about Staseis. It wasn't peaceful or quiet, but an absence of breath and motion. The air smelled like wet stone and old salt, but the people—if they could be called people—moved in a slow, staggering rhythm.
Lucian thought they looked like wind-up dolls with stiff joints but determined to move.
He stepped down from the carriage, boots touching cracked cobblestones covered with algae.
Candlemere's rain must have traveled through here first. But…why isn't it fresh? The rain lingered like everything else in Staseis: rancid, brackish, and still.
"Stay sharp," he reminded himself.
+
Rosa stood near the carriage, unusually quiet, her hands deep in her apron pocket. She hadn't tried knitting since the memory offering. Her faded brown eyes followed the townscorpses with confusion, like she saw something that didn't quite fit.
"They're not grieving," Lucian said aloud.
"They're not present," Rosa said softly. "Just going through the motions."
True to her observation, the laborers walked without expression—hauling barrels, sweeping clean streets, and shoveling mud into carts only to dump it back where it came from. There was no conversation, no variation.
They didn't even acknowledge him. It was a stark difference to the previous towns, full of life even if they were walking corpses. These people were zombies.
Lucian absently tapped his walking stick on the cobblestones and didn't notice how a few townscorpses suddenly shambled a bit faster, like they didn't want to be cursed.
The carriage driver crossed himself. "I heard from the other drivers—Staseis never sleeps. Not because they're restless…because something won't let them stop."
Lucian's Grimoire rose from his satchel, pages furiously ruffling.
[Codex Entry: Staseis]
Condition: Undead Saturation
Every body rises. Burial method irrelevant.
No passage. No peace. No soul-signal received.
That bothered him. Lucian's brow furrowed. If there's no soul-signal…it's like death never existed. Someone—or something—took it.
He was interrupted by a voice barking from across the plaza.
"You there! Mortician?"
An elderly man in a town guard uniform limped toward him. His right leg was stiff and one eye was milky, but Lucian saw it instantly—the faint tether of undeath pulsing from his ribs.
Well, he knew it was faint. But in Staseis, it was as loud as his own heartbeat.
He was dead, but still here. A walking and thinking body amongst a pile of zombies.
Lucian nodded.
"We don't need your rites here," he said bitterly, as if rite was a filthy word. "Look around--everything runs smooth. No crime, no chaos. That's what we wanted, and that's what we got."
"I was sent because something wasn't working," Lucian replied evenly.
The old man's lip twitched.
"Good luck getting anyone to tell you, then."
Without waiting for a response, he hobbled toward a run-down shop.
Lucian grabbed his Grimoire and gently placed it in its satchel. His eyes scanned the square—the slow-moving laborers, the sealed chapel, the boarded-up tavern that looked like nobody enjoyed drinking. Some shops looked abandoned, but none showed signs of disrepair. But what bothered him the most, was the lack of beggars and idle hands.
From a distance, Staesis looked like shining jewel of efficiency. But the perfection was creepier than the Spymaster, even. It was like someone tried to preserve life by freezing it mid-breath.
This isn't just a cursed town…
It's a machine made of corpses.