My hands shake as the iron door closes behind me.
"Watch your step," the eunuch says.
His boots scrape stone.
I step into the sublevel.
Air hits like a cold mouth.
Boxes line the walls.
Charred labels.
Ragged bindings.
"Start with the first crate," Grand-Astronomer Su says from the doorway.
I lift a lid.
Smoke breathes out.
Paper flakes fall like tiny ash.
"Handle gently," Su warns.
I pull a sheet.
Fingers blacken.
A ledger cracks along a fold.
"That one is brittle," the eunuch mutters.
I cup the page.
Ink ghosts float.
Diagrams peer up, half-eaten.
"Copy what you can," Su says. "Catalog everything."
I set a lamp.
Oil blinks.
The light carves the room into small squares.
"Row one, crate three," the eunuch recites, like a slow chant.
I write the catalog number.
My hand is steadier with a task.
A child's scribble catches my eye.
A small house.
A stick-figure family under a tree.
"Who drew this?" the eunuch asks.
"Unknown," I say.
I trace the name at the corner.
Ling Mei.
"Family name Ling," Su says.
His voice is flat.
"They recorded sacrifices."
The lamp hisses.
"Show me," Su commands.
I lift a damp folio.
A receipt slips free.
It lists soil from a valley, water from a marsh, a ribbon with a scent—items tied to entries.
"Seven points," I say, reading.
"Seven," Su repeats. "Seven souls connected to a center."
My knuckles whiten around the folio.
"Copy the diagram," Su orders.
I draw the center.
I connect points.
Lines cross like veins.
"Why these ingredients?" I ask.
"Ritual logistics," Su answers. "Each item anchors a life to a ceremony."
"Then it's not ledger work," I say. "It's instructions."
"Records record practice," Su replies.
I flip a brittle page.
A child's handwriting smudges with soot.
"That drawing," I whisper. "It's signed."
"Yes," Su says. "Ling Mei, the first mark."
I bring the paper to the lamp.
The face in the sketch smiles without eyes.
"Touch it," Su says.
I press my finger to the sketch.
The paper feels like skin.
My pulse hammers at my throat.
"Careful," the eunuch says. "Oil stains."
"Don't drop it," Su orders.
He moves close, watching my fingers.
A shard of a burned diary falls out of a box.
The top line reads: 'We bought earth from the valley. For the seventh.'
The sentence blurs, unfinished.
"Seventh?" I ask.
"Count them," Su says. "Names, dates, locations."
I whisper names as I find them.
Ling Mei.
A miller's daughter.
A fisher's boy.
A scribe.
Seven entries, scattered like teeth.
"Do you see patterns?" Su asks.
"All ties to specific places," I say. "Specific soil, specific water."
"Precision," Su says. "They measure like clerks."
"They also mark a center," I say, tracing the lines again. "A ritual hub."
"Why preserve such things?" the eunuch asks.
"For study," Su replies. "For power."
"Power," I repeat.
"Every empire saves what is useful," Su says. "Records are fuel."
"Fuel burns people," I say.
"Then control the burn," Su says.
I sort receipts into piles.
Each pile is a lifetime reduced to numbers.
"Look at this," I tell the eunuch. "Receipts for amber, sulfur, a red dye from distant tribes."
"Exotic supplies," he says. "They fed the rituals."
"Supplied to whom?" I ask.
Su lifts a folded list from a crate.
"Names crossed by decree," he says. "Purge marks alongside royal seals."
"Then someone ordered the purge," I say.
I copy the list.
The ink scrapes like bone.
Each crossed name rattles.
"Is the center still active?" I ask.
Su's eyes narrow.
"Maybe," he says. "Maybe the ritual sleeps."
"Who profits if it wakes?" I ask.
"Those with ties to the throne," he says. "And those who would bind life to design."
I find a child's margin note: "Don't tell father."
The hand shakes.
"Someone kept secrets," I say.
"Secrets breed networks," Su replies.
"I trace networks in ledgers," I say. "Transactions reveal hands."
"Good," Su says. "Then trace."
I catalog a bundle of receipts for clay and iron.
Each line has a stamp: a masked symbol, a variation of the Ling mark.
"These mark suppliers," I say.
"Yes," Su says. "They mark those who touch the ritual goods."
"Then they are not all Ling," I say. "They are collaborators."
"Collaboration survives purges," Su says.
I pause over a map.
A dot marks East Fen.
A scribble notes 'failed harvest'.
A clerk added 'contamination'.
"Contamination?" I read.
"Crop failure," Su says. "But the record and linked supplies suggest deliberate ruin."
"Instrumental famine," I say.
"Maybe," Su concedes. "Maybe strategic necessity."
I bite the inside of my cheek to steady the thought.
"Why show me this?" I ask again.
Su's voice softens.
"You do not flinch at children's ink."
"Paper is honest," I say. "It asks less than people."
He studies my palm.
"You understand patterns."
"I survived patterns," I say.
"Survival sharpens," Su says.
A scrap falls near my foot.
A note: 'Prepare seven altars. Seal the center.'
The ink blots like spilled blood.
"These entries tie ritual material to names and dates," I say. "This is not academic."
"It becomes academic when it can be explained away," Su answers. "When it can be framed as tradition."
"Tradition kills quietly," I say.
"Quiet kills less visibly," Su says.
The eunuch hands me a folded ledger with tight script.
The last entry is frantic: 'The seventh resisted. She looked at us. We feared her. We decided to stop her.'
"Resisted?" I read.
"Resisted," Su repeats. "Resistance alters a system."
"Then they measured resistance," I whisper.
"They documented the attempt," Su says.
I fold the drawing and slide it into a protective sheet.
A thin laugh slips from Su.
"Curiosity carries risk," he says.
"Risk hides in records," I say. "Records give me a shape."
"Shape is power," Su says. "Dangerous to hand to the wrong palm."
"Wrong palm?" I echo.
"Any palm," he says. "Even yours."
Dust clings in the lamp's light.
"Will I be free to search?" I ask.
"You will have access," Su says. "Not freedom."
"Access is enough," I answer.
"Access breeds temptation," he warns.
"Then guard it," I say. "Guard with parchment and seal."
He studies me.
"And if temptation leads to dangerous conclusions?"
"Then test them," I say. "If the record lies, ink exposes it."
"The ink obeys readers," Su murmurs.
"The reader can be changed," I say.
The eunuch shifts a crate.
"A margin note mentions a wing under the Observatory," he says.
I unroll a sketch.
"Private chamber. Sealed."
My finger traces the mark.
"Close to the instruments," Su notes. "Astrolabes, charts."
"Charts that double as altars?" I ask.
"Sometimes," Su admits. "Not all astronomy is pure."
"Then my copies will be watched," I say.
"They will," he says. "You will be tested."
"Test me now," I demand.
"Later. Alone," Su replies.
"Alone again," I mutter.
"Alone is truth's company," he says.
I tuck Ling Mei's drawing into a folder.
The eunuch ties it with red thread.
"Red thread?" I ask.
"Significant," Su says. "We mark important items."
"Important invites scrutiny," I say.
"Only wise eyes then," he replies.
"Who decides wise?" I ask.
"Those who read without flinching," Su says.
"I do not flinch," I answer.
"Words," he says. "Words are cheap. Paper holds cost."
"Paper shows price," I say. "That is enough."
He nods.
"You will begin dawn. You copy, you catalog. You keep silent."
"I will copy," I say.
"And if you find names tied to the throne?" the eunuch asks.
"I will not let paper be sole witness," I say. "People need protection."
"Protection costs," Su warns. "You have little influence."
"I have ink," I say. "A steady hand."
"Then begin," he orders.
I lift a ledger.
My pen moves.
The script grooves under the nib.
"Careful with diagrams," the eunuch says. "A flourish betrays intent."
"No flourish," I promise.
He watches my hand.
"Your hand is steady," he notes.
"Practice," I say. "Practice keeps extremities calm."
"Emotion ruins copies," Su says. "Do not let it."
"Emotion," I echo. "I will bind it."
We work.
The room suffocates around the lamp.
"One more thing," I say. "If the records show ritual links—"
"They will," Su says.
"Then I will map them," I say.
"Map wisely," Su says.
"I will," I answer.
He leans close, voice low.
"You seem... moved by the traces of that heretic family. Why?"