The Wrong Kind of Immortality

The summons arrived the morning after he spoke to Alke.

He had expected a follow-up—she had said as much. A meeting with someone from administrative services. A form to sign, perhaps. A handoff procedure for his active projects. The institutional equivalent of returning a library token.

What he hadn’t expected, was being led to the Directorate’s operational wing.

The room he was shown into had a long table and a view of the city he had never seen from this angle. There were two people already present.

Lucan Arctis—whom he had met at the ball—stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back. The other sat at the far end of the table: Edrin Kestel, whom Orestis had not met personally but knew by reputation. Both were executive-level mages.

Well. This is clearly not an exit interview.

“Please, sit,” Arctis said, moving to the table and settling across from Orestis with the easy warmth he remembered from their previous meeting. “We appreciate you making time.”

“Of course,” Orestis nodded.

“Before we get into anything specific—are there any issues with your work? Departmental friction, resource problems, anything we should know about?”

“Nothing. The work has been fine.”

Arctis nodded, satisfied. “Good. Your reason for leaving is personal, then. Family in Theramon.”

“Yes. I’ve been away longer than intended.”

“Understood.” Arctis glanced at Kestel, who gave a slight nod. “Then let me lay out why we’re having this conversation rather than processing your departure.”

He leaned forward. “Your road infrastructure work didn’t just improve the northern corridor—it improved routes across the region. The northern trade artery is now viable year-round, not seasonally. Three departments have built active project frameworks on your analytical models. The projected returns extend across a twenty-year horizon, and that’s a conservative estimate.”

Kestel spoke. “The suppression site yield analysis changed the operational model. Crystal output has been sustained above projections since your recommendations were implemented. The site operates at a level of efficiency we did not believe was achievable without a full lattice rework.” He paused. “You achieved it through footnotes.”

Orestis frowned slightly. As far as he recalled, those footnotes had been about visual symmetry.

Did I miss something? I’ll need to take another look.

Arctis continued. “Beyond that—you were among the analysts selected to review Kallistrate’s training documentation—we don’t make such choices randomly. You’ve provided informal consultation to colleagues across multiple departments, to the point where several have cited your input in their own project filings.” He smiled. “And I’m told a senior colleague snuck in a personal research project to you for review because your feedback would be more useful than the formal review process. That’s just off the top of my head, but it gives you the shape of the problem.”

Orestis sat with that for a moment.

A problem, indeed.

He had known his work was solid—obviously. However, he had not known it had been tracked, aggregated, and formally assessed at this level. Each individual contribution had felt minor—a correction here, an optimisation there. Taken together, apparently, they amounted to something the Directorate considered worth two executive mages’ time.

And here I thought I was doing so well avoiding attention.

“We’d like you to stay,” Arctis said. Simply, directly. “And we’d like to make staying practical.”

“I’m listening.”

“Since your primary concern is family, we’re offering gateway access. Unrestricted, personal use. Theramon isn’t currently in the network, but adding it would be a minor expansion—we can have it operational within a week. You could visit your family daily if you wanted.”

That was significant. Gateway access for personal travel was typically reserved for senior staff. For an analyst—even a productive one—it was unusual.

“Second,” Arctis continued, “you’ll have access to Research Division facilities for independent projects. Standard safety protocols apply, but no oversight requirements beyond that.”

“And the terms are flexible,” Kestel added. “Project-basis is acceptable. You set your own schedule.”

Arctis nodded. “Additionally, we can provide a steady supply of mana crystals. High-capacity, and processed to assist with spell-casting.”

Orestis raised his eyebrows at that unexpected addition. Not that they were offering mana crystals. But processed and high capacity? At a steady supply?

Kestel noted his expression and said, “The suppression site improvements you designed more than justify the allocation—the increased yield makes the cost negligible.”

I really should check on those figures.

Orestis also thought about their offers—each one addressing a different dimension: personal (gateway), intellectual (research), and practical (crystals).

The gateway access solved the family issue entirely—which meant his stated reason for leaving had just been neutralised. Refusing now would require a different explanation, and he didn’t have one that wouldn’t reveal more than he wanted.

The crystals were practically transformative. For someone publicly classified as mana-crippled, external mana stores were the difference between being limited and being functional.

The offers were generous, but they weren’t charity. The Consortium was an institution that thought in systems. Keeping him cost them an additional gateway node—which was a one-time cost and would pay for itself in the long run—mana crystals, and research access. From their perspective, the latter two were things he’d likely use in ways that would generate further value.

Losing him, on the other hand, cost them the analytical frameworks three departments relied on, potential innovation on new research projects, and the informal consultations that had apparently become a quiet institutional dependency.

They’re not being generous. They’re being efficient. The cost of retaining me is lower than the cost of replacing me.

And they’ve structured the offer so that every incentive also produces returns. The crystals come from yield I improved. The research access generates publishable outcomes. The flexible terms mean I produce work without occupying a desk.

This isn’t a retention package. It’s an investment.

At this point, cutting ties would gain him nothing. But maintaining the connection might eventually be useful—with the only cost to him being the occasional analytical work which he could produce in his sleep.

The choice was obvious.

“I’ll stay on a project basis,” he said. “However, the gateway addition isn’t necessary. Since you’re offering mana crystals, I believe I can use the principles used in the new call-nodes to power my own gateways.”

Apart from that, Orestis didn’t want to use their transportation network since it would mean allowing them to track his movements. Or lack of it—which would be more annoying to explain.

There was a brief pause as Arctis and Kestel exchanged a glance. They both nodded.

“That makes things more convenient for us,” Arctis said.

“If you intend to document your research, I’d be interested in reviewing it,” Kestel added.

Orestis nodded. That was simple enough. “I’ll submit it upon completion.”

Arctis said, “One other matter. It was brought to our attention that you’ve been staying at an inn for the duration of your time here.”

“That’s correct.”

“If you’re continuing with the Consortium in any capacity, we’d like to arrange proper accommodation. A residence. Is there a particular area you’d prefer?”

Now that was an interesting offer. Yet another way to anchor him to Orthessa. After all, a permanent residence would introduce friction to departure.

Still, it’s not a bad idea.

“Outside the city, if anything is available.”

Arctis raised an eyebrow. “Most people prefer to be within the walls.”

“I’m not most people.”

Kestel’s mouth twitched. “We’ve noticed.”

***

The Owl was at his desk, as always. He held a quill in each hand—one marking annotations, the other updating a separate document while referencing the slate. He looked up as Orestis entered.

“How was the meeting?” the Owl asked.

Orestis stopped. “You know about the meeting.”

“You told Alke you were leaving. The Directorate scheduled a meeting the following morning. One does not require exceptional deductive ability to connect those events.” The Owl adjusted his glasses. “The Consortium does not let continuity-sensitive assets depart without a conversation. That much is institutional reflex.”

That gave Orestis pause. Continuity-sensitive was a classification term—the highest, in fact. He had no idea his internal designation had been elevated to that extent.

Then, another thought occurred to him. “Wait—how long has it been since I was silently promoted?”

The Owl smiled fractionally. “It’s been almost a year now.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this before?” he asked, unamused.

“You never asked,” he said simply.

Orestis stared at him. The Owl continued writing with the unhurried calm of a man who considered unsolicited information a waste of perfectly good silence. He dipped his quill, paused, then returned to the document. The other hand moved to reload; another pause.

Those quills are remarkably inefficient for someone who writes as much as he does. I should do something about that eventually.

“I need to check the records for Suppression Site O-17,” Orestis said, getting to the point.

The Owl slid a token across the desk. “You’re looking for supplementary notes marked third through fifth.”

Of course he’s aware of what I’m looking for.

***

He told Helena right after returning to the inn.

“I’m moving out,” he said. “The Consortium is arranging a residence.”

They had already given him a list—and he’d already chosen a suitable one. Tentatively. Orestis planned to go take a look at the property later.

Helena set down the cloth she’d been using to wipe the counter. She looked at him for a moment—not surprised, but with the particular expression of someone who had been expecting news and had already decided how to receive it.

“Well,” she said. “It was going to happen eventually. You were too quiet to be a permanent guest.”

He had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

Shouldn’t the quiet ones be the more ideal long-term guests?

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, deciding it was not worth pursuing.

“It was one.” She folded the cloth. “You’re welcome here for meals anytime. The kitchen doesn’t care whether you sleep upstairs.”

“Thank you, Helena.”

“Don’t thank me. Just keep coming back for the pastries. I’ve adjusted the recipe twice because of you, and I refuse to let that effort go to waste.”

He smiled. It was, he suspected, the most genuine farewell he was likely to receive in Orthessa.

***

The house sat twenty minutes east of the city gate, set back from the road behind a low stone wall and a row of trees. It was not large—two floors, solid construction, the kind of building that had been designed to last and then left alone long enough to prove it.

Eirene followed Orestis through the gate, listening as he recounted the meeting that had ended with him being offered the property. He finished the story as they unlocked the main door—he had the key from the Consortium’s property office—a courtesy, given the absence of a formal handover.

“You were surprised,” she said, summarising the tone of everything he’d said.

“It was unexpected,” he agreed. “But then again, after seeing the data from the suppression site—the increase in yield—it was inevitable I’d draw attention. It was just a few messy integrations—negligible on their own. I failed to account for the cumulative effect.”

Did he really think that was the only reason he was noticed? Maybe he did.

“For someone who understands institutions so well, you have a remarkable blind spot for how they see you,” she pointed out.

He gave her a questioning look.

“You didn’t just redesign the suppression site; you restructured their road network, produced analytical work that three departments built projects on, designed artefacts that shouldn’t exist—”

“They don’t know about the artefacts.”

“That’s not the point,” she said, giving him a look. Of course he would focus on a factual detail instead of the social reality.

They moved through the house as they spoke, inspecting the layout. The ground floor held a workroom—spacious, well-lit from two large windows. A small kitchen adjoined it. There was a storage area beyond that.

The upper floor had two bedrooms, a washroom, and a study that overlooked the walled garden in the back. The garden itself was overgrown but structurally intact—stone walls high enough for privacy, a few fruit trees that had been left to their own judgement, and enough open space for outdoor training. Not the sparring, obviously—but for their routine morning exercises.

Orestis moved through the rooms with the methodical attention of someone cataloguing deficiencies. She watched him test a window latch, examine a wall joint, and press his palm flat against the stone near the front door—checking for existing wards, she assumed. Finding none, apparently, because his expression shifted to something between satisfaction and anticipation.

Eirene could tell; he was already planning what to install. Without an innkeeper to object—or neighbours to notice—she expected him to ward every surface in the building. And probably the garden wall too, for good measure.

“No neighbours within earshot,” he observed. “No institutional ward coverage. The tree line blocks sightlines from the road.”

“It’s very you,” she said.

He looked at her. “Meaning?”

“Private. Functional. Nothing unnecessary.”

He considered that, then nodded as though she’d passed a quality assessment rather than made an observation about his personality.

They walked through the garden. The fruit trees were producing despite the neglect—small, hard apples that would need another month. The walls were solid. The space was large enough to be useful without being ostentatious.

“This place will do. You can take whichever bedroom you prefer,” Orestis said, in the same tone he used when noting a structural feature. “No point in you paying for the inn.”

Eirene looked at him.

He was examining the garden wall, testing a stone that had shifted slightly out of alignment. His attention was entirely on the masonry. He had delivered the offer the way he delivered analytical observations—as a statement of practical fact, devoid of subtext, expecting it to be received on precisely those terms.

He had no idea what he’d just said.

Or rather—he knew exactly what he’d said. He’d said that the house had a spare room, and that paying for accommodation she didn’t need was inefficient. To him, that was the entirety of the calculation, which led to the obvious logical conclusion.

Eleuthera’s voice echoed in her mind: He doesn’t even realise that he just asked you to live with him, does he?

Eirene suppressed a smile. It was very obvious that he wasn’t aware.

She could have pointed it out. She could have watched him stumble through an attempt to correct himself. It would have been amusing.

She chose not to.

“That makes sense,” she said, matching his register exactly.

“Good.” He turned back to the wall. “I’ll need to ward the property before we settle in. Shouldn’t take more than a day.”

“I can help,” she offered. It would be good practice—especially given the kind of wards he was likely to use.

He glanced at her, evaluating. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I believe you can.”

“High praise.”

“It was meant to be.”

They went back into the house to check the rooms. The second bedroom was smaller than the first, but had a better view of the garden.

Eirene noted the distance between the two rooms—far enough apart for privacy, close enough to be practical.

She glanced at Orestis, who was still oblivious to what he’d offered.

He’d done it without hesitation, without awkwardness, without any of the careful social choreography that most people would have performed around such an invitation. Because for him, it wasn’t an invitation; it was logistics.

She found that she didn’t mind. The absence of performance was, in its own way, more meaningful than any deliberate gesture. He wasn’t trying to say anything; he was simply making space for her in his life—literally—because it was the practical thing to do.

And if the practical thing happened to align with something she wanted, that was her business.

She chose the room with the garden view.