The iron door shuddered under the battering ram. The sound wasn't just metal on metal—it was a threat with shape.
—Open up! a voice shouted outside. —By order of the palace!
Nairé stood frozen before the robed man. The Saltery's cold slipped under her nails and tightened around her chest, as if the air here was made to last, not to run.
—Your name, he repeated, firmer. —Now.
Nairé opened her mouth… and the word unraveled.
Two sounds rose in her mind, two possibilities. One was the name she'd always used. The other was an older echo, like a tune someone hummed from the next room. She couldn't tell which was truth and which was habit.
The leather tube pulsed against her ribs.
Choose.
It didn't sound gentle. It sounded like a key turning in a lock.
—I… Nairé swallowed. —People call me Nairé.
The man didn't smile. He only watched the phrasing like it was a crack in a wall.
—"People call me" isn't a name. It's a neat way to hide one.
The ram struck again. Fine dust fell from the frame. Nairé flinched.
—I'm not lying, she said, desperate. —I truly… don't know.
His head tilted, studying her with a patience that felt dangerous.
—That was true, he admitted. —Good. At least you can still pay with honesty.
Nairé clenched her teeth.
—Who are you?
—Olan Serq, he answered. —Archivist of the Saltery.
The title didn't glitter, but it carried weight. Nairé had heard rumors: the Saltery was where memories were stored like rare coins; where whole families' oaths were archived; where people came to retrieve a promise—or lose it forever.
—I can't stay, Nairé said, glancing at the door. —They're coming in.
Olan moved to a nearby shelf without hurry, as if time belonged to him. He took a small glass vial and held it up to the candlelight. Inside, a salt crystal ran with blue veins, like a piece of sky trapped in stone.
—If you leave, he said, they'll force you to choose. And what they choose for you… won't always serve you.
—What are you talking about?
Olan placed the vial into her hand. It was ice-cold.
—Hold it. Don't let go.
The crystal touched her skin and something in Nairé settled, as if her body recognized an anchor. It didn't restore memories, but it gave her an edge, a boundary: here you are.
—What is this?
—Archive salt, Olan said. —It preserves. It holds. If your memory tears… this can keep the tear from taking everything.
Another удар. The lock groaned.
—Olan—Nairé swallowed hard— I didn't do anything. I was just delivering—
The tube vibrated harder, like a trapped animal.
Olan lifted a hand to hush her.
—Don't say more than you must, he warned. —Here, every word matters.
Nairé breathed, gripping the vial. She tried to think of something simple: the fish stink of the docks, vendors shouting, Mareh's laugh. But the laugh slid away, like memory had wet fingers.
—Is the seal… doing this to me? she whispered.
Olan's gaze sharpened on the tube.
—The seal isn't doing something that wasn't there, he said. —It's only collecting what you agreed to pay.
—I didn't agree to anything!
—Not yet, Olan corrected—and that was worse than any threat.
The door gave a fraction. Metal screamed.
Olan moved quickly for the first time. He pointed between two shelves where the shadow deepened.
—Come.
Nairé followed. Shelves overflowed with vials and salt plates—some labeled, some blank, as if forgetting were an official state. The air smelled faintly of brine and wax. Clean… but not comforting.
Olan pushed a wooden panel. It didn't squeak. It opened smoothly, revealing a narrow hollow behind the shelf.
—Get in.
—And you?
—I stay here, Olan said, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand in front of a battering ram.
—They'll—
—This is the Saltery, Olan cut in. —And the people outside… shouldn't be here.
Nairé hesitated.
—Olan… why are you helping me?
He didn't look at her.
—Because if they catch you without a name, they'll turn you into whatever suits them.
Another hit. This time the lock snapped with a sharp crack. The door burst open, and warm corridor air rushed in like a slap.
—Search! a voice barked. —Everyone back!
Nairé slipped into the hollow. The panel closed. Darkness wrapped her in the scent of old wood. Through a thin seam, she watched the archive like she was peering through water.
Guards poured in—three, four. Their boots echoed on stone.
Olan stood centered, still, hands visible.
—Archivist Serq, one guard said with command in his voice. —By royal guard order, this place will be searched. We're looking for a courier. Hood. Leather tube. Dangerous.
—"Dangerous," Olan repeated, tasting the word. —An interesting choice for someone who hasn't held a weapon.
—We're not here to debate. Step aside.
Olan didn't move.
—This archive holds oaths, memories, and seals of families that could burn the kingdom if broken, he said calmly. —If you enter with iron and haste, you're not just hunting a person. You're gambling with history.
The guard's jaw tightened.
—Are you refusing an order?
Olan inhaled slowly. Nairé noticed something strange: even in silence, he seemed to choose carefully what part of himself to show.
—I'm asking for procedure, Olan said. —And I'm asking in truth.
That last phrase weighted the air. The guard blinked.
—What?
Olan gestured toward a stone lectern holding a metal quill and a dark inkwell.
—If you search, you do so with oath-ink. Any damage must be recorded. Signed. Sealed.
—We don't have time for—
—Then you don't have authorization to touch anything, Olan cut in, never raising his voice.
A tense silence. The guards exchanged glances. A younger one swallowed.
—Captain Qamar is on his way, he said.
In the hollow, Nairé felt a cold rush. Drezan Qamar—his name traveled the docks like a warning: the captain who didn't tire, who didn't believe in excuses, who smelled lies like a hunting dog.
Olan seemed to sense the shift even though no one spoke it.
—Then wait for the captain, Olan said. —And until then, don't touch the vials.
The lead guard stepped forward.
—Archivist, with respect: if the courier is here, you're shielding her.
Olan finally looked at him with something like exhaustion.
—If she were here, I would know.
Nairé almost let out a nervous laugh. If she were here. Not she isn't. It wasn't a lie—just a door left slightly open.
The tube pulsed. The vial in her hand grew colder, as if the crystal drank her fear.
A new voice carried in from the corridor—steady, controlled.
—What's going on?
Captain Drezan Qamar entered.
He wasn't tall like storybook heroes. He was more dangerous: he looked real. His armor didn't shine with pride, but with use. His eyes swept the archive and stopped on Olan.
—Archivist Serq, he greeted, crisp.
—Captain.
—Our orders are clear, Drezan said. —A courier took something from the northern hall. Something that must not move. There was… an incident with the heir.
The word incident sounded far too small for what Nairé had seen.
—The courier, Drezan continued, entered with a gray seal. That doesn't exist in protocol. And now the Crown Seal… is out of place.
Nairé's stomach clenched.
Olan walked to the lectern.
—If you intend to search, he said, sign here. With oath-ink.
Drezan looked at the inkwell like it was a snake.
—Why the ritual?
—Because memory doesn't break for free, Olan answered.
Drezan's jaw tightened. He took the quill, dipped it. The ink wasn't black—it was dark with a strange sheen, like oil under moonlight. He signed.
The moment the quill scratched stone, the air changed. Nairé felt it as a buzz in her teeth.
Drezan lifted his head, startled.
—What was that?
—A minor oath, Olan said. —You've just committed not to harm the archive. Not intentionally. Not through negligence.
—I didn't—
Drezan stopped. Too late. In Lýssar, what you sign… you pay.
Olan gestured to the shelves.
—Search, then. But don't break.
Drezan moved with method. He read labels before touching. He didn't shove shelves. He was the kind of man who hunted with patience.
And still, Nairé felt he'd find her. Not through magic—through habit.
He passed the panel hiding her. His shadow covered the seam. Nairé held her breath. The vial trembled in her grip.
Drezan stopped.
He didn't look at the panel. He looked at Olan.
—How many unlabeled vials do you keep here? he asked.
Olan didn't hesitate.
—Too many.
—Why?
—Some memories shouldn't be named.
Drezan narrowed his eyes.
—And names? he asked, and the question dropped like stone. —How many memories here… are names?
The tube burned against Nairé's chest.
Olan answered slowly.
—Names are anchors, he said. —That's why when someone wants to destroy you… they don't start with your body. They start with your name.
Silence thickened.
Then, inside the tube, something vibrated violently. Pressure, like the seal wanted to breathe.
A vial on the shelf—two steps from the captain—cracked.
A salt crystal split in two with a sharp, ringing sound.
From the fracture spilled a flash… and a whisper.
Nairé's skull filled with images that weren't hers:
A white room. A gloved hand holding a gray seal. A man's voice saying, Don't call her by her name. Not yet.
And in the center of the stolen memory… a face.
Karth Vellûn.
The Oathmaster.
Nairé went rigid.
Because in the memory, he was looking at her.
And he said—calm, terrible:
—When the Crown wakes, she won't remember we already chose her once.
End of Chapter 2.