Shadows of the Oracle
An Ambrose Short Story, part of The Watchman Chronicles
~ part seven ~
“I don’t know why, but I have the strangest feeling that at some point… I suffered.”
Morning came to Tumbledown Shire beneath a gauzy veil of mist, the rising sun painting pale gold ribbons across rolling hills. It was the sort of dawn that hinted at tranquillity—where birdsong drifted lazily through the winding lanes, and the world seemed, if only for a moment, at peace. Yet in a cramped cottage on the outskirts of the shire, two men prepared to set out on a journey that belied the idyllic scene.
Tobias Finch, shoulders stiff from a poor night’s sleep, rummaged through a wooden chest in search of something he referred to as “the emergency spool.” Empty bottles clinked together as he shoved them aside, muttering irritably.
“Drat,” he said. “I’m positive I had an extra spool in here—oh! Found it.” He lifted a small, glittering bobbin of thread into the dim morning light. The thread’s sheen reflected in his eyes, suggesting that it was anything but ordinary.
“I don’t see why you need two spools,” Miles Fletcher remarked, leaning against a bookcase and idly flicking through a dusty tome. “You hardly used half of the last one.”
Tobias shut the chest with a dramatic sigh. “Because, Warden, I prefer to be prepared for any eventuality. You never know when you’ll need to stitch reality back together at the seams.”
Miles gave him a wry look. “That’s my department, Finch. You just wave your fancy threads about and pretend to be helpful.”
Despite the sardonic tone, the corners of Miles’s eyes creased in faint amusement. Since dawn, the pair had been discussing their plan: to ride across the gently sloping hills that separated Tumbledown from Latchmoor and investigate rumours of a peculiar merchant—one whose very name, the Oracle insisted, should not exist.
“There is a name that should not exist, and yet it does,” Miles recounted quietly, shutting the tome and regarding Tobias with uncharacteristic gravity. “A merchant who deals in things he should not touch. I do not know if he is a thief, or a fool, or a god in the making. But he is breaking the world.”
Tobias made a soft clucking noise with his tongue. “Oracle’s words, I take it?” Miles nodded, the memory lingering like a faint echo in the room.
“Yes. Heard it with my own ears in the Hall of Whispering Vines. I’m not one to be easily rattled, but… well, it gave me pause.”
“Hmm,” murmured Tobias, frowning as he tucked the spool into a hidden pocket of his cloak. “We both felt that rift, after all. If something’s tampering with the Boundary, it’s not some idle hobby. They must be dabbling in powers they don’t understand.” He flicked his gaze downwards as a blunt-nosed bulldog waddled into the room. Cecil, his jowls quivering with each breath, seemed eternally unimpressed by the concept of cosmic threats.
“I’m bringing Cecil,” Tobias declared.
Miles’s eyebrows rose. “What on earth for? Nobody mentioned needing a dog.”
“Because it’s safer,” Tobias replied curtly. “For him and for us. I won’t leave him here alone when we’re about to poke a wasp’s nest of metaphysical nonsense. Besides, he senses things… better than you might think.”
“Are we certain that’s not just his insides at work?” Miles asked, lips quirking into a barely contained grin. Tobias levelled him with a deadpan stare.
“Ha, very droll. If anything, Cecil’s brand of ambience will remind us there are worse things out there than the stench of cosmic unravelment.” At that, Miles shook his head, unable to suppress a chuckle. “Very well. Bring him along. But if he decides to nap in the middle of a boundary breach, I’m not carrying him.”
Cecil let out a soft, wheezing snort that might have been agreement—or possibly disdain. Either way, Tobias bent down to scratch the bulldog’s ears. “We’ll be quick, old friend. Just a bit of a ride, a chat with a shady merchant, nothing too dramatic.” Under his breath, Miles muttered, “Yes, because a man dealing in intangible secrets is the very definition of ‘not dramatic.’”
Thus prepared, they set out. Horses had been borrowed from a taciturn stablehand who asked no questions—Tumbledown’s sort-of watchers were generally given a wide berth when they came round with that certain gleam in their eyes. The morning was crisp, and the air carried the faint perfume of wild herbs. As they rode over the softly undulating hills, Tobias and Miles occupied themselves with idle observations and the occasional jibe. They travelled in watchful silence for a time, hooves thudding against packed earth. At length, Tobias cast Miles a sidelong glance, jaw set.
“So,” he said, reining in slightly, “you mentioned the Oracle’s words—right before leaving Tumbledown, I might add. Care to explain why you waited until now?”
Miles exhaled, his posture stiff. “I didn’t want to worry you if there was nothing to it.”
Tobias let out a short, humourless laugh. “Nothing to it? We’re here chasing a rumour of rifts, and you decided the Oracle’s warning—whatever it might be—was an optional detail?”
“She was in one of her trance-states,” Miles said defensively. “I hardly knew if it was real. Sometimes she speaks fragments that mean nothing.”
Tobias gave him a narrow-eyed look. “And what, precisely, did she say?”
Miles hesitated. “She whispered: ‘There is a name that should not exist, and yet it does. A merchant who deals in things he should not touch. I do not know if he is a thief, or a fool, or a god in the making. But he is breaking the world.’”
A silence settled over them, broken only by the steady clop of horses’ hooves. Tobias’s face darkened. “I would’ve liked to hear that a bit sooner, Fletch.”
Miles bowed his head, contrite. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I won’t keep anything like that from you again.”
Tobias let the matter rest with a terse nod, though the tension lingered between them. “Tell me more about this Warden business,” he said, trying to defuse the atmosphere and reining in the horses to fall back in line. “You keep calling yourself the guard of the Boundary, but I’ve never seen you with an official Guild crest or any such pomp.”
Miles’s posture straightened. “That’s because our duty isn’t something you advertise with ribbons. The Warden—I—patrols the thin places in the world, the cracks through which… things… might slip. I seal them, if I can. Contain them, if I must.” He paused, searching for the right words. “The Oracle granted me the role after I proved my mettle against a particularly nasty incursion years ago. It was a creature of half-shadow, half-forgotten memory, creeping through a fissure near the Tarnwood Marshes.”
Tobias’s brows rose. “I remember hearing rumours—something about nightmares manifesting at dusk?”
“That’s the one,” Miles replied. “It nearly claimed an entire village, feeding on their regrets. The experience taught me just how fragile our world can be if no one’s paying attention.”
For a moment, only the soft clop of hooves broke the silence. Even Cecil seemed to sense the gravity of Miles’s words, blinking up at him with saggy-eyed solemnity from a makeshift basket perched behind Tobias’s saddle.
“You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for, Fletch,” Tobias remarked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
Miles snorted. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not just a bakery pugilist, you know.”
“Pity. I rather like the idea of you sparring with Mrs Thistlewood over pastry rights.”
They exchanged a quick grin, the tension lifting momentarily. Above, the sky slowly brightened into a pale wash of early autumn sunlight. In the distance, the roofs of Latchmoor glimmered like dull copper, signalling that their destination was near. Where Tumbledown Shire basked in the glow of unremarkable comfort, Latchmoor bustled with scrappy vigour. Narrow streets twisted about each other like tangled yarn, lined with crooked shops stacked cheek by jowl. The townsfolk prided themselves on a certain no-nonsense attitude—Latchmoor was rougher around the edges, less quaint but brimming with a frenetic energy.
Tobias and Miles dismounted outside a modest stable. The stable lad—a wiry youth with an impressive quantity of freckles—goggled at Cecil. “Er… you want me to watch the dog, sirs?”
“No, thank you,” Tobias said gently, patting the bulldog’s head. “He stays with us.”
Miles handed the lad a coin. “Just make sure our horses are fed. And you didn’t see us if anyone asks, hmm?”
The lad blinked rapidly. “Didn’t see who, sir?”
“Good man,” Miles murmured, turning to follow Tobias down a cobbled lane that led deeper into Latchmoor’s heart. Overhead, a creaking signboard announced “Apothecary & Oddities” for sale; next door, a warren-like bakery displayed pies with questionable fillings. Yet none of these places were their destination. No, they sought a shop at the very end of a winding lane, its windows rumoured to glimmer with curios that defied reason: intangible trinkets, regrets in a bottle, secrets that reeked of old magic. The occupant’s name hovered like a forgotten echo: Ambrose. Tobias paused at a narrow crossroads.
“This must be the lane. I heard it’s near the old clock tower that never struck midnight properly.”
Miles shrugged. “Best keep our eyes peeled for anything unusual. Which, given our line of work, is basically everything.”
They passed a fruit stall where an old woman tried to hawk them squishy plums with an odour that gave even Cecil pause. Then came the blacksmith, hammering out a metallic clang that resonated through the winding alley. Finally, they reached a shabby sign reading “Latchmoor Lane East—No Thoroughfare for Carts.”
“Oh, marvellous,” Tobias muttered. “Let’s hope Ambrose’s illusions don’t start here, or we’ll be wandering in circles all day.”
Cecil let out a low snort of agreement—or possibly complaint about the blacksmith’s racket. Regardless, Tobias set off down the lane, stepping around puddles that gleamed with iridescent colours. Soon, they came upon a modest storefront with warped wooden shutters and a display window filled with oddities: a set of tarnished bells, vials of unidentifiable liquid, a stack of dusty tomes in an unrecognisable script. A small placard underneath a worn-out wooden owl read Ambrose’s Curios & Collectibles—though the lettering looked as though it had been repainted several times.
“Subtle,” Tobias said under his breath. “Definitely no cosmic meddling here.”
“Shall we knock, or attempt a dramatic entrance?” Miles asked, in jest.
“We’re not the King’s Musketeers, Fletch,” Tobias replied, raising a brow. “A simple knock will suffice.”
He rapped lightly on the shop door. After a moment of silence, he tried again—louder this time. He caught a glimpse of movement within, a shape passing behind the cluttered shelves. At last, the door creaked open, revealing a tall, bespectacled man in a well-worn waistcoat. He had the air of someone who spent his days sifting through dust motes for hidden treasures—and was frequently surprised to find them.
“Yes?” the man said, voice polite but guarded. “Shop’s open for business, though you’ll pardon me if I don’t keep exact hours.”
Tobias and Miles shared a look. This was Ambrose, presumably, the man the Oracle deemed a threat to reality. He didn’t appear particularly menacing—just a touch weary, perhaps, as though he’d spent all night categorising contraptions that made no logical sense. The shopkeeper scanned the newcomers—then paused at the sight of Cecil.
“…Yes?” he repeated, polite but cautious.
Miles stepped forward, inclining his head. “Good morning. We heard you deal in… unusual items. May we have a look?”
The man hesitated, gaze flicking to the bulldog. “I’m not used to early callers—or callers with pets, for that matter.”
Tobias patted his dog’s flank. “Cecil? He’s fine, harmless enough. We won’t take much of your time.”
After a beat, the shopkeeper nodded. “Very well. Do come in, then. Mind the shelves; it’s cramped.”
Inside, the shop was indeed a clutter of curiosities: dusty tomes stacked precariously, glass vials filled with swirling motes of colour, and knick-knacks that flickered at the edge of sight. A wooden broom propped in one corner seemed to shuffle an inch closer to the exit as if it disliked their presence, while on a nearby counter, a small vial glowed momentarily, the fine sand within shifting restlessly, as though sniffing the air. A soft-eyed collie lifted its head from a rug near the counter but didn’t stir otherwise. On a high shelf, a black cat—its tail flicking with mild annoyance—observed the visitors with sharp, unblinking focus. Miles feigned casual interest, drifting to a shelf lined with corked flasks.
“Quite a selection,” he remarked. “You’ve… some unusual wares here.”
The shopkeeper’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “I pride myself on variety. People come to me seeking things they won’t find in ordinary markets.” He glanced at Tobias, who was examining a statuette carved from black wood. Tobias traced the statuette’s delicate lines with his fingertips, then set it aside.
“We heard rumours of intangible items—emotions, memories, regrets. Is that accurate?”
A flicker of caution lit the shopkeeper’s eyes. “It depends who you ask. I simply trade what people are willing to sell—or forget.”
Miles arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like risky business.”
The man shrugged, adopting a mildly sarcastic tone. “One might say that about any profession in Latchmoor. You’d be surprised what folks relinquish… or what they’re desperate to acquire.”
Cecil let out a quiet snort, as if passing judgement. The shopkeeper glanced down warily at the dog, then back up at the two strangers. “You’re clearly not typical customers. Care to tell me precisely what you’re after?”
Tobias and Miles exchanged a quick, meaningful look. Tobias’s voice remained polite but took on a firmer edge. “We’d rather just browse a while—see if anything catches our eye.”
The shopkeeper gave a brief, tight nod. “As you like. Do let me know if you have questions.”
For a few minutes, the travellers examined various oddities with curiosity. Miles lingered by a set of battered tomes, squinting at cryptic glyphs on their spines. Tobias carefully lifted a vial of glimmering vapour, swirling it to catch the light.
“Fascinating,” he murmured. “What is this?”
“Distilled regret,” the shopkeeper answered with a hint of pride. “A rather potent essence—though safely contained.”
Miles set down a curious orb he’d been studying. “Safely contained, you say. Have you ever known regrets to… slip their bounds?”
The man’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “If you’ve heard stories, they’re exaggerated. I’ve taken precautions.”
“Precautions?” Tobias echoed. “Good to hear. Because the last thing anyone wants is intangible burdens leaking into unsuspecting lives. That could cause… complications.”
The air in the shop grew thicker, tension mounting as the conversation edged closer to the heart of their visit. The shopkeeper pursed his lips. “All this talk about regrets and complications… Are you suggesting something about my merchandise?” Tobias opened his mouth to respond, but the shopkeeper cut him off with a wry tilt of his head. “Let me guess: the Warden of the Boundary—” he nodded towards Miles, “—and his companion from Tumbledown Shire? Here to save me from my own hobby?”
Miles stiffened. “I don’t recall telling you my title.”
“And we never mentioned Tumbledown,” Tobias added, narrowing his eyes. “How did you—?”
Ambrose arched an eyebrow, adopting a look of patronising patience. “You’re hardly discreet, you know. A Warden has a certain bearing… or so they say. And as for Tumbledown?” He gave a small, knowing shrug. “The smell of orchard soil on your boots. The faint tang of barley or wild herbs—distinct to that region. Besides, rumours of watchers from Tumbledown do make the rounds, even in Latchmoor.”
Miles exchanged a glance with Tobias, who frowned. “Well, you’ve done your homework. Suppose we shouldn’t be too surprised a merchant who trades in intangible secrets might collect… general gossip too.”
“Oh, I don’t just collect intangible secrets,” Ambrose said, mildly sarcastic. “I deal in them. Keep that difference in mind.”
A breeze caught the half-open door, stirring motes of dust in the lamplight. Tobias set down the small orb he’d been holding and faced Ambrose fully. “All right. We’re not here to meddle for fun, Ambrose—if that’s indeed your name. We came because the Oracle specifically warned of a merchant dealing in powers beyond his ken.”
For the briefest moment, the shopkeeper’s expression flickered—something like a buried memory or a private irritation crossing his features. Then he gave a dismissive smile. “I’ve heard of your Oracle. She has a penchant for seeing doom in every corner, doesn’t she? ‘Beware the meddler, watch the boundaries, be alert for rifts…’ Yes, yes. A travelling potion-seller once muttered about her visions. Very dramatic.”
Tobias’s gaze sharpened. “And you’re certain you’ve never encountered her… in person?”
“Oh, I’m certain.” Ambrose’s tone was arch, but a hint of unease tugged at his posture. “I’ve only gathered rumours second-hand. That’s enough for me—her meddling and yours. Now that we’ve established how very knowledgeable I am about you, perhaps you’d like to be equally forthcoming about why you’re really here?”
Tobias measured his words, glancing at the swirling regret-vials and the half-lidded eyes of Cecil in the corner. “As we said—distilled regrets, intangible memories… these things can be volatile. Especially if they mingle. We suspect your… enterprise may be stirring trouble. We want to prevent any real damage before it happens.”
“Or fix it if it’s already begun,” Miles added quietly.
Ambrose drummed his fingers on a nearby shelf. His demeanour remained confident, but the tension in his posture was harder to disguise. “And so you show up, uninvited, from Tumbledown, with your dog in tow… to poke around my shop as though you’re the cosmic constabulary?”
Tobias shrugged, adopting a cooler tone. “We’ve been called worse. But if you do know the Oracle’s typical messages, then you know we wouldn’t come without cause.”
“Hmm.” Ambrose exhaled slowly, adjusting his spectacles. “Well, so far, no one’s died from a stray regret—if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not a conjurer of nightmares. I simply acquire intangible assets. If I were truly as dangerous as you imagine, you’d have found Latchmoor in ruins, no?”
A brief silence followed, during which the broom by the door creaked, tipping as though trying to slip outside unnoticed. Miles cleared his throat.
“Perhaps you’re not deliberately dangerous,” he allowed, “but sometimes ignorance can be just as ruinous as evil intent.”
“Right,” Ambrose said, voice laced with dry scorn. “Next you’ll be accusing me of pulling the wings off cherubs. Did the Oracle mention that too?”
Tobias stepped closer to the shelf of swirling vials, carefully selecting one with a faint lavender glow. He held it up, letting the luminescence cast rippling shapes on the nearby walls.
“No. But she did mention someone who doesn’t quite exist—a name that defies reason. We suspect it’s you. And from the look of your… collection, you’re not exactly dealing in mundane wares.”
Ambrose’s posture wavered for the smallest moment. “My name is hardly a cosmic riddle. I just don’t see the need to advertise.”
“And yet,” Miles pressed, “you somehow knew ours—Warden, Tumbledown, all of it.”
A flick of Ambrose’s eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. Then he brushed it aside with a haughty gesture. “Word travels. I’m observant. And, frankly, it’s not difficult to spot do-gooders on a mission.” He paused, then added in a quieter tone, “If the Oracle has singled me out, that’s her error—unless you can prove otherwise.”
Tobias exchanged a weighty glance with Miles. “We’re trying to discover if it’s an error… or if you’re dabbling in something that could spark a boundary breach. Either way, we’d prefer to keep the realm intact.”
Ambrose’s forced bravado faltered just enough for his voice to drop. “Look… I’ll grant that regrets can be potent. Perhaps more potent than I once believed. But I’m no fool. I won’t let them run rampant. And if you must see for yourselves, you’re welcome to poke around.” He arched a brow. “Within reason.”
Miles nodded, stepping forward. “We appreciate that. Truly. If there’s nothing amiss, we’ll leave you to your trade.”
Ambrose’s hand lingered on the nearest row of flasks, as though unwilling to relinquish full control. He faced them both, and for once, sarcasm ebbed, replaced by grudging caution. “Very well. Let’s see this through quickly, shall we? I’ve better things to do than babysit travellers from Tumbledown.”
With that, he gestured them deeper into the shop’s labyrinth of shelves. Outside, the faint hustle of Latchmoor continued unabated, while within those cramped walls, the lines between bluster and genuine peril grew ever blurrier. And though he tried to hide it behind barbed banter, Ambrose seemed very much aware that the Oracle’s watchers might not be so wrong after all.
~ The Consequences of Careless Trades ~