Nysa burst into the Archive with the city's wind at her back and the seal like a cold thing on her wrist. She did not stop to breathe. She went straight to the high shelf where Serene kept the old stacks—where Serene always lived like a moth inside paper.
Serene looked up from her table as if Nysa's arrival were routine. It wasn't. Nysa should have had more manners. She had a month and questions and a scroll that hummed against her ribs.
"You erased me," Nysa said. No preface. No padding.
Serene's fingers paused on a thin reed quill. Her face was a map of deliberate calm. She did not flinch. "We hide names," she said. "It's not erasure in the way you think. We stitch. We fold. We keep some things away."
Nysa's mouth tightened. "Who ordered it? Who cut my name?"
Serene's eyes slid to the ledger on her table like a woman who keeps time with her fingers. "You know the word," she said quietly. "Sentinel." She did not look up. She did not meet Nysa.
That word fell like a rusted weight on Nysa's chest. She forced the next sentence out. "Who gave the order?"
Serene closed the ledger. She stood slowly and crossed to Nysa. She did not speak like a woman who had not made hard choices—she spoke like one who had chosen them and kept their dirt under her nails.
"Not who," she said. "Why."
Nysa stepped forward until the two of them were inches apart. The archive smelled like dust and old promises.
"You marked a child," Nysa said. "You put a seal on someone and wrote Sealed. You put my handwriting into a scroll margin. You lied to me."
Serene's hand went to her own throat, like she was feeling for a pulse that didn't belong to her. She reached out, slow, and touched the iron seal at Nysa's wrist as if to test that it was real. "Yes," she said. "I sealed a name."
Silence pressed in. The stacks seemed to hold it.
"You sealed me," Nysa said.
Serene did not answer at once. When she did, her voice carried a shape of confession that had been practiced. "A child's name. Years ago. The choice was made on a night that caught fire. People were dying. The Sentinel wakes on names. Too many awake and it feasts until nothing is left. We cut threads to stop it."
Nysa's head thudded. She had expected denials. She had not expected a flat admission.
"Why my name?" she asked. The question was raw, clean.
Serene's fingers moved before her mouth formed any shield. She reached into the inner drawer and pulled out a brittle scrap of paper, folded to nothing. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. There, in a cramped line, was Nysa's little looped y—the mark Nysa had always signed at the end of her notes. The same curl. The same tiny flaw.
Serene's thumb traced it. "I kept this," she said. "I kept it because someone had to keep a map of what we cut. I kept your mark because the child who bore it sang a lullaby that matched the Sentinel's slow song. We thought—" Her breath stopped. "We thought if we hid her, she could not be found by the Sentinel. We thought we could save a thousand lives by losing one name."
The words landed. Nysa had no time to be properly angry. Her emotions were too close to the edge. She grabbed the scrap from Serene's hand before the Archivist could pull away. Her fingers closed on paper that had her handwriting on it and felt like betrayal.
"You lied to me," Nysa said again, shorter. "You said protection. You said stitch. You said safe."
Serene's eyes filled in a way that made Nysa flinch. "I told you to be careful what you looked for," she said. "You did. You found too much. That is on me."
Ilias was there before Nysa felt him—he always moved like a shadow until he decided to be visible. He set his palm on Nysa's shoulder, not touching the scrap but steadying her.
"They're watching," he said, low. "Halvor's men were asking questions at the south gate. They sent scouts toward here." He glanced at Serene. "You called her in, right?"
Serene's jaw tightened. "I did not call anyone," she said. "She came to me."
Ilias's eyes flicked to the window. "They'll come asking about a fisherman. They'll ask about the King's letter."
Nysa did not like being watched. The chain at her wrist hummed, a threat as much as a leash. The living scroll under her shawl shifted as if it were listening too.
Serene's mouth set hard. "They needed a way to stop the Sentinel. Someone decided the anchor was inside a man," she said. She pointed at Kaelthrax like a needle. "So we made bargains. The King gave up years. Others gave names. We stitched to keep a balance. You were caught in a junction."
"You put me where?" Nysa said. She felt small. Anger sharpened. "What bargain erased me?"
Serene folded her hands like she was folding a life into neat corners. "You tried to cut the anchor," she admitted. "Once, as a child. You failed. The ritual misfired. It would have woken the Sentinel. So we hid you. We pretended you never existed."
Nysa's fingers curled into a fist until the scrap crumpled. She had no memory of a knife, or a ritual, or the kind of violence Serene described. Her life had been books and ink. The admission made the Archive feel like a stranger's house.
"You made me a weapon then buried me?" she said. Her voice bounced off shelves. "You made me nothing."
Serene's eyes were blunt. "We made you safe from being taken. Safer to be unknown than to be hunted by the thing beneath the city. We do ugly things for the city's life."
Nysa wanted to scream, to tear strips of fabric and throw them at Serene. Instead she leaned forward and kept her voice low and steady. "Who was the other choice? Who else did you cut? Who signed the order?"
Serene's face hardened until it was slate. "The order came from the council and the crown." She said it like a fact. "Not one hand alone. But I did the sealing. I turned a child into a margin. I kept your mark because I could not burn it. I thought… I thought I could keep you." She closed her eyes. "I thought I could hold you without waking what sleeps."
Nysa's mind worked cold. The seal at her wrist felt heavier. The living scroll under her shawl pulsed like a heartbeat asking for air. "You can undo it?" she asked. The question wanted a straight answer.
Serene's lips tightened. "Unsealing is not simple. Either you wake a memory and risk the Sentinel, or you remain sealed and nothing changes. You can be brought back, but the cost—"
"No more cost-talk," Nysa said. "Tell me what exactly." She demanded concrete. She had no patience for riddles.
Serene set the scrap down. Her hands were sure now. "When we unseal, the living pages will know. The Sentinel listens to the old songs of lovers. Names are hooks. If there are too many hooks at once, it wakes. We can restore you by feeding a name into the Archive in exchange—another life, another memory. Or we can try a slow recall. It's safer but takes time and gives Halvor more chances to act."
Ilias cut in, voice quick. "Halvor will use any chaos. He wants the Archive. If we move slowly, he moves fast."
Nysa stared at Serene. Serene had folded her life around the Archive and accepted corruption. She'd saved the city by cutting a child's name. That child was Nysa.
"You sealed me to save everyone else," Nysa said. Her words came flat and hard. "You chose them over me."
Serene's face broke then. "I chose what I thought would keep us from burning. I am sorry. But I am not asking for forgiveness. I am telling you the truth before people who will listen come knocking."
A sharp knock sounded at the Archive door. Footsteps passed in the hall like a landing. Distant, efficient. No herald. Too small to be a courtesy. The sound meant someone official was at the gate.
Ilias moved to the door. He did not look surprised. He looked like a man who had expected this.
"Halvor's scouts," he said. "They're sweeping for scraps. They'll find the ledger and the fishermen. They'll ask the palace. They'll ask questions."
Serene went pale. She understood the danger. She touched Nysa's shoulder once, quick and almost maternal, then stepped back. "You have a choice." Her voice was blunt. "You can try to wake what was stitched out and risk the Sentinel. Or you can keep walking the path you were given. The King believes that will stitch things differently. He's ordered it. I can help with notes. I can give you the ledger I kept. But I won't lie to you. Waking will cost more than you think."
Nysa looked at the scrap with her signature on it. She looked at the seal on her wrist. She looked at Ilias, at Serene, at the stacks that had swallowed her whole life.
"You sealed my life without asking me," she said. No pleading. No slow despair. "I will not let a man who traded his years for a city make a lesson out of me. I will not be a margin anymore."
Serene's hands folded. "Take the ledger," she said. She reached under the table and handed Nysa a slim, wrapped book—notes, pages, names. "It's the page that names you Sealed. It will be proof—and it will get you hunted. Keep it close."
Nysa took it. It felt like a wound wrapped in cloth. She slid it into her shawl beside the living scroll. The seal on her wrist was cold and heavy. The door's footsteps were nearer.
She left the Archive with Serene's scrap in her hand and the ledger against her heart. She walked out into the palace light with a new weight. Serene's voice followed once, barely a whisper. "Be careful what you wake."