Orestis spent the remainder of the day—and part of the next—at the outpost, working through the existing frameworks with deliberate care. The work was unhurried and unremarkable, the sort that left no visible trace of effort beyond a steady accumulation of notes and revisions.

  Which is exactly how I prefer my work to look. Effortless things attract less scrutiny than impressive ones.

  By the time he was finished, he had a clear understanding of how the system was behaving, and a workable sense of how to correct it.

  The site’s purpose was simple: disperse excess mana before it inconvenienced the nearby city. A secondary function, added later, siphoned part of that accumulation away, teleporting it at fixed intervals to a crystallisation facility for harvesting.

  A small remainder, however, was neither dispersed nor harvested. It seeped into the ground beneath the site, the result of a gradual misalignment in the original lattice caused by slow, unremarked shifts in the land.

  He did not attempt to restore the original alignment. The surrounding land was already saturated with mana; forcing the lattice back into place would displace the accumulated mana all at once. The resulting ecological shift would be extensive, unpredictable, and impossible to contain.

  Instead, he designed for continuity. The framework would hold the current alignments, correct minor drift as it occurred, and flag anything it could not resolve on its own. Ongoing stress—whether from expanded testing, seismic activity, or prolonged use—would be redistributed laterally rather than allowed to deepen existing strain.

  As for the excess mana, it would be redirected into the existing teleportation channels, relieving local pressure while improving overall yield.

  Each element assumed the others might fail. None of them was permitted to resolve the problem on its own.

  When he reviewed the result, he frowned. The solution was sound, but too coherent. The techniques were slightly too novel, the interactions too clean. Systems like this attracted attention, and attention was rarely an improvement.

  Orestis sighed and began reworking his designs. The framework would need to use simpler spell structures, even though doing so would increase the overall lattice size. Avoiding more efficient shortcuts was irritating, but necessary.

  Once it was done, he looked over it again. Now it looked too clean.

  He adjusted the design once more—introducing minor irregularities, a few restrained deviations that kept the framework from reading as uniformly deliberate.

  Deliberate imperfection. The things I do for plausibility.

  That, finally, satisfied him. He gathered the diagrams, stacked them neatly, and placed them in his satchel. The report was ready for submission.

  Orestis turned to leave, then paused. He turned and looked over the existing system and felt a brief, unmistakable irritation.

  It really is a mess.

  The system, as it was now, was layered without direction, patched where necessary, and left alone where it happened to function. Newer spellwork had been added wherever it fit, reinforced as needed, with no concern for how the whole of it read once the immediate problem was solved.

  None of it was wrong, exactly. It simply had no reason to look the way it did.

  Might as well adjust the integrations while I’m here.

  It only took him an extra hour. The changes were minor and had no effect on output, but the system behaved more predictably afterward. It also looked considerably less offensive.

  I’ll add the changes as a footnote. Thirty-eight footnotes, technically, but who’s counting.

  ***

  The submission office was quiet in the late afternoon. Orestis waited his turn, satchel resting against his ankle, and watched the counter advance by one without feeling any urgency to hurry it along.

  When his turn came, he set the folder down and slid it across.

  “Supplemental report,” he said. “Follow-up to Suppression Site O-17-5 case file.”

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  The clerk nodded, already pulling the reference up. There was no pause, no surprise at the volume of diagrams, no attempt to skim. The folder was opened only long enough to confirm that everything was present, then closed again.

  “Consultant submission,” the clerk said, making a note on the form. The report was linked to the existing case, marked as supplementary, and filed without ceremony.

  A short form appeared. Title, scope, affected systems. Orestis answered concisely, selecting defaults where offered. Implementation notes were left blank. Urgency remained at standard. Cross-department relevance was not flagged.

  The clerk stamped the receipt and tore off the lower portion.

  “Logged,” she said, handing it to him. “If Oversight needs clarification, they’ll contact you.”

  Orestis nodded, already tucking the slip away. There was nothing else to add.

  He stepped back from the counter and made room for the next person, the folder no longer in his possession.

  Complete. Accounted for. Satisfying in the way a difficult problem is meant to be.

  Outside, the corridor was brighter, louder. He adjusted the satchel strap on his shoulder and turned toward the exit, his thoughts already shifting to more immediate concerns: the time, the route home, and whether he had eaten anything substantial that day—he hadn’t.

  Orestis turned toward a nearby eating house.

  ***

  The call-node emitted a pulse and settled as the device connected with its counterpart.

  “Orestis,” his mother said. “How was your day?”

  “Productive,” he replied. “I finished an assignment that turned out to be more interesting than I expected.”

  “You say that like it’s unusual,” his father said.

  It was. Most of the Consortium’s work was competent maintenance—keeping systems running that someone else had designed. This had been different. A genuine puzzle, layered and interconnected, requiring him to think rather than simply apply knowledge. He’d missed that feeling more than he’d realized.

  But he waited instead of explaining. Silence usually moved things along faster.

  “We’ve seen a small improvement on the Orthessa routes,” his father continued. “Nothing dramatic. About five percent, averaged out.”

  “Well,” Orestis said, “we did discuss the possibility after the recent changes, but that’s better than expected.”

  “It is,” his father agreed. “Travel times are more consistent. Fewer delays propagating down the line.”

  “Any disruptions?” Orestis asked.

  “None worth mentioning,” his father said. “Which is the important part.”

  That tracked. Stability always mattered more than speed.

  There was a brief pause.

  “I wish you could come visit,” his mother said quietly. “It’s been a while.”

  “I know.”

  “You always say that too.”

  Orestis did not disagree.

  “And,” she continued, more quietly, “I miss Eirene.”

  Orestis hesitated. “She spent most of her time discussing magic with me.”

  “I know,” his mother said. “She talked to me as well.”

  “About magic?”

  “No,” she said. “About you.”

  That… is unexpected.

  Part of him wondered what was said. But he knew better than to ask. He had a feeling that his mother would have heard something quite different from what Eirene actually said to her.

  “She was very considerate,” his mother went on. “She made time. Asked questions. Listened.”

  “She listens when she’s interested,” Orestis said.

  “She listens even when she isn’t,” his mother said. “That’s the difference.”

  His father made a quiet sound of agreement. “She had good manners,” he said. “And good sense.”

  Orestis made a noncommittal sound. He did agree that Eirene was socially capable. More than capable, in fact—she had a way of making people feel heard that went beyond politeness. He’d observed it often enough to recognize it as genuine rather than performed.

  Not that he was going to say any of that out loud.

  “You’re eating properly?” his mother asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And sleeping?”

  “Enough.”

  “Define ‘enough’,” his father said.

  Orestis declined to.

  The conversation drifted after that. A delayed shipment. A minor disagreement already resolved. Someone his mother knew who had moved and immediately regretted it. Familiar problems. Bounded ones. The sort that stayed solved once addressed.

  Eventually, there was nothing left to add.

  “Don’t work too late,” his mother said.

  “I won’t,” Orestis replied, which was not a promise.

  The call-node disengaged.

  Orestis remained where he was for a moment, then reached for his satchel. After a moment’s consideration, he decided against turning in for the night.

  The library would still be open.

  ***

  The library was quiet in the way Orthessa preferred its institutions to be: subdued, but not silent—the noise absorbed by stone, wood, and tradition.

  Orestis selected a table near the back and set his satchel beneath it. He retrieved a volume at random from the nearest shelf. The subject matter was tangential at best—an outdated survey of regional enchantment practices—but it would suffice.

  He read for a while without urgency. It didn’t take long to notice the errors.

  They were minor ones. Inconsistent terminology, a diagram referenced on the wrong page, a marginal note copied faithfully from an earlier edition despite having been superseded decades ago. Nothing that would confuse a competent reader, or prove to be misleading.

  His fingers twitched once, then stilled. He kept his hands flat on the page instead.

  Correcting any of it would be simple. A note in the margin. A brief clarification. A cross-reference restored where it belonged. He could do it neatly, unobtrusively, in a way that would improve the text without drawing attention.

  That, however, was precisely the problem. This was not his library; it was not his book. Someone would notice.

  He exhaled slowly and turned the page. The irritation did not go away, but it dulled with effort. He read on, forcing himself to treat the text as fixed and immutable, as something to be accepted rather than improved. It was an unpleasant exercise.

  After a time, he closed the book and returned it to the shelf with unnecessary care. The errors remained where they were. The world, as far as the library was concerned, would continue to function with them intact.

  Maybe I should switch to fiction…

  Orestis retrieved his satchel and left without lingering.

  Some problems, apparently, were not his to correct.