Sable stared at the second Sable and felt her thoughts split.
The woman in the new circle had Sable's face, Sable's posture, and Sable's calm. The smile was wrong, but only because Sable knew how she smiled when she wanted to look harmless.
Maera's blade stayed raised between them. The tip tracked the second Sable's throat.
Oren Vale took one step forward, then stopped, as if the floor had become uncertain.
Vessa Pyre still held the Crown Seed in her bare hand. The pale thing pulsed faster than it had any right to, and every pulse made the ink anchors on Sable's skin sting.
The second Sable tilted her head and looked at Maera first.
"Captain Flint," she said. "Lower your sword."
Maera did not move. "Who are you."
The second Sable's eyes slid to Sable. "I am Sable Vane. The one who stayed where she was supposed to stay."
Sable's voice came out tight. "That is my name."
"It was your name," the second Sable replied. "Then you abandoned it."
Oren's gaze snapped to the ink anchors on Sable's throat. He was reading the lines like a ledger.
"Impossible," he said quietly. "The anchors should prevent this."
The second Sable's smile widened. "Anchors hold a boat. They do not stop the tide."
Sable forced herself to breathe. The coal in her throat tried to flare. The ink lines caught the heat and pressed it back into her chest. Pain pulsed under her ribs.
Maera spoke without taking her eyes off the impostor. "High Registrar, give the order."
Oren hesitated. That was new. Oren did not hesitate when other people needed to move.
The second Sable stepped forward, and the circle did not stop her.
Sable noticed it at once. The runes had formed two circles, but only one of them acted like a boundary.
The boundary belonged to Sable, not her copy.
Vessa's eyes narrowed, as if she had expected that.
The second Sable walked toward Maera and did not glance at the witches, the platform, or the anchors. She moved like she owned the room.
"Sword down," she repeated, tone mild, as if reminding a child of manners.
Maera's jaw flexed. "One more step and I cut you."
The second Sable stopped, just outside Maera's reach. She lifted her hands, palms out.
"Captain," she said, "you saw me in the vault."
Maera's grip tightened. "I saw your face."
The second Sable nodded, satisfied. "And you reported it. And you were correct. You did your duty. Now do it again."
Sable felt sick. It was clean. It was simple. It used Maera's certainty as a weapon.
Oren finally spoke, voice controlled. "If you are Sable Vane, prove it."
The second Sable turned to him with a look that almost held pity.
"You taught her well," she said. "You taught her to ask for proof. You taught her to demand measures and marks."
Oren's eyes narrowed. "Answer."
The second Sable reached into her robe and drew out a thin strip of metal etched with runes.
An oath measure.
Sable's stomach dropped. That strip should have been locked in the High Chamber. It should have been guarded.
The second Sable held it out toward Maera.
"Test me," she said.
Maera did not take it. "High Registrar."
Oren's gaze stayed on the strip. "Where did you get that."
The second Sable did not answer. She held the strip steady.
Vessa's voice cut in, brisk and sharp. "Do not touch it."
Maera's eyes flicked toward Vessa for a fraction of a second.
The second Sable used that fraction.
She spoke one word, low and soft.
Sable did not hear it with her ears. She felt it in her teeth.
The oath measure flared bright.
Maera flinched, just once, like a nerve had been struck. Her sword dipped a handspan.
The second Sable lunged, fast, and caught Maera's wrist.
Not to disarm her.
To press two fingers to the inside of Maera's arm, right where the pulse beat.
Maera went rigid.
Sable's heart hammered. That touch was a binding point. Registry training taught how to restrain with rope and steel. This was craft.
Maera's eyes widened, not with fear, but with anger at being trapped.
The second Sable spoke to Maera while holding her wrist like a dancer.
"You will stand down," she said.
Maera's lips parted, then closed again. Her breathing turned shallow.
Oren's voice sharpened. "Release her."
The second Sable glanced at him. "Order her, then. Prove you still can."
Oren took a step forward.
The witches moved at the same moment, both of them, hands rising as if to reinforce the anchors. Their craft had been quiet until now. Their faces tightened with effort.
The second Sable's eyes flicked to them, and her smile vanished.
"Do not," she said.
The torches bent sideways.
The flame did not go out. It leaned, as if the room itself had shifted.
Sable's ink anchors burned hot. Heat surged up her throat, stronger than before. The coal inside her pressed at her tongue, demanding release.
Sable clamped her mouth shut and tasted ash.
Vessa moved.
Not toward Maera. Toward Sable.
She crossed the space in three quick steps, grabbed Sable's forearm, and pressed the Crown Seed into Sable's palm.
Sable jerked back on instinct.
Too late.
The Seed burned cold and hot at once. Pain snapped up her arm. The ink on her wrist hissed. A faint thread of smoke rose from the anchor line as if the craft itself protested.
Sable's fingers curled around the Seed without deciding to.
Vessa's voice was low. "Hold it. Do not let it touch your throat."
Sable stared at her. "Why."
"Because she wants you to be mute," Vessa said. "Because if you cannot speak, you cannot sign."
The second Sable's head turned sharply.
Her eyes locked on the Seed now in Sable's hand.
For the first time, her calm cracked.
"Give it back," she said. The command landed like weight.
Sable's knees almost bent. The ink anchors fought the force, and pain flared again in her ribs.
Maera strained against the hold on her wrist. The second Sable tightened her grip and Maera's breath caught.
Oren lunged toward Maera.
The second Sable flicked her free hand up.
Oren's feet stopped moving.
Not because he chose to stop.
His body locked, stiff and upright, eyes open, breath trapped.
Sable's mouth went dry. "What did you do to him."
The second Sable did not look at Oren. "Nothing permanent. Unless he resists."
Vessa pulled Sable backward, toward the door. "Now."
Maera's eyes snapped to Sable. Her voice scraped out through clenched control. "Do not run."
Sable saw it in Maera's face. It was not an order. It was a plea that sounded like an order because Maera did not know any other way.
If Sable ran, Maera would be left in a room with a copy wearing her friend's face and a High Registrar frozen like a statue.
If Sable stayed, the Seed would be taken from her again, and the copy would decide what Sable became.
Sable looked at Oren. His eyes were furious. He could not speak. He could not blink fast enough to signal anything.
Sable made her choice.
She lifted her hand, Seed clenched, and opened her mouth.
The anchors tried to clamp down.
Sable forced the heat forward anyway.
She did not breathe flame at the copy.
She breathed flame at her own wrist.
Fire licked across the ink lines. The craft hissed. The black strokes blistered and broke.
Pain shot through her arm. Sable cried out, but she did not stop.
The anchor line split.
The pressure in her throat loosened, just enough.
Maera's eyes widened in surprise.
Vessa yanked the door open.
Sable grabbed a folded blanket from the corner as she passed and hurled it toward Maera and the second Sable.
It was not a weapon, but it was a distraction.
Maera reacted on instinct, swinging the blanket aside.
The second Sable moved too, and that was all Sable needed.
Sable shoved her freed wrist into Maera's shoulder, not hard, but enough to signal.
Now.
Maera twisted her trapped wrist and drove her elbow backward into the second Sable's ribs.
The copy grunted. The hold broke for a heartbeat.
Maera ripped her wrist free and slashed.
The blade cut through the cloak and drew a line of blood across the copy's forearm.
Blood. Real blood.
Sable's stomach turned over. This was not a simple glamour. Glamours did not bleed.
The copy hissed and stepped back, eyes bright with anger.
Maera did not hesitate again. She seized Oren by the collar and hauled him sideways.
Whatever held him did not stop him from being moved.
He toppled stiffly like a board. Maera caught him before his head hit stone.
Vessa grabbed Sable's elbow. "Move."
They ran.
Up the narrow stairs, white torches bending as they passed. Boots hammered stone. Shouts rose behind them.
Sable heard the second Sable's voice carry up the stairwell, clear and commanding.
"Seal the exits. Bring me the Seed. The false one does not leave this building."
False one.
Sable's lungs burned. The Seed pulsed in her palm like a second heart.
At the top, they burst into a corridor.
Two Registry guards stood ahead, surprised by the speed and the sight of Vessa.
Maera was not with them. Sable glanced back and saw her at the stairwell mouth, Oren half supported, half dragged. Maera's sword was raised, holding the space.
Maera met Sable's eyes.
"Go," Maera said.
Sable's throat tightened. "Come with us."
Maera's expression stayed hard, but her eyes betrayed her. "If I go, he falls. If he falls, she wins."
Vessa pulled Sable again. "We cannot carry him and keep the Seed."
Sable looked at Oren. His eyes were fixed on her, furious and urgent. His jaw worked, trying to speak through whatever held him.
Sable wanted to stay. She wanted to grab Maera's arm and drag her away from duty, away from that copy, away from the Registry that had already decided Sable's fate.
But the Seed pulsed faster.
The corridor lamps flickered.
The building was changing.
Sable felt it like pressure in her teeth, like a shift in the rules.
Vessa shoved Sable toward a side door that should have been locked.
It opened at Vessa's touch.
They slipped into a service passage that smelled of soap and wet stone.
Behind them, Maera's voice rang out, sharp and loud.
"All officers. By Captain's authority. You will escort the High Registrar to the High Chamber. Any who interfere will answer to me."
Sable heard the second Sable laugh, soft and pleased.
Then Maera shouted once, a sound of pain.
Sable flinched and nearly turned back, but Vessa gripped her arm hard.
"Do not," Vessa said. "That is what she wants. She wants you to trade the Seed for your conscience."
Sable swallowed. "Is Maera dead."
Vessa did not answer.
They reached a grated exit that opened onto the street.
Vessa kicked it once and the latch broke clean.
They slipped out into Knotspire.
The air outside felt wrong.
A wind blew warm from the north, where winter should have sat. Market stalls stood in places that should have been empty. A man argued with a woman over the date, shouting different month names like insults.
Above the rooftops, the season bells rang again, faster, uneven.
Sable looked down at her palm.
The Crown Seed had burned a mark into her skin.
Not the thorn crown.
A name.
Not written in letters she knew, but she understood it anyway, like a truth her body had kept quiet.
Vessa saw it and went pale.
"That is not possible," Vessa whispered.
Sable's voice shook. "Read it."
Vessa stared at the mark. Her mouth opened, then closed, as if the word itself was dangerous.
Sable leaned closer. "Say it."
Vessa forced it out.
"Your true name," she said. "The one they cut out of history."
Sable's chest tightened.
Somewhere behind her, in the Registry building, a voice that sounded exactly like hers called out across the city.
Not shouted. Signed into the air.
"Sable Vane."
Sable's head snapped up.
Her own voice answered inside her bones, calm and ancient.
That is not my name.
And the Seed pulsed hard enough that Sable's knees buckled, as if the world had just found her.