Chapter 63: Shadows Between Names
The palace was unusually quiet.
That alone was enough to make Mason suspicious.
Palaces weren’t supposed to be quiet. Not this one.
Normally there were servants rushing through corridors, officials arguing over policies, guards changing shifts, nobles pretending to be important, and somewhere in the distance a priest dramatically predicting disaster.
Today felt different.
The silence felt deliberate.
As though the entire palace had collectively decided to whisper.
Mason sat near a window overlooking the eastern gardens while pretending to read one of the recovered Witness records.
Pretending being the important part.
Because he had read the same sentence five times already.
Nothing was entering his brain.
His thoughts remained elsewhere.
Specifically...
’Mason.’
Athlian groaned inside his head.
’You’re thinking about it again.’
"Can you blame me?"
’Yes.’
"I asked him."
’Several times.’
"And he still doesn’t know."
Athlian remained silent.
That irritated him.
Because she wasn’t denying it.
Draca truly didn’t know.
Every time Mason questioned him about the name, the commander looked genuinely confused.
Not guilty.
Not evasive.
Confused.
As if he honestly couldn’t explain why the name kept slipping out.
The worst part?
Mason believed him.
That was becoming a dangerous habit.
Trusting Draca.
Depending on Draca.
Looking for Draca whenever things became difficult.
Looking for him far too often.
The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts.
Mason glanced up and immediately sighed.
"You’re becoming predictable."
Draca stopped beside the table. "I was about to say the same thing."
"Impossible."
"Why?"
"Because I’m a goddess."
The commander sat opposite him.
"That explanation loses effectiveness every time you use it."
"It still works."
"It really doesn’t."
Mason clicked his tongue.
Draca looked tired mentally.
The past few weeks had been relentless.
Investigations.
Political disputes.
Witness records.
Tribunal pressure.
The commander was carrying too many responsibilities. Yet somehow he still found time to check on him.
Mason hated noticing that.
Mostly because it made him feel warm.
And he absolutely refused to examine that feeling.
"So."
Draca leaned back. "You’ve been avoiding everyone."
"I haven’t."
"You ignored two council summons."
"Those were optional."
"They weren’t."
"Details."
The commander shook his head.
A faint smile appeared briefly.
Then it disappeared.
His expression became serious.
"We received another report."
Mason immediately regretted asking.
"About the symbols?"
Draca nodded.
"Three more."
That got his attention. "Inside the palace?"
"One inside the palace."
"Where?"
"A storage chamber."
Not particularly alarming.
Until Draca continued. "The room hasn’t been used for almost seventy years."
Mason frowned. "How do they know?"
"Records."
That wasn’t comforting.
Nothing involving records was comforting anymore.
Every ancient document seemed determined to ruin somebody’s day.
Athlian suddenly stirred.
Unease washed through their shared consciousness.
Mason felt it immediately. "What is it?"
No answer.
Only anxiety.
That alone worried him.
Draca noticed the change in his expression. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
The commander stared.
Mason stared back.
Several seconds passed.
Neither moved.
Finally Draca sighed. "You are a terrible liar."
"Thank you."
"That wasn’t a compliment."
"I accepted it as one."
A nearby servant snorted before quickly pretending not to have heard anything.
Draca pinched the bridge of his nose.
Mason felt oddly satisfied.
For several moments neither spoke.
The silence felt comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
Then Draca spoke again. "The tribunal envoy requested access to the lower archives."
Mason’s smile vanished. "Again?"
"Again."
That wasn’t good.
The envoy had become increasingly aggressive.
Officially she claimed transparency was necessary.
Unofficially?
Nobody trusted her.
Not Zereth.
Not Draca.
Not the archivists.
Certainly not Mason.
She asked too many specific questions.
Questions that suggested prior knowledge.
Questions that shouldn’t exist.
"Did Zereth approve it?"
"No."
Good.
At least someone still possessed common
sense.
Draca folded his arms. "The refusal created problems."
"Political problems?"
"Several."
Of course.
Everything became political eventually.
Mason hated politics.
Politics was just people lying professionally.
A familiar voice interrupted them.
"An unexpectedly accurate description."
Mason groaned.
Assura.
The ancient immortal appeared from seemingly nowhere and settled into the
empty chair beside them.
Nobody invited him.
He never cared.
Draca looked mildly annoyed.
Mason looked openly annoyed.
Assura looked pleased. "The two of you are becoming predictable."
"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Because it’s true."
Mason glared.
Assura ignored it.
His attention shifted toward Draca. "How many symbols now?"
The commander frowned. "How do you know about that?"
He smiled.
Which answered absolutely nothing.
"Six."
The immortal’s expression changed slightly.
Only slightly.
Yet Mason noticed.
Concern.
Real concern.
That was rare.
Very rare.
"What?"
Assura looked toward the gardens.
"The number bothers me."
"Why?"
The immortal remained silent.
Mason immediately knew he wasn’t getting an answer.
Still.
He tried.
"You’re going to say something cryptic, aren’t you?"
"Most likely."
"Please don’t."
Assura considered the request.
Then ignored it.
"Patterns matter."
Mason groaned. "There it is."
"The symbols aren’t appearing randomly."
Draca leaned forward. "What does that mean?"
"I don’t know."
That surprised both of them.
Assura rarely admitted ignorance.
The immortal’s gaze hardened.
"But someone is recreating a path."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Mason sat upright.
"A path?"
Assura nodded slowly.
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps?"
"Or perhaps they’re leaving one."
"That’s not helpful."
"No."
"It really isn’t."
Assura smiled faintly.
The conversation ended there.
Because that was apparently all the information he intended to provide.
Mason wanted to throw something at him.
Unfortunately palace law frowned upon assaulting ancient immortals.
The rest of the afternoon passed inside the archives.
Several scholars examined recovered records.
Zereth led most of the discussion.
As usual.
He looked exhausted.
Yet he continued working.
Page after page.
Record after record.
Searching.
Comparing.
Cross-referencing.
Mason honestly didn’t understand how he remained functional.
At some point Zereth approached the table.
A document rested beneath his arm.
"I found something."
Nobody liked those words anymore.
Every discovery created three new mysteries.
Zereth unfolded the page.
The parchment was damaged.
Most of the text had vanished.
Only fragments survived.
Mason read carefully.
The mark identifies those who remember.
Nothing unusual there.
Then he read the next surviving sentence.
And froze.
Those without names must still be witnessed.
Silence filled the table.
Nobody spoke or moved.
Mason felt a strange chill.
The sentence shouldn’t mean anything.
Yet somehow it did.
Athlian reacted immediately.
Fear.
Confusion.
Recognition.
The emotions crashed through him before disappearing.
Mason nearly dropped the page.
Zereth noticed.
Of course he did.
The immortal noticed everything.
"You’ve seen something."
It wasn’t a question.
Mason forced himself to remain calm.
"No."
A lie.
A terrible lie.
Zereth clearly didn’t believe him.
Neither did Draca.
Fortunately neither pushed.
For now.
The discussion eventually shifted elsewhere.
Witness records.
Contradictory histories.
Missing documents.
Political implications.
Mason heard very little.
His thoughts remained trapped on a single sentence.
Those without names must still be witnessed.
Why did it feel familiar?
Why did it feel important?
Why did it frighten Athlian?
Hours later he finally escaped.
Night had already fallen.
The palace corridors were nearly empty.
A welcome change.
Mason desperately needed silence.
Unfortunately, silence lasted exactly three minutes.
"You’ve been avoiding me."
He stopped walking.
Zereth stood near an archway ahead.
Of course.
The one person he didn’t want to see.
The immortal approached slowly.
Calm and measured.
Watching him carefully.
Mason immediately became defensive.
"I’ve been busy."
"You’ve been hiding."
"That’s dramatic."
"It’s accurate."
Annoyingly accurate.
Zereth stopped beside him.
The familiar scent of incense lingered around him.
Mason stepped back instinctively.
The immortal noticed.
Something flickered across his expression.
Disappointment.
It vanished quickly.
But not quickly enough.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Zereth sighed. "You’re angry."
"About?"
He looked directly at him.
"That’s the problem."
Mason froze.
Because he knew exactly what Zereth meant.
Athlian.
The missing nights.
The unexplained familiarity.
The things nobody discussed.
The things everyone avoided.
Zereth’s voice softened. "I don’t know what changed."
Mason looked away because he didn’t know either.
The immortal moved closer.
Not enough to touch him.
Just enough to feel familiar.
"You’re different."
Athlian stirred violently.
Mason clenched his jaw. "I’m tired."
"That’s not what I mean."
Of course it wasn’t.
Zereth studied him carefully.
Searching.
Looking for something.
Proof.
Confirmation.
Answers.
He wouldn’t find any.
Not tonight.
Finally he stepped back.
The distance felt strangely disappointing.
Which annoyed Mason immensely.
"Get some rest."
"That’s your advice?"
"For once, yes."
Mason watched him leave.
His chest felt tight.
Confused.
Frustrated.
Athlian remained silent.
Too silent.
Back inside his chambers he collapsed onto the bed.
Exhaustion settled over him immediately.
The investigation.
The politics.
The symbols.
The dreams.
Everything was becoming heavier.
More complicated.
Athlian finally spoke. ’I’m sorry.’
Mason blinked.
That was unexpected.
"For what?"
Silence.
Then:
’For making things difficult.’
His expression softened.
Athlian almost never apologized.
Which meant she genuinely meant it.
Unfortunately it didn’t answer anything.
And that was the problem.
Too many questions.
Not enough truth.
Sleep eventually claimed him.
And the dream returned.
The endless shelves.
The impossible library.
Rows upon rows stretching into darkness.
He walked forward.
The same voices echoed ahead.
Closer this time.
Clearer.
Several shadowed figures stood around a table.
Documents covered the surface.
Maps.
Records.
Lists.
One figure spoke.
"The names are disappearing faster."
Another answered.
"Then write them again."
A third voice sounded frightened.
"It won’t matter."
Silence followed.
Then someone else laughed.
Not happily.
Bitterly.
"We were never protecting history."
The room trembled.
The shelves shook.
The dream began breaking apart.
Yet one final sentence reached him.
Clearer than anything before.
"Find the seventh mark."
Everything shattered.
Mason woke instantly.
Breathing hard.
Darkness surrounded him.
The room was silent.
Then he noticed something.
Something resting on the table near the window.
A folded piece of parchment.
His stomach tightened.
He knew that table had been empty before sleeping.
Slowly he stood.
Crossed the room.
And picked it up.
No seal.
No signature.
Only a single sentence written across the page.
The seventh mark has already been found.
Mason stared.
Cold dread crawled down his spine.
Because beneath the sentence...someone had drawn the symbol.
And this version contained a detail none of the others had.
A seventh line.
