The word Naerith hung in the air like a bell no one dared to strike. It had no echo—it had weight. The moment it was spoken, Nairé felt something lock into place inside her… and something tear.
Her eyes burned. Not with tears, but with the sensation of having stared into a light too bright from too close.
The leather tube kept glowing, as if it breathed. The Crown's mark—blue-and-gold smoke—trembled before her chest, sketching and unsketching itself like a hesitant thought.
Olan Serq moved first. Not toward Nairé, but toward the Saltery door, placing himself between her and the newcomer like a man stepping between a spark and a barrel.
Karth Vellûn, the Oathmaster, did not look rushed. He entered with the calm of someone the world makes room for. His immaculate robe held no dust, no damp, as if the palace refused to dirty him. His eyes, however, carried something else: a cold, sharpened patience.
—Archivist Serq, he greeted politely. —Captain Qamar.
Drezan didn't answer at once. His hand stayed near his sword, but he didn't draw it. Not from fear—calculation. Or the oath tightening around his ribs.
—Oathmaster Vellûn, Drezan said finally, clipped. —I didn't expect you in the Saltery.
Karth smiled faintly.
—The Saltery is part of the realm, Captain. And the realm… needs order today.
Nairé swallowed. Order. The word sounded like a lock turning.
Karth stepped closer, and his gaze fixed on her with the familiarity of a physician inspecting an old scar.
—Naerith, he said softly. —Breathe.
And the worst part was—her body obeyed.
Nairé inhaled, even though she didn't want to. Cold, clean air filled her lungs, and for a heartbeat the buzzing in her head eased. It was as if the name Naerith had found the exact point to hook into her.
It terrified her.
—No… she whispered, backing half a step.
Olan extended his hand without touching her.
—Don't use her name like a leash, Vellûn, he said—gentle, dangerous.
Karth didn't bother to feign surprise.
—It isn't a leash, he replied. —It's an anchor. If I don't stabilize her, the seal will unravel her. It already is. Can't you see?
Nairé tightened her grip on the archive-salt vial. It was so cold it felt like it wanted to fuse to her skin.
Drezan stared at the tube, then the symbol in the air, then Nairé.
—Explain, he demanded. —Now.
Karth turned his head toward him as if granting an audience.
—The Crown Seal does not "choose" on whim, he said. —It follows design. Compatibility. A… preparation.
Nairé's stomach clenched.
—Preparation? she repeated, voice rougher than she meant.
Karth looked back at her.
—Don't be afraid, he said, as if he had the right. —It's normal not to remember. It's part of the method.
Anger hit Nairé like a slap.
—Method for what? she snapped. —Using me?
Olan didn't move, but Nairé felt his tension like a thread about to snap.
Drezan stepped toward Karth.
—If you're involved—
—Captain, Karth cut in pleasantly, —don't confuse order with guilt. Bring me proof if you want accusations. If you want the kingdom to survive, let me do my work.
Drezan's jaw tightened.
—Your "work" doesn't include walking in anywhere and taking whoever you want.
—Doesn't it? Karth tilted his head. —Who holds the throne's oaths, Captain? Who carries the ink that makes law real?
Silence.
The Saltery seemed to listen, making every word a risk.
Olan walked to the oath lectern, unhurried, and gestured to the dark inkwell.
—If you intend to act within the Saltery, Oathmaster, he said, —sign. As the Captain did. With oath-ink.
Karth glanced at the inkwell. For the firstid time, something like amusement crossed his face.
—You want me to promise not to harm "your" archive?
—I want the Saltery to recognize you as a visitor, Olan corrected. —And to bind you to truth inside these walls.
Karth held Olan's gaze for a long moment. Then, with elegant ease, he took the quill and signed.
The instant the tip scraped stone, the air vibrated. Nairé felt a click behind her eyes, as if the world adjusted by a fraction.
Karth lifted his gaze, impassive.
—Satisfied?
Olan didn't answer. He only watched.
Drezan exhaled, tight.
—Now talk, he ordered Karth. —Who is she?
Karth turned to Nairé, and that attention felt worse than any shout.
—She is… a vessel, he said, and the word fell like dirty snow. —A bearer. A person prepared to hold what others cannot.
—I'm not an object, Nairé said—and thank the Saltery, it was fully true.
The vial's cold eased slightly, like approval.
Karth studied her with patience.
—You are a person, he allowed. —And you are a function. Both can be true.
Nairé felt sick.
—Did you know me? she asked, voice shaking. —Before today.
The tube pulsed, as if listening.
Karth opened his mouth.
And the Saltery's oath forced him.
—Yes, he said simply.
The floor seemed to shift under Nairé's feet.
Drezan stiffened.
—Since when?
Karth blinked, choosing a less dangerous truth.
—Since before you could walk these corridors, he said.
Olan closed his eyes. Nairé understood: that truth was an old wound.
—Did you do this to me? Nairé clutched the tube until her fingers hurt. —Did you take my name?
Karth didn't look away.
—Your name was sealed, he said. —To protect it. To protect you.
Nairé let out a short, bitter laugh.
—Protect me from who? From myself?
Karth didn't smile.
—From the Crown, he replied. —From what wakes when a Crown cannot find obedience.
The smoky symbol in the air trembled, as if the sentence touched something sensitive.
Olan stepped forward.
—Don't dress control up as kindness, he said. —If it was sealed, it was for power—not protection.
Karth looked at him, and for the first time courtesy cracked.
—Archivist… don't be naïve. The realm doesn't survive on compassion. It survives on structure.
Drezan shifted half a step between them without fully meaning to.
—What do you intend to do now? Drezan asked.
Karth lowered his voice.
—Take her to the Chamber of Seals. Stabilize her. Restore order.
—And if she doesn't want to? Drezan asked, and even to himself it sounded strange.
Karth regarded him like he'd spoken out of protocol.
—She isn't in a position to want, he said—and the Saltery made that truth sound even crueler. —A bearer does not decide once the seal is awake. She decides before. And she doesn't remember her "before."
The sentence struck Nairé square in the chest.
Anger found its way out.
—I decide now, she said.
The tube flared hot.
The smoky symbol contracted and expanded like a frightened heart.
Karth watched with interest.
—Look at you, he murmured. —The Crown is listening.
Olan leaned toward Nairé, close enough for only her to hear.
—Don't argue in his language, he whispered. —Speak to the Saltery.
Nairé blinked, confused.
—How?
Olan glanced at the vial in her hands.
—With truth. The Saltery recognizes truth. If you speak your truth here, it's recorded… even if your memory collapses.
A knot tightened in Nairé's throat.
Drezan watched as if he didn't know where his own body stood.
Karth lifted a hand—not to touch her, but to name her.
—Naerith, he said, firmer. —Come with me.
Her muscles tried to obey again. That physical betrayal.
Nairé clenched the vial with both hands and spoke, staring at the lectern like it was a witness.
—I didn't ask for this, she said, voice shaking. —I didn't ask to be chosen, or used, or prepared. I'm a person. And if my name is Naerith, then it's mine. Not yours. Not the throne's.
The air vibrated. Not like bright magic—like a record being stamped.
Karth went still for a heartbeat, measuring.
—Pretty, he said. —But useless.
—No, Olan corrected, harder. —Not useless.
Karth's brow tightened, faintly. Nairé understood: Olan had placed a pebble under the empire's boot. Small, but stone.
Karth lowered his hand.
—Fine, he said calmly. —If you won't come by will, you'll come by oath.
From his sleeve he drew a thin dark ribbon with an ink-sheen. Not rope—something that wanted to be binding.
Drezan reacted instantly.
—No, he said, placing himself in front of Nairé.
Karth raised an eyebrow.
—Captain… are you intervening?
Drezan swallowed. Nairé saw the storm of conflict in his face.
—I swore not to harm the Saltery, he said. —And that includes not letting you turn it into a capture room.
Karth smiled slowly.
—Convenient. An oath that now serves as your moral shield.
—It's an oath, Drezan snapped. —You should respect that.
Karth looked at him like a child holding a sword too large.
—Oh, I do, he said. —That's why I'll do this… without "harming" anything.
He lifted the ink-ribbon and released it.
It didn't fall.
It moved like a gentle serpent, sliding toward Nairé without touching the floor—seeking her wrist.
Nairé backed away.
Olan stepped forward and raised the archive-salt vial.
—Now, he ordered Nairé.
Nairé didn't understand, but she obeyed Olan before she obeyed Karth. She lifted the vial like a shield.
The ink-ribbon touched the glass—then stopped, as if it had struck an invisible wall.
Karth blinked. His first real crack.
—Interesting, he murmured.
—Archive salt isn't only preservation, Olan said. —It's a boundary.
Karth's jaw tightened; for the first time, his calm turned into impatience.
—You can't hide her here forever.
—We don't plan to, Olan said.
Nairé looked at him.
—What…?
Olan leaned in fast.
—When I say "now," run to the left shelf. Don't look back. Don't say anything that isn't true.
—Where?
Olan opened a panel behind her.
—Somewhere the palace forgot.
Drezan, instead of stopping them, shifted toward the Saltery door as if "watching" the guards—actually blocking sight.
Karth noticed.
—Captain, he said softly. —You're choosing a side.
Drezan didn't look at him.
—I'm choosing… time, he replied.
Karth gave a short, humorless laugh.
—Time is collected too.
The ink-ribbon shivered, trying to coil around the vial from the side.
Olan shouted:
—Now!
Nairé ran.
Her boots struck stone. The vial nearly slipped, but she pinned it to her chest. She dove toward the left shelf, where Olan had already pushed open another panel. Darkness swallowed her.
Before it closed, she saw Karth lift his hand and speak one single word with terrible precision:
—Mareh.
The Saltery's air tightened.
And from the corridor—like an answer—came a muffled scream.
Mareh Ux's voice.
Nairé froze inside the hollow, heart exploding.
And Karth's calm voice drifted in like gentle poison:
—If you run… she pays.
End of Chapter 4.