Chapter 12 — Indexing
Night did not fall all at once.
It arrived in increments—measured, filed, and approved.
The forest darkened the way a library does after closing hours: shadows stretching neatly between trunks, sounds dampening as if wrapped in cloth. Even the insects seemed to follow a schedule, their chorus thinning into something subdued and deliberate.
I didn't like it.
We made camp where the stream curved away from the path, far enough from the water's murmur to hear approaching steps, close enough to justify stopping. Valerius chose the site. Of course she did. Clear sightlines. No obvious symbolic significance. No landmarks that might get remembered.
I watched her work with quiet envy.
She existed cleanly.
Puck fluttered down beside me as I stacked fallen branches into something that resembled a fire lay. "You're thinking too loud again."
"I always think loud."
"No, this is new," he said. "This is indexed thinking. Very rigid. Very 'please don't cite me.'"
I grimaced. "You're not helping."
"Statistically untrue. Emotional support counts even when annoying."
Valerius finished her circuit and returned, wings folding fully now. That alone told me something. "We're not alone," she said.
I stiffened. "How close?"
"Not spatially," she replied. "Procedurally."
That was worse.
I sparked the fire without margins—actual flint, actual sparks. It took longer. My hands blistered. I didn't care. The flame caught eventually, small and honest.
The Shard remained quiet.
Too quiet.
We ate in silence. Dried rations. Water that tasted faintly of copper and old paper. I noticed the way my reflection bent in the firelight—not distorted, exactly, but… sorted. As if the light preferred some angles of me more than others.
"I don't like this," I said finally.
Puck looked offended. "I've been saying that since page one."
"This isn't dread," I clarified. "It's anticipation. Like the universe cleared its desk."
Valerius nodded once. "Because it has."
She met my gaze directly. No softening. No reassurance.
"The Curator doesn't pursue anomalies immediately," she continued. "It observes first. Determines category. Determines cost."
"Cost," I repeated.
"Everything archived has one."
The fire crackled.
Somewhere in the dark, a branch snapped.
Not close. Not far.
Intentional.
I rose halfway before Valerius lifted a hand. "Wait."
The sound came again.
Then footsteps—slow, unhurried, careful not to break rhythm.
A figure emerged from between the trees.
He looked… normal.
That was the problem.
A man in a long, ash-grey coat, edges worn thin. Dark hair pulled back neatly. Hands empty. No visible weapons. His face held the polite neutrality of someone trained never to provoke comment.
He stopped just beyond the firelight.
"Arthur Hale," he said calmly. "Index-confirmed."
My blood went cold.
Puck hissed. Valerius's rapier slid free in a whisper of steel.
The man inclined his head slightly. "Please don't escalate. I'm not authorized for enforcement."
"Then what are you authorized for?" I asked.
"Verification."
Of course.
He stepped closer, allowing the firelight to touch him.
And then I saw it.
His shadow didn't align.
It lagged—just a fraction of a second behind his movements.
Like mine.
"You left residue," he said conversationally. "Unusual density. Clean edges. Suggests first-generation margin claimant rather than iterative corruption."
I swallowed. "You're with the Curator."
"I work under the Curator," he corrected gently. "Archivist Second Class. Elias Rowe."
He reached into his coat.
Valerius's blade lifted a hair higher.
Elias paused. "May I?"
I didn't answer.
He withdrew his hand slowly, revealing a thin slate—stone, metal, something else. Symbols crawled across its surface, rearranging themselves as they settled.
"I'm here to log you," he said. "Not capture. Not correct. Simply… record."
"I don't consent," I said.
Elias smiled faintly. "Consent is preferred. Not required."
The pressure returned.
Not force.
Focus.
It was like standing under a magnifying glass—not burning, just unbearably noticed.
The Shard stirred.
Careful.
I felt the margins around me tighten—not reacting, not flaring, just… bracing.
"What happens after you log me?" I asked.
Elias tilted his head. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you remain singular."
Valerius stepped forward. "He is under my protection."
Elias regarded her with professional interest. "Yes. Winged adjutant. Non-native jurisdiction. Your claim is noted but not binding."
Puck bristled. "You can't just note people."
Elias looked at him. "That is literally my function."
I laughed.
It slipped out sharp and humorless. "You measured me. You watched. And now you send a clerk?"
"A compliment," Elias said mildly. "Clerks come before auditors."
That did not help.
The Shard pulsed.
Not warning.
Prompting.
I understood suddenly.
This wasn't an attack.
This was a form.
If I resisted, I'd escalate myself.
If I complied, I'd be categorized.
Either way—
I stepped forward.
Not into the margins.
Into the firelight.
"I have a condition," I said.
Elias blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You record," I continued steadily. "But you don't interpret."
Valerius sucked in a breath. "Arthur—"
"No summaries. No extrapolations. No predictive tagging."
Elias studied me now—not with pressure, but curiosity.
"Those are… unusual demands."
"So am I."
Silence stretched.
Then Elias nodded slowly. "Conditional acceptance. You will be marked as volatile, non-derivable."
I had no idea what that meant.
But the pressure eased.
He tapped the slate once.
Reality twitched.
It felt like being underlined.
Then it passed.
Elias stepped back. "You may proceed," he said. "For now."
"For now," I echoed.
He inclined his head again. "Do try not to create new margins unnecessarily. They complicate shelving."
And with that, he turned and walked back into the forest.
No rush.
No threat.
Just procedure.
The moment he vanished, I collapsed onto the log, heart hammering.
Puck stared at me. "You negotiated with bureaucracy."
"I hate bureaucracy," I said weakly.
"Yes," Valerius replied. "But bureaucracy hates unpredictability more."
I looked down at my hands.
They were steady.
The Shard hummed—low, grounded.
Not approval.
Alignment.
"They indexed me," I said.
"Yes," Valerius agreed.
"But they didn't own me."
"No."
I stared into the fire as sparks spiraled upward and vanished into the dark.
I wasn't free.
I wasn't safe.
But I wasn't erased.
Not yet.
And somewhere, in a vast impossible archive, my name now existed—
With an asterisk.