"Did he sign it?"

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"What did he write?"

Bernard glanced at the final line. "C."

"How informal."

Abi leaned toward me. "He’s becoming bold."

"He’s becoming useful."

"Same thing?"

"In his case, perhaps."

I handed the document back. "Keep it. If Marcellus asks to see it, show him the seal, but don’t hand it over."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

We entered the record hall, and the smell hit first, dust and wax and old leather, the strained patience of clerks who’d stopped expecting anything interesting from their work. Shelves rose all the way toward the high ceiling, ladders sliding along brass rails, rows of desks filling the central chamber, each one occupied by scribes bent over their ledgers with the defeated posture of people copying names they’d never bother to remember.

Lord Keeper Marcellus waited at the far end of the hall. He’d dressed for the occasion, of course, dark blue robes embroidered at the cuffs with the imperial archive pattern, silver hair arranged flawlessly, his smile polished enough to survive a flood. He looked exactly like a man who’d spent his morning destroying documents.

"How pleasant," he said as we approached. "I was informed House Konstantin had requested access."

"I thought it rude to let you keep all the interesting records to yourself," I replied.

His smile didn’t waver. "You’ve always had an unconventional understanding of archival procedure, Your Excellency."

"And I’ve always had an unconventional understanding of people who hide things in basements."

Abi made a soft, approving sound behind me. Several clerks pretended not to hear us, and failed at it rather badly.

Marcellus’s gaze flicked briefly to Abi. "Lord Abinatha."

"Lord Keeper," Abi said pleasantly. There was nothing openly threatening in his tone, which was exactly what made it effective.

Marcellus recovered quickly. "I’m told you wish to inspect certain restricted materials."

"I do."

"Some of the requested records are incomplete. Others are sacred. A few haven’t been opened in decades."

"Then today will be exciting for them."

His smile thinned at that. Bernard stepped forward and showed the authorization just long enough for the imperial seal to catch the light, and Marcellus’s eyes paused on it for a fraction of a second longer than they should have. A tiny hesitation, small enough that an ordinary person would have missed it entirely.

I wasn’t ordinary. Neither was he. That made all of this considerably more entertaining.

"His Highness has granted broad access," Marcellus said carefully.

"His Highness has learned that broad access becomes useful when people keep dying around his records."

His eyes sharpened at that. Abi hummed under his breath, and I smiled with as much innocence as I could manage.

"Was that impolite?" I asked.

"No," Marcellus said. "Merely direct."

"Then we understand each other."

His expression said we absolutely did not, which was fine by me.

He led us through the central hall, past clerks who suddenly found their paperwork fascinating the closer we got to them. The lower archive entrance waited behind a carved screen at the back of the building, guarded by two imperial wardens in ceremonial armor and the blank expressions of people trained not to wonder what lived beneath their feet.

Marcellus produced a key, long and black, shaped like a serpent curling around itself.

I stared at it. "The serpent key."

He glanced at me. "You’ve seen it before."

"In the lower vault."

"Yes."

"Then you’re using the same access system."

"The archive and lower vault share an older foundation."

"Convenient."

"History often is."

His gaze held mine without flinching, and I found that almost impressive. He’d clearly listened closely enough to the Empress to borrow her exact phrasing, or else the two of them had learned the same line from someone older and considerably more irritating than either of them.

The key turned. The door opened. Cold air drifted out to meet us.

The lower archive was quieter than the vault beneath the palace, but it carried the same unpleasant sense of being watched. Narrow lamps burned along the walls. Shelves stood behind iron latticework, packed with old cases, sealed boxes, and rolled documents. Some records had been preserved with magic. Others had simply survived through stubbornness. I respected both approaches equally.

Marcellus gestured toward the eastern section. "The Saint Orison materials are stored here. Property records, restoration requests, temple staffing correspondence, and several older hymn books."

"Hymn books," I repeated.

"Ceremonial material."

"Of course."

We started with the property records, and found nothing worth noting at first. Leaking roof tiles, cracked stone, deteriorating pews, a request for new incense burners, another for two dozen children’s hymn robes.

The date on that last request was eight years ago.

I looked at it, then at Marcellus. "Saint Orison’s chapel was declared inactive thirty years ago."

"Yes."

"Why would an inactive chapel require children’s hymn robes?"

He looked down at the page. "The chapel maintained a small community choir at the time."

"From which neighborhood?"

"The lower district."

"Names?"

"Those records may not have survived."

"How unfortunate."

Abi leaned over my shoulder. "Perhaps they became allergic to ink."

Marcellus’s gaze flicked toward him. "Lord Abinatha has an unusual sense of humor."

"He has many unusual things," I said. "Humor is the least concerning of them."

Abi looked genuinely offended by that, and I ignored him entirely.

The next ledger held supply transfers. Preservation salt. Fine wax. Temple oil. Silver thread. Bone powder. The exact same materials Fate had listed under the bridge, and this time the clearance code sat plainly in the margin, Lower Archive Clearance, issued under the Lord Keeper’s own office.

I pressed one finger against the faded mark. "Your clearance cipher."

Marcellus remained calm. "Several clerks possess access to that mark."

"Then someone under your authority is using it to move ritual materials through abandoned chapels."

"That’s a serious accusation."

"It’s a serious amount of evidence."

His expression didn’t change, but the nearest lamp flickered, just once, and I watched the flame steady itself again before looking back at him.

"You’re not a man who startles easily, Lord Keeper," I said.

"Nor are you, Your Excellency."

"I have better reasons."

Neither of us spoke for a moment. Behind us, Bernard copied the page into a Sonomi ledger without waiting to be asked. Good boy.

Marcellus glanced toward the shelves. "There are other records you wished to review."

"Indeed."

We moved on to correspondence from temples across the empire, sealed in wax and sorted by year, region, and concern. Requests from the western holy lands, complaints about relic taxation, a rather dramatic dispute between two bishops over the ownership of a saint’s finger bone, and several diplomatic notes involving the Verdant Faerie Marches.

I stopped at one of them. The seal was dark green, pressed with a pattern of thorned branches curling around a crescent moon. Verdant Court Delegation, the label read. Seasonal passage request pending imperial review.

It was only a notice. A diplomatic matter, a border route, a delegation expected after the coronation festivities. Still, the paper carried a faint scent of rain-wet leaves despite its age, and I noticed it more than I wanted to.

Abi noticed my pause too. "The Faerie Court," he murmured.

"Apparently."

"They don’t like waiting."

"Neither do I."

"Then you have something in common."

"That’s not comforting."

I closed the document and set it back on the shelf. There was no real reason to think further on a faerie delegation. The Capital received visitors. Countries had borders. Courts sent letters. Rain smelled like rain. That was all it was, probably.

The next shelf held a row of black-bound ledgers with no labels, and Marcellus stopped walking in front of it.

"These are restricted," he said.

"I can read."

"They contain material connected to the imperial succession rites."

"Even better."

"Your Excellency." His voice had lost its polish, just slightly.

I turned to face him fully. The smile had left his expression too, only a little, but enough for me to notice.

"You’ve already authorized my access to the lower vault records," I said. "The Crown Prince has granted review authority. The Empress herself asked for results. I don’t think you want me reporting that the Lord Keeper blocked those results by hiding the relevant ledgers."

His jaw tightened. Abi’s smile brightened, and Bernard quietly stepped closer, ready to write down whatever came next.

Marcellus looked from the authorization seal in Bernard’s hand back to me, and after a long breath, he opened the lattice gate.

"Very well," he said.

The key turned softly, but the sound still seemed to settle heavily over the room. Inside were only twelve books, all bound in the same black leather, each spine marked with the imperial crest and a single gold line beneath it. First Ascension. Second Ascension. Third Ascension. The titles continued down the row.

I found the seventh volume and let my fingers rest above it for a moment.

The Crown Prince’s seventh year rite. A thing children had been arranged around. A thing Caldus had attended. A thing Marcellus had been connected to before he ever became Lord Keeper. A thing the Empress had known enough about to protect with wards and silence.

I pulled the book free, and Marcellus moved, just a fraction, just enough for me to catch it.

"Do you object?" I asked.

"No."

"You moved."

"Old records are fragile."

"So are people. We still touch them."

Abi looked entirely too pleased with that answer.

I opened the book. The first pages were formal, a list of gifts, witnesses, palace physicians, temple officials, court nobles, the Emperor’s signature, the Empress’s signature, a younger Marcellus listed under ritual advisor. Caldus didn’t appear at first. Then, several pages later, his name showed up in smaller script, assistant witness, a position too minor to matter, which meant it probably did.

The final third of the record was written in an older hand, not a formal archive copy, but a private notation tucked between the official pages. The ink had faded, though not enough to hide the words.

The First Hymn remains stable. The offering has not rejected the vessel. The Mother’s ward must remain unbroken until ascension. The Keeper will count the names. The Choir will send the answer.