From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 81: The Ledger and the Loom

Gethra unrolled the Royal Prophecy Codex with the same reverence one would give to an atom bomb.

It was a thick tome, inked in three languages: Old Atreaum, Crown, and the Divine Tongue. Most of the entires had glyph signatures from Crown scholars. A few were sealed with blood glyphs and could only be read by royalty or celestial beings.

Gethra, being a former angel, found it easy to unlock. Lucian stood nearby watching how her index finger moved across the page--until it paused over a passage.

"This is where he was," she whispered. "The mortician that came before the 13th."

"You’re sure? I thought that was Alaric."

"I thought so too. But I don’t forget a thread once I’ve seen it." She pressed her hand to the page, and Lucian’s Grimoire twitched. From its leather case, the Loom rattled.

"Let’s see. According to this, there should have been twelve before Elian and you. Alaric is officially the twelfth mortician. But this record...it skips. See here? There’s a burn mark between the eleventh and the thirteenth."

Lucian leaned closer. The place where the erased name should have been was stitched with false glyphs and mirrored symbols that looked official—but said nothing.

"Born in blood. Tempered by frost. Delivered into silence."

Gethra’s lip curled. "That’s a memory-stopper. Prophecy-neutralizing spell. The Queen didn’t want people to remember him—or what he was trying to do."

Lucian asked quietly, "What was he trying to do?"

Gethra reached behind her back and pulled. For a moment, a slight twinge of pain crossed her face. There was a slightly bloody feather, white with red around the edges.

She tapped the corner of the burnt line with it. The line curled outward and revealed one final glyph scratched into the margin.

It was spindle-shaped.

And the moment the Loom recognized it, a whisper echoed through the library:

"He tried to rethread fate."

Lucian stared.

Lucian’s Grimoire opened and displayed two sentences.

[CODEX UPDATE]

Erased Mortician (Unknown)

Role: Archivist of the Thread Between Realms

Cause of Disappearance: Treason by Reweaving

Gethra drew a sharp breath.

"The Spinnermaid wasn’t afraid of death." she said. "And the Queen was afraid someone would try to finish what he started."

Lucian whispered, "And then the Maid chose me."

The former angel nodded. "I think you should try going to Mimea, the village of Pantomime."

Lucian tilted his head in confusion. "Pantomime?"

She adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses and said seriously, "Yes. In Mimea, funerals are performed in pantomime. Nobody speaks of grief. It is forbidden to do so."

+

Alice sat curled on the floor, hands clutched around her sketchbook like a shield. She had stopped speaking a few minutes ago.

Lucian didn’t touch her. Instead, he sat nearby, quiet and patient.

Alice isn’t a project for me to fix. I have to support her. And sometimes that just means...a lot of waiting. Seeing what she’ll do. I feel like a parent waiting for my child to discover their magical gift, or something...

The Loom trembled in its case, sensing the frayed tension in Alice’s thread. In his mind’s eye, Lucian saw her thread, but it wasn’t snapped or broken. Instead, it split in the middle--like two memories were competing for control.

One was hers, and the other was Rosa’s. The more the threads unraveled, the more Lucian wondered if Rosa’s sacrifice was from the heart. Sometimes it seemed like an escape--so Alice would deal with reality.

"Or maybe I just miss her. Grief sucks." Lucian muttered as he nervously drank his tea.

+

Merry hovered at the library’s door, worry carved into every line of her brow. Her dark-blue hair was done in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing a green dress instead of her traveling clothes.

"Can she undo it?" she whispered.

"No," Lucian said. "Not alone."

Alice stirred, and her voice was like frost on the tips of branches.

"She opened me."

Merry took a step forward.

"She? Who?"

Alice’s hand moved. Trembling.

She pointed at the glyph burned into the sketchbook page.

It wasn’t a drawing anymore.

It was a door.

Lucian saw it shimmer. It wasn’t a dream, or an illusion. Instead, it was a memory.

But not hers.

Ah yes. We’re not only dealing with Rosa or Alice anymore. Now we also have Serafina. Things couldn’t be more complicated with her... Lucian thought, and was glad no one could read his thoughts.

"The Marionette?" he asked gently.

Alice shook her head. Her pale pink lips shaped the words she didn’t say aloud:

"Not mother. Serafina."

Lucian took a slow breath.

Then, softly: "You don’t have to go in alone."

She shook her head.

"I do. It’s mine. Even if it isn’t all me."

He didn’t move.

But he extended his hand.

"Then let me be nearby. So when it hurts, you’re not alone with it."

She looked at him. Not at his face. At his hand.

Then placed hers in it.

The memory door opened, and they fell into it together.

+

They awakened in a room blanketed with velvet and thread. Red cords hung like veins from the ceiling, braided through pages of parchment and silk gowns.

The Marionette sat in a tall chair, and a smaller puppet wearing a beautiful dark blue gown was on her lap. The puppet’s hair was in rich chocolate-brown waves cascading down her back, tied back neatly with a pink ribbon.

Lucian guessed that was how Alice saw Serafina--especially since her face was a complete blur.

She was holding something as the Marionette sewed. When she heard their footsteps, both women didn’t bother looking up.

The little puppet piped up, "You shouldn’t be here."

When they didn’t leave, the Marionette spoke now. "Didn’t you hear my darling daughter? You shouldn’t be here. Please leave."

Her voice was the same one Alice heard in dreams. The one that scolded and soothed in equal measure.

Alice stepped forward.

"This is my thread. You buried it."

"I protected it," the Marionette said. "Rosa couldn’t handle what happened. She asked me to tuck it away."

"I’m not Rosa."

The needle paused mid-air.

"No," the Marionette said. "You’re what’s left of her. Hope. And hope is dangerous."

Behind them, the Loom appeared—frayed at the edges. Lucian gripped it. Not to pull Alice back. To steady it.

Alice’s voice trembled, but she spoke to the Marionette directly.

"Tell me what she wanted to forget. Please," she added hastily.

The Marionette exhaled. The velvet walls fluttered like lungs, and Serafina made a sound of displeasure.

"She died," the woman said. "Not her body. But her choice. Her right to become somebody. She gave that up for Alice."

But will Alice--Rosa’s hope--give up for Serafina? Would that even be a good choice? Lucian didn’t know the answer to that. What he did know, however, was sacrificing girls for another one did not feel good.

He didn’t want to see another friend die and give way to a new person. Especially since this person was supposed to be the "final form."

Before he could voice his opinion, however, the memory began to twist.

+

A brand-new figure appeared in the room, exuding royalty and authority. She raised her head.

Queen Marguerite, in a black velvet dress. Instead of hiding behind her veil, she had her dead side on full display. The other half of her face was completely devoid of flesh. Instead, there was ivory bone and a bright blue flame in the eye socket.

She was smiling, and the little puppet was standing next to her, on a table.

Serafina.

She was completely tethered, both arms spread to the sky with thin string. And on her chest was a glyph for containment. Like Elian, it was branded to her porcelain skin.

It wasn’t for protection.

Lucian’s jaw clenched. But he didn’t step forward.

He kept holding Alice’s hand, and Alice kept watching. Behind the Queen was the Marionette, and it was a peculiar-looking family.

The thought of them being classified as family made Lucian’s stomach turn.

"You sealed her?" she asked.

"She begged me to," the Marionette whispered. "She said... ’If I forget, I won’t have to feel it.’"

"And what about me?" Alice asked. "What do I get to remember?"

Her voice sounded so small and sad. Lucian squeezed her hand comfortingly, and his heart felt at ease when she squeezed back.

The Marionette--mother--turned to face her. Instead of water, blue thread ran down her cheeks.

"You? You get to choose, Alice."

Alice glanced at the Queen’s hand, and the girl on the table--who had once been her. Before she splintered into Rosa. And now, her name was Alice.

And then she regained her voice. Clearly, Alice whispered:

"Then I choose not to forget."

The memory flared—

And rewound itself.

+

Instead of shaking, Alice stood tall in the room. Instead of her hand, Lucian was holding the Loom, his breath shallow.

I can’t believe that just happened.

The door sealed behind them.

And the sketchbook page now bore a new glyph. Lucian frowned. So far, it looked untranslatable.

But it glowed with Alice’s name.

+

From the far side of the continent, in a throne of silence—

The Marionette opened her eyes.

She had felt it.

The girl remembered.

And the Queen had just lost her last excuse to keep pretending she never existed.