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"Because access logs still exist."

"And?"

"And I would prefer not to explain why six people remained inside a restricted archive for forty-eight uninterrupted hours."

Rhyven looks toward the nearest catalogue. "What sections are available?"

Professor Neris turns. "All of them." Every cabinet along the eastern wall stands unlocked. The map cases are open. The chained books have been released from their shelves. Even the black cabinets near the rear of the Archive—those Professor Neris herself handled with caution—wait with their doors slightly ajar.

My pulse quickens. "You opened everything."

Her gaze returns to me. "For today." A pause. "Take what you think matters."

The sentence settles through the room. Not borrow. Not study. Take. Copy. Preserve. Before someone decides we no longer have the right to know it existed. No one wastes time asking where to begin. Nyra claims the central table before the rest of us have removed our coats. She spreads blank parchment across its surface, numbers each page and begins dividing the work. "Maps and military records together," she says, looking toward Rhyven. "Personal journals and testimonies here. Ward reports separate. Anything mentioning the broken-circle symbol goes directly in the middle."

Cassian sets down his books. "What about duplicate accounts?"

"Copy the differences."

"What if they're minor?"

"Especially if they're minor."

Caelen looks toward her. "You've done this before." "My family worked in archives." She says it without hesitation this time. No shame. No pause. Something warm moves through my chest.

Caelen only nods. "Good." He turns toward the shelves. "What do you need?" Nyra gives him three catalogue numbers before he finishes the question. He smiles faintly. Then goes. We fall into roles almost immediately. Rhyven takes the architectural plans. He lays the oldest maps beside the most recent versions and begins marking every sealed corridor, altered foundation and missing chamber. No wasted motion. No unnecessary notes. Only exact differences. Cassian disappears into the testimony aisles. Every few minutes, his voice carries between the shelves. "I found another reference."

Nyra answers without looking up. "Date?"

"Second interruption period."

"Location?" Nyra writes everything down. "Northwestern district."

She nods. "Bring it."

Caelen moves constantly. Maps. Books. Bundles of letters. He keeps track of what has been copied and what still needs review, crosses catalogue numbers from Nyra's list and checks the gate every time footsteps echo from the ramp. He never sits. Professor Neris remains near the outer cabinets, pretending to review her own work while quietly ensuring no one approaches us unnoticed.

And I— I read. The first journal belongs to a healer. The second to a wardkeeper. The third to a Dawn Wing student who wrote about waking one morning unable to sense the blood inside her own body. Not dead. Not numb. Absent. I copy the passage exactly. My wrist begins aching before the first hour ends. I ignore it. The fourth testimony contains dried blood along one edge of the parchment. Old. Nearly black. I hesitate. Professor Neris notices from across the room. "No."

I look toward her. "I didn't—" I start.

"You considered it." She interrupts.

"Yes."

"No Blood Echo without authorization." She warns me.

"I remember."

Her eyes remain on mine. "Good."

I place the testimony flat against the table and copy only the visible words. The blood stays untouched. For now.

By midmorning, the Archive has changed. It no longer feels like a tomb. It feels like a command room. Pages cover every table. Ink stains our fingers. Dates and locations repeat so often they begin forming rhythms. Every few minutes, someone discovers another contradiction. A report dated three weeks before the official beginning of the Silent War. A map showing an access corridor beneath Dominion that vanished from every later plan. A casualty list containing names absent from the Academy register. A healer's statement describing a patient whose manifestation returned "with the force of something resisting confinement." Nyra copies that sentence twice.

"Why twice?" I ask.

"Because wording matters." She says.