The sound of the crystal splitting wasn't loud. It was exact—like someone cutting a cord in a silent room, and the echo knowing precisely where to land.
Captain Drezan Qamar went still, his hand halfway between the shelf and his sword. The remaining guards froze as well, as if the word stop had been written into the air. Olan, however, didn't flinch. He simply closed his eyes for a heartbeat, tired—like a man watching an old tragedy repeat itself.
A blue flash spilled from the cracked vial, followed by a whisper that did not belong to the present.
—Don't call her by her name. Not yet.
The voice—male, cold, too calm—rolled through the Saltery with the natural weight of an oath.
Behind the panel, Nairé felt the world tilt. The archive-salt vial in her hand turned so cold it hurt her fingers. Her throat went dry.
The name the voice refused to speak brushed her mind like a nail.
Not yet.
Not yet why? Not yet for whom?
Drezan spoke first, and it betrayed him: he was shaken too.
—Whose voice is that? he asked. Controlled, but no longer the tone of a man following orders. It was the tone of a man trying not to lose his footing. —Archivist.
Olan opened his eyes and looked at the broken vial as if it were a wound.
—A poorly sealed memory, he said. —Or worse: a memory used as bait.
—Don't answer me with poetry, Drezan snapped. —Was that… Vellûn?
Nairé's stomach jolted. Hearing the Oathmaster's name out loud felt like metal on stone—inevitable.
Olan didn't answer immediately. He moved to the shelf, lifted the cracked vial with care, and capped it with a plug of compacted salt as though sealing an open cut. He murmured a phrase Nairé didn't understand, and the air thickened—quieter, heavier—like the Saltery had exhaled and decided to stay that way.
—Captain, Olan said at last, —this is not a place for haste.
—And it's not a place to hide fugitives, Drezan replied.
Olan met his gaze, steady.
—Are you certain she's a fugitive? he asked, and it didn't sound like provocation. It sounded like truth.
Drezan's eyes flicked to the guards, to the door, back to Olan.
—There was an incident with the heir, he said. —The Crown Seal left its place. A courier carrying a gray seal enters…and then everything breaks. What am I supposed to think?
Olan's sigh was the sigh of someone forced to be the adult in a room full of knives.
—I think someone wants a simple story, Olan said. —And a simple story always needs a culprit.
Behind the panel, Nairé felt her heartbeat hammer against the wood. She forced herself to breathe slowly. Don't cry. Don't shake. Don't lie. Lying now would be like lighting a torch on her own head.
Drezan stepped closer to the oath lectern. He stared at his signature etched into stone, as if remembering the cost.
—That oath you made me sign, he said. —Does it stop me from arresting her?
—It stops nothing that is just, Olan replied. —It stops you from damaging the archive. And it stops you from lying to yourself about what you're doing.
The line was sharper than any blade. Drezan understood. His eyes narrowed.
—Are you saying I'm lying to myself?
Olan didn't rush the answer. He simply looked at Drezan with the patience of someone who has seen too many versions of the same ending.
—I'm saying, Olan said finally, —someone signed an order… and you're obeying it without knowing whose ink wrote it.
Drezan fell silent. And in that silence, Nairé heard the leather tube pulse again—like a чужое heart trying to break out of her ribs.
Choose.
The word returned without sound, without voice—only pressure behind her eyes.
Nairé clenched the archive-salt vial and thought of her "name" like a harbor in a storm. Nairé. Nairé. Nairé.
But memory cracked open.
Images that weren't hers flooded her temples:
A white room too clean. The bitter scent of herbs. A gloved hand turning a gray seal delicately, like a chess piece.
And the same voice:
—When she wakes… she won't remember we already chose her once.
Nairé tried to shove the vision away, but it clung. She saw herself—no, a child—reflected in a tall mirror: dark hair, wide eyes, sitting in a chair too big.
The child wasn't crying. She was watching.
Around her neck hung a blank metal tag, as if the world had decided a name was a luxury.
Nairé swallowed hard. The blankness hovered at the back of her tongue.
—Archivist, Drezan said, lower now. —What do you keep here so fiercely… that the Oathmaster takes interest?
Olan didn't move, but Nairé felt the air listen.
—We keep what power cannot afford to lose, Olan answered. —And what it doesn't want others to find.
Drezan let out a short laugh without humor.
—And you stand in the middle of it out of devotion… or fear?
Olan looked him straight in the eye.
—Responsibility.
One guard shifted, restless, edging toward the shelf that hid Nairé—unaware. Nairé shrank back.
—Don't touch anything, Drezan ordered sharply.
The guard stopped.
Olan watched Drezan with something new—recognition, maybe. Not trust. Not yet. But recognition.
—Captain, Olan said, —if you want answers, send your men outside. The Saltery does not open to weapons. It opens to words.
Drezan hesitated. Only a heartbeat—but to Nairé, it felt like ten.
Then he made a tight gesture.
—Out. Two at the door. No one touches anything until I say.
The guards filed out reluctantly. Their boots faded like a drum retreating.
Now it was only Olan and Drezan… and Nairé hidden, heart slamming against her ribs.
Drezan lowered his voice.
—Is she here? he asked.
Olan didn't answer. He walked to the shelf, placed his palm against the wood, and spoke without turning.
—If she were here, Captain… what would you do?
Drezan didn't answer at once.
—I'd bring her to the Regent, he said. —It's my duty.
Olan nodded as if he'd expected that.
—And if I told you the Regent has already decided how the story ends? Olan asked. —That your "duty" is simply the road to an elegant execution?
Drezan took a step.
—Careful.
—You be careful, Olan replied, still calm. —If you sign oaths, don't complain when they force you to see what's true.
Nairé felt heat behind her eyes. The tube pulsed violently. A terrifying thought drove itself into her: if the seal collected memory from lies… it might also collect from forced silence, from swallowed names, from denied words.
Choose.
The pressure became unbearable.
And without understanding why, Nairé spoke.
Not loudly. Not screaming.
But she spoke.
—I'm not your enemy.
Her voice was a coin dropped into water. Small. Final.
Drezan turned with brutal speed. His hand went to his sword—but didn't fully draw it. It stopped halfway, as if something invisible held it back.
Olan shut his eyes—not in surprise, but in worry.
—Nairé… he whispered.
Nairé's stomach fell. Olan had said her name. Or the name she used. Did it anchor her… or expose her?
The panel opened softly. Olan nudged it and gestured. Nairé stepped out, clumsy, the archive-salt vial in one hand and the leather tube pinned to her chest with the other.
Candlelight hit her face, and she felt stripped bare.
Drezan stared at her like a map that didn't match the land. There was no pure rage—only doubt, calculation, and beneath it something she didn't expect: exhaustion.
—You're the courier, he said.
Nairé swallowed.
—Yes.
Yes was the simplest truth she owned.
—Did you take the Crown Seal?
The question felt like it might tear her throat.
—No, she said, and this time she made sure it was true. —I didn't take it. It… struck me. It chose me.
Drezan blinked.
—That doesn't happen.
—I didn't exist to you until today either, Nairé snapped, bitterness slipping out before she could stop it.
Olan lifted a hand.
—Breathe, he ordered—like he was commanding the air itself. —Three breaths. No lies.
Nairé didn't know how, but silence became more real. Even the candle flames seemed to pause.
Drezan inhaled once. Twice. Three times.
When he spoke again, his voice had shifted by a fraction.
—What do they call you… besides "Nairé"? he asked.
Nairé opened her mouth. The blankness returned.
She couldn't remember.
Olan's eyes sharpened with urgency.
—Don't force it, he murmured. —If the seal collects it, you'll lose it for good.
Drezan frowned.
—The seal collects names?
Olan didn't answer—because the tube answered for him.
The leather warmed, tightened, like something inside pushed outward. A line of light leaked through the seam, blue and gold at once. The Crown's symbol—unseen until now—sketched itself into the air like smoke.
Nairé froze, terrified.
At the Saltery's door, a shadow appeared without sound. Not a guard. Not a servant.
A man in immaculate robes and a calm gaze.
Karth Vellûn.
The Oathmaster.
Drezan stiffened.
—Vellûn.
Karth inclined his head politely, as if arriving for dinner.
—Captain Qamar. Archivist Serq. His eyes slid to Nairé. —And… finally.
Nairé felt the world narrow again. The pressure behind her eyes turned into a удар.
Karth's smile was small.
—Don't worry, he said. —It's normal not to remember your name… after someone takes it.
The tube burst into light.
And a voice that was not Nairé—ancient, clear, impossible to argue with—spoke a single word into the Saltery's air:
—Naerith.
Nairé doubled over as if the word had struck her chest.
Drezan went rigid.
Olan turned pale.
And Karth Vellûn closed his eyes, satisfied—like a man finally hearing the correct note.
—Welcome back, he whispered.
End of Chapter 3.