The name arrived before the question.
Marikka felt it as a lateral, not direct, pressure. Not someone calling her, but something preparing a space where a name could reside. Like a line drawn even before knowing what to write on it.
They left the House of Seals without being stopped.
The door closed behind them with a controlled, polite vibration. Aurelian walked better. Not well. Better in the way a damaged structure holds up if not asked for too much. Marikka felt it in the rhythm of his body: he was no longer collapsing, but every step had a precise cost.
Cedric didn't speak until they were back in the flow of the street.
"That wasn't help," he finally said. Not accusatory. A statement.
Marikka gestured: no.
It was a service.
And services, in Arcanum, are never without a receipt.
It wasn't long before the flow changed again.
Not like at the receipt table. Not like with the evaluator. This was subtler. Higher.
Marikka felt the variation like one feels a room slowly emptying: fewer interferences, fewer random bumps. The vibrations arranged themselves into longer, less emotional lines. Administrative.
They stopped in front of a building that did not seek attention. Simple facade, wide entrances, light stone. The surfaces did not retain stories, but decisions.
Aurelian stiffened. "This is..."
Cedric finished the sentence for him. "A registry."
Marikka nodded.
Not an office. Not a court. A place where things begin to exist for others.
Inside, the air was drier. Not cold. Dry. Vibrations didn't bounce: they were absorbed. Wide tables, backless chairs, low shelves filled with thick files. Paper that told not stories, but results.
A woman greeted them without standing up. She wasn't the same as the House of Seals. This one had hands for continuous writing. Light calluses on her fingers, a fast breathing rhythm.
"Intervention registered," she said, without asking. "Partial stabilization."
Marikka felt the grid beneath Arcanum respond. A brief echo. Confirmation.
"Now we need a reference."
Cedric stepped forward. "Don't—"
The woman raised a hand. "Not a real name." She looked at Marikka. "A useful name."
That sentence made more noise than it should have.
Marikka immediately understood what they were asking for. Not identity. Access.
A name was a key others could use to find her, cite her, protect her, or accuse her. Without a name, you remained noise. With a name, you became a voice.
And voices, in systems, are traced.
Aurelian inhaled slowly. "It's too early."
The woman did not deny it. "It is always too early. That is why it works."
Marikka felt Serian stir in the case. An irregular, disturbed tremor. The concept of a name touched him at an exposed point. He had lost his. Or worse: he had allowed it to be rewritten.
Cedric looked at Marikka. He said nothing. In his eyes there wasn't a request. There was a trust that hurt.
Marikka rested her fingers on the edge of the table.
The surface responded with a flat, neutral vibration. No emotional resonance. Here it didn't matter who you were. It mattered what you were willing to become for others.
She wrote in the notebook, slowly:
IF I GIVE A NAME.
The woman nodded. "It will exist."
She wrote beneath:
IF I DO NOT.
"You will be managed as an unclassified event." A pause. "Briefly."
Cedric clenched his fists. "You are threatening—"
"—describing," the woman corrected him.
Marikka closed her eyes for an instant.
She felt the weight on her shoulders left by the House of Seals. She felt the subtraction from the receipt table. She felt the incomplete estimate still vibrating, somewhere in the city.
Everything was converging.
A name wouldn't make her free. But it would change who could speak of her.
She opened her eyes.
She wrote:
NOT MINE.
The woman looked up for the first time. Genuine interest.
"An alias," she said. Not a question. "Temporary."
Marikka nodded.
The problem wasn't choosing a name. It was choosing what kind of name.
A neutral name would be useless.
An evocative name would be dangerous.
A technical name... would be readable by the right systems.
She wrote a single word.
Not a proper name. A function.
The woman read it. Her fingers paused for half a beat.
"I understand," she finally said. "It is... ambitious."
She wasn't judging. She was already calculating the consequences.
The pen descended onto the paper.
Marikka felt the grid beneath Arcanum react differently than usual. Not confirmation. Allocation.
A reference point was being created.
Serian let out a longer, painful tremor. His state destabilized by a degree. Not dissolution. Warning.
Aurelian closed his eyes. "Now they know—"
"—that you exist," the woman completed. "Not what you are."
She pushed the file toward them. Not for them to take it. For them to see it.
"This name," she said, "opens doors for you. It creates enemies for you. It buys you time."
Cedric swallowed dryly. "And the price?"
The woman did not hesitate. "From now on, every choice you make will be attributable."
Marikka withdrew her hand from the table.
She felt the immediate change: the city responded with a slight delay, as if some vibrations had to consult something before returning.
She had a name.
Not hers.
But close enough to follow her.
When they left, Arcanum did not seem different.
But somewhere, among registries and flows, a new voice had been added.
And voices, once written, never truly stop speaking.