From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 28: Heavy is the Heart that Mourns

"I can't imagine Staesis as a religious town," Lucian said flatly, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone.

They sat in a circular chamber carved from ancient bedrock beneath the annex—a crypt that felt more like a wound than a room. Rosa sat beside him, unusually quiet, her posture tight. Gethra, calm and practiced, waved her hand. A chipped porcelain tea set shimmered into view on a low tray. She poured four cups and placed them before the group in silence.

The prince—pale, proud, draped in a moth-eaten coat—remained standing. His crown was long gone, but his presence filled the space like old incense.

"Alaric Montegeau," he began, his voice gentle but unflinching. "The twelfth mortician. He wasn't just a servant of death. He was its editor."

Lucian's fingers curled around the chipped teacup. The scent was soothing—lavender, dandelion, and something he couldn't place, like memory steeped in warmth. He lifted his gaze to the grand mural on the opposite wall: a mortician feverishly writing, hunched beneath a flickering candle, surrounded by shadows that looked too human.

He spoke quietly. "The truth is... Alaric rewrote the rites. Not to give people peace. To give himself permission to stop feeling."

The prince nodded, sipping from his own cup. "He consumed silence like medicine, but it became poison. Staesis doesn't want you to know Alaric was undone by grief. Not by fire, not by betrayal—but by the silence that comes after comforting a parent who's buried their third child. After weeks of pretending you're okay."

That, Lucian could understand. He'd always known the weight morticians carried. That's why his funeral parlor back on Earth never allowed more than ten services per director per week. Any more would eat you alive, the owner had once said.

Alexander's voice drifted back. "The road you walk is lonely, Mortician Bowcott. You solve others' problems. No one solves yours."

Lucian felt his stomach drop.

The silence pressed in—thick, cold, like a frost-covered tray resting on his chest. It wasn't a new thought, but now it had shape, voice, and teeth.

He remembered those nights back on Earth. Sitting beside empty caskets in the back room, sipping beer and humming to nobody. It should have bothered him. It hadn't.

Until now.

The prince watched him closely, but not unkindly. "And when you can't stand it anymore... a new mortician is summoned. You are entombed. And the cycle begins again. The mentor's name is forgotten. Their burden is not."

Lucian didn't respond. His eyes burned, but his face held steady. The Grimoire pulsed once in his satchel, as if it already knew. As if it remembered.

"You think you're the first who wanted to change the system?" the prince whispered. "You're not. But you may be the first to admit what it costs."

Lucian stared at the cracked mural again.

"I don't want to entomb anyone," he murmured. "Not even myself."

The prince gestured to the coffins surrounding them, stacked like a half-forgotten archive. "Then wake them. And change this story."

Lucian drank from his cup, then finally faced him fully.

"How did this happen?"

Alexander settled into a low stone chair, joints cracking audibly. Gethra moved to assist him, but he waved her off with a pale, steady hand.

"After Alaric vanished, Staesis mourned for two weeks. That's all. Then it adapted. It took his final rites—his confession—and turned them into civic protocol."

He shook his head, disgusted.

"They removed grief because it was inefficient. Rest caused regression. They drowned death itself because it asked too many questions."

He swept his hand toward the coffins.

"These are the ones who said no."

Some of the figures sat silently in the shadows, neither alert nor asleep. Others shuffled aimlessly through the chamber, dressed like citizens but subtly wrong. Their clothing was pristine, but their expressions vacant—eyes that looked through the world, not at it.

Like someone had tried to recreate humanity but had forgotten to add a soul.

"You've seen what happens to those who remember," Gethra said quietly. "They're corrected. Replaced. These few... they broke the loop, escaped it. But they had nowhere to go. No afterlife. No return."

Lucian drained his cup, his hand shaking. "You kept them here?"

"We gave them a place to stay," the prince corrected softly.

Rosa stirred beside him, murmuring something under her breath. Lucian turned to her, but she wasn't speaking to him—she was looking at one of the loop-breakers. A woman with mousy braids and glassy eyes who smiled at Rosa like they had once shared something.

Rosa looked away, disturbed.

Lucian stepped forward. He laid his hand on the edge of a coffin where a man lay motionless. The man's chest rose and fell slowly. Not dead. Not decayed. Just... paused.

Waiting.

"And you?" Lucian asked, not turning.

The prince let out a hollow laugh, louder than expected. He set his cup down hard enough that it chipped the rim.

"I couldn't bear the weight of the crown. My brother signed the treaty; I refused. That's why he's Mayor Gray, and I'm here."

He stood and adjusted the frayed coat on his shoulders. It bore the faded sigil of Atraeum— a reaper's hand gripping a quill.

"I drink moldy tea in the dark while the loop above collapses in on itself."

Lucian's frown deepened. "Your brother betrayed you."

Alexander looked him in the eye. "He betrayed us all. He replaced prayer and mourning with metrics."

Lucian's cane tapped against the stone. It echoed.

The prince gestured to it. "That doesn't carry Alaric's power. It carries his memories. His exhaustion. His exit. It remembers."

Lucian's throat tightened. "The Queen said he was her most loyal advisor."

"He was," Alexander replied. "And he still left her."

He moved to a narrow alcove and pulled a brittle scroll from a protected shelf. The seal was familiar—coffin and quill. He handed it to Lucian without a word.

Lucian unrolled it slowly. The handwriting was shaky but precise. A mortician's scrawl.

I left not to defy the Crown, but to escape its echo. I cannot carry the pain of a thousand strangers and still remember my own name. Let the next mortician find joy again—if such a thing exists.

Lucian read it again. And again.

The prince placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

"You can't save everyone, Mortician. But you might save the next you."

Lucian looked at Rosa, who stood by the coffins like a guardian made of stitched cloth and defiance. She nodded once, eyes glassy.

Then he looked at the cane in his hand.

"No," Lucian said. "I'm not going to save the next me."

He looked back to Alexander, voice clear and final.

"I'm going to rewrite the reason someone has to come at all."