From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 71: Wax and Ash

He moved like a wraith, slipping through the polished stone halls of Atreaum with calculated silence. Elian couldn’t unchain his Grimoire, but he could glamour its light to look like a regular book.

Too risky to use the front door.

Elian slipped beneath a grate instead and walked beneath the guards patrolling the hallways. His goal was to get to the underground tunnels before daybreak.

As long as he left the castle, the Queen could fake his death for all he cared. Her heart was incredibly fickle. But perhaps it had always been, and Lucian rejecting her summons was the last straw.

"Maybe she has a problem with morticians not following her orders," he muttered, and nearly jumped out of the grate when a guard’s boot stomped on the floor, snuffing out a cigarette.

"Have you heard about Elian?"

He shouldn’t have been surprised to hear his name again.

But this time, it wasn’t from the Queen’s lips.

It was from the guards.

Two of them, seated near the brasswater pump, voices hushed and confused.

"You heard about the execution scroll, right?"

"Yeah, but that’s the weird part. It had Elian’s name on it."

"I thought he was the Queen’s favorite? The replacement for the runaway mortician."

"That’s what we thought. But Lucian left willingly, if you ask me. Didn’t burn bridges. Just rang that bell and vanished."

Elian reached the end of the grate, hopped up, and hid in the shadows. He was near the trap door that led to the underground tunnels.

Just a bit more and I’ll be free.

"You think the Queen’s trying to cover up something? Elian does look a lot like Lucian."

"Sacrificing a lookalike to save face? She seems so different from the young Marguerite Regina we used to know."

The other guard cleared his throat. "Yeah. Pity--Elian always followed orders. I admired his discipline."

You shouldn’t. Discipline was forced on me through pain.

"Exactly," the other said. "That’s what makes him dangerous."

As they walked to swap posts with other guards, Elian opened the trap door and disappeared under the sewer.

+

Queen Marguerite never learned much about her castle outside of the courtroom walls. She never read about the real maps--especially since Elian stole them once, after a particularly painful punishment.

They were paths carved by the blood and sweat of laborers, deep under the earth like veins of ash and coal. Only the ones who’d died buried alive ever remembered them.

Enduring his training meant distracting his mind, and the maps had done their job. Elian had them memorized. He even annotated them at one point, with shortcuts drawn in the folds of ancient pages.

But he wouldn’t stalk Lucian just yet.

Not until he visited Candlemere. The land where wax never hardened, and the final shards of his stolen childhood still flickered warm in the dark.

It was dim in the underground network, but the gentle glow of the Shadowrite Grimoire never failed him. As he walked through the tunnel, he could feel the metaphorical chains binding him to Atreaum disappear.

"If you wanted to kill me, Marguerite," he said darkly, "at least give me a fighting chance."

But she wouldn’t, so he had to make sure he got one.

+

Candlemere

-

Even in a world where rites, gods, and saints were sacred, Candlemere felt different. Elian’s boots felt lighter as he walked the dusty streets of the city, trees heavy with wax fruit and various sculptures decorating every house.

And the candles. All of the candles. The city had a gentle darkness around it that only a lit candle could cure. Here, the candles never dripped or died. They just burned, and released scents and memories with the smoke.

Elian had no problem finding the chapel--it barely changed, unlike him. He used the brass knocker and a soft presence met him at the door.

Brother Frederick was still dressed in robes from tallow-thread and linen. His face was gentle, and still had scars from the way he died. When the Brother held Elian’s hands in greeting, they were warm.

Warm from devotion instead of glyphs.

+

Inside the chapel, Elian was greeted by Brother Edward and Father John. They too had changed very little in the humid city.

"Welcome back, Elian." they said softly. "Long time no see."

"Thank you. I shouldn’t have," he murmured, lifting his head. In the brief flash of candlelight, they gasped when they saw his glyph wounds.

"What happened to you?"

"Far too much, Brother Edward. Far too much."

Father John nodded and said simply, "Well...what brings your return?"

Elian looked around at the church and said quietly, "Nostalgia. The candles aren’t scary anymore." He remembered how beautifully depressing the candles used to be, hand-poured by the one and only Tallowman.

"Ah, yes. Michael is at peace now, from Mima. She still visits in the evenings."

Elian said softly, "Was it because of Lucian?"

Brother Edward smiled. "Yes. He had a rite that helped Mima reach Michael. Made it safer to burn the candles."

He couldn’t bring himself to express anger. Lucian had been assigned to the Tallowman, and Elian saw firsthand how carefully he brought Mima’s memories to light. In his version of events, he had chosen to help the Tallowman move forward without the bearcat.

In the Shadow World, that Candlemere’s Tallowman had evolved into a wax horror artist. He’d always thought the sculptures he made were beautifully haunting. This one was a different version, but they were both contented.

I was made to believe my version was better, but the Other Tallowman still stared out into the distance sometimes...like he can hear his bearcat. It was her crying that made it difficult. Eventually she moved on as well.

...but I wish I was kinder to that bearcat. She loved him.

Unfortunately, the assignment was to do different things to achieve the same result. Helping them move past their pain instead of living with it.

"I see. I’d just like to sit here for a bit, if that’s all right." He didn’t have any more questions.

And between the four of them, the space was filled with silence and understanding. It was comforting to know that the church hadn’t changed, even if he was different.

Then--

"Do you remember what you used to pray for?"

Elian stared into the largest candle’s flame.

"I prayed to feel something."

"And?"

"I was punished for it."

The priest nodded slowly. "Not by the Goddess of Wax."

"No. The Goddess of Wax would agree with revisiting memories."

Elian closed his eyes. "I came here before I leave. To be seen once. As more than her blade."

Father John said quietly, "But my child...you were always more."

+

Outside the Annex

-

Alice sat comfortably in the shade of a twisted pine tree, the Loom resting beside her in its leather case.

Lucian had entrusted it to her as he spoke with Gethra. "You can hold the Loom," he had said, and she knew it was true. She met the Spinnermaid. Even if she wasn’t her direct successor, Alice could still learn to weave.

Their conversation looked serious, and she didn’t want to distract them. So she tried something on her own.

A single thread unspooled from her palm—silvery blue. The kind of color that belonged to the edge of a cloud just before rain. Alice shaped it into a loop, whispered her wish, and tried to weave.

Nothing happened.

She tried again.

The Loom twitched, but she couldn’t make the thread form into cloth.

Alice breathed deeply and tried again.

It resisted, like it was testing her.

"I’m not Rosa," she admitted. "But I’m not a nobody."

The thread shimmered and turned a light pink.

But still, nothing.

So she did something daring.

Alice took a needle and pricked her finger.

A single drop of blood colored the pink thread. And then, the glyph took shape. It wasn’t pretty or sanctioned, but it was hers.

It looked like a spiral.

Or the melody of a half-forgotten lullaby.

It was a glyph of continuance.

For the first time, Alice felt the not-blood in her pulse quicken. The air hushed and even the soil at her feet felt just a bit softer.

Then the Loom unlatched--just the tiniest bit.

Alice grinned.

"It’s a start."

+

The Frozen North

Sometimes Gabriel couldn’t believe how dramatic some people were. He stood alone at the edge of Frost Hollow Mountain, snow frozen mid-fall around him. His mask glinted under the moonlight.

His gloves were itching to enact a verdict that had not yet fallen. Gabriel continued to meditate, unmoving.

And then, with a soft swish of her skirt, the Marionette arrived. She moved like dust-made silk, sleeves hiding her ball-joints. Behind her were five slightly smaller puppets, all wearing the same midnight-blue dress and veil. Her thread-voice hummed softly and all five of them sat in the snow, completely unbothered.

"You’re early," she commented, stopping six feet from him.

Gabriel said nothing.

Only turned slightly, acknowledging her presence.

"You know why I’m here."

Still silence.

She lowered her head.

"You’ve always been a servant of justice," she said. "But what if the record was wrong?"

Gabriel moved his head the slightest bit, but still seemed disinterested.

So the Marionette stretched one ball-jointed hand and a puppet handed her a basket. She took out four strips of bark, sealed in wax. They were old and burnt, but the glyphs were still legible.

"These were the very first codex records. In the days before the Loom or the Archive. Even before Queen Marguerite’s grandmother summoned the first court mortician. They recorded rites of remembrance, not punishment."

She got as close as she dared to Gabriel and gently placed it in the snow.

"Until someone changed them. Bark is so delicate, and it would have been simple, in the olden days, to rewrite a glyph."

Gabriel tilted his head, just slightly. He knew she wasn’t lying. The old glyph scribes had much more energy to spend, because of their intimate connection with nature.

It was a small seed, but she had succeeded in the planting. In the full moonlight, Gabriel’s shadow flickered.

"You’ve never doubted, have you?"

Still nothing.

So she leaned closer.

"I stitched life from what was broken. But you? You deliver death because someone told you it was balance."

She smiled, sad and proud.

"Maybe I am a heretic."

She pressed the second strip into the snow.

"But I never lied."

Gabriel stepped forward.

One pace.

Two.

The mask’s eyes shimmered.

Not with light.

With memory.

+

The Loom pulsed violently and Alice turned toward the trees. "A thread just moved," she announced. Gethra and Lucian were at her side instantly.

"Whose?" Gethra asked, a deep frown on her glossy lips.

Alice didn’t know how to answer.

But in the very center of the Loom’s woven core...

One new thread had emerged.

Ash-colored, and stitched with a glyph none of them had ever seen before.