The title "Sculptor" hung around Kaelen's neck like an iron collar. In the days that followed, the Archivist left him alone. There were no new extractions, no training simulations. The silence was not peaceful; it was the calm before a storm. Kaelen could feel the Archivist planning, deciding how best to use his new, sharpest tool.
He spent his time trapped with the ghosts on his shelves. The locket of lost love, the spectacles of manufactured shame, the river stone of hidden stars. Each one was a monument to a different sin. He was their keeper, and their jailer.
The Echo was a constant, low hum in the back of his mind, a chorus of the forgotten that was now a part of him. It no longer needed to speak in clear words. Its presence was a weight, a shared burden of all the memories he now carried.
Finally, the panel chimed, its light cutting through the gloom of his room. The message was simple and terrifying.
[Subject: Councilor Valerius. Upper Spire District. Condemned for treason. Extraction of all state secrets required. Priority: Absolute. Proceed to Preparation Cell 1.]
A Councilor. The highest level of society. The very people who made the laws that had condemned him. The irony was bitter. He was now going to hollow out the mind of one of his oppressors.
Valeria was waiting for him outside a new, more luxurious cell. This one had a real window, currently opaqued, and a comfortable bed. Councilor Valerius sat in a plush chair, dressed in fine, grey robes now stripped of their official insignia. He was an older man with a sharp, intelligent face, but his eyes were wide with a pure, animal terror. This was not the defiance of Ilya or the cunning of Joren. This was the raw fear of a powerful man who had lost everything.
"The Sculptor," Valerius breathed, the title a curse. "They send their finest artisan to dismantle me."
Kaelen said nothing. He looked at the focus object on the table between them. It was a heavy, gold signet ring, the mark of a High Councilor's authority.
"The secrets in my mind… they are not all mine to give," Valerius pleaded, his composure breaking. "They concern the stability of the entire city! The truth about the Founding… you cannot just feed it to the machines!"
The Founding. The same words the Remnants used. The same mystery Ilya's memory pointed to. Kaelen's heart beat faster, but his face remained a mask.
"My duty is to extract," Kaelen stated, the words cold and automatic. "The fate of the secrets is not my concern."
"But it should be!" the Councilor insisted, leaning forward. "You are an Anchor! A preserver of truth! You, of all people, must comprehend the catastrophic value of what you would erase! Ask the Archivist about the First Siphoning! Demand to know what truly beats at the city's heart! It is not fueled by our simple sorrows!"
A cold dread seeped into Kaelen's veins. The First Siphoning. The city's heart. This was not about political maneuvering or criminal enterprise. This touched upon the genesis of Aethelgard itself.
He reached for the ring. His fingers made contact with the cold, smooth gold.
The memory that surged into him was not a single scene. It was a torrent of classified data—security protocols, economic reports, secret alliances. But buried deep within the flow, like a pulsating, radioactive core, was the secret Valerius was trying to protect.
It was a memory of a place. A vast, cavernous space deep beneath the Mnemonic Council's central spire. And in the center of that cavern was not a machine, but a being. A figure suspended in a crystalline tube, connected to a web of glowing conduits that pulsed with a terrible, familiar energy. It was a light Kaelen felt in his very soul—the light of raw, concentrated memory. The true engine of the city.
And the face of that being… was the face of the Archivist. A younger Archivist, his eyes closed in an expression of eternal agony.
The memory was a fragment, a glimpse stolen by a terrified Councilor. But its meaning was clear. The Archivist was not just the warden of Memory's End. He was its first and primary battery. A part of him was forever trapped, powering the city with his own life force.
Kaelen recoiled, breaking the connection. He stared at Valerius, his mask of cold indifference shattered, replaced by sheer, undiluted horror.
Valerius saw the understanding in his eyes. "You see?" he whispered, his voice desperate. "You see what we are? What this city is built on? You cannot give this memory to them. They will bury it forever."
Kaelen's mind raced. This changed everything. The Archivist wasn't just a fanatical priest of this system; he was its cornerstone, its martyr and its king. To expose this secret would be to tear the very heart out of Aethelgard.
But to hand it over was to ensure the truth died here, in this room.
He looked at the golden ring, then at the broken Councilor. He had a choice. A choice more monumental than any he had faced before.
He could be the Sculptor, and carve this truth from the world.
Or he could be the Librarian, and preserve the most dangerous secret he had ever found.
The door hissed open. Valeria stood there, her hand resting on her neural-dampener.
"The extraction is taking too long," she stated, her eyes narrowed. "Is there a problem, Sculptor?"
Kaelen looked from her to Valerius. The fate of the city now rested on the next lie he told.