We were led through a narrower passage, the stone here older, the seams tighter, candles set into iron brackets instead of decorative sconces. A small brass placard was set into the wall beside the door he opened.

  Chamber No. 5

  The air was dry. And by dry, I meant, very dry, in the way of sealed things, carefully rationed against time. Even the dust had been denied entry, possibly through some kind of spell. Shelving rose along every wall, narrow and tall, packed with slim folios, wax-bound packets, and ledger boxes aligned with such precision that the room felt less like storage and more like a diagram of itself.

  It was, disturbingly, better preserved than the Order founder. Not the current Order. The Order of Saint Merin. That man had gone to the Second Goblin War (yes, there were four of them) wrapped in blessings and banners and returned in pieces. His reliquary had smelled of cured fat and old wax, because apparently fat was considered a stabilizing medium at the time.

  Anabeth made an appreciative sound at once. “Oh. How neat.”

  Prodvin allowed himself the faintest smile. “Order is a virtue of memory, my lady.”

  She drifted a few steps in, hands clasped behind her back, gaze sweeping the shelves with what looked like genuine interest. She must be doing that thing where you counted without looking like it was counting. “I must say, I didn’t expect Branfield to maintain such a… comprehensive collection.”

  “These are selective holdings,” Prodvin said. “Operational records, site inventories, transfer logs, and acquisition notices. Nothing of theological weight.” He gestured to the shelves. “The Concord’s daily liturgical accounts and routine correspondence are kept elsewhere.”

  “Such a shame, really,” she said. “Records like these often tell far more interesting stories than the relics themselves. I’ve always loved reading how land changes over the years, and how what was once considered peripheral suddenly becomes central.”

  What? No.

  If it had been me, I would have steered it back to valuation. Or preservation standards. Or even ecclesiastical politics. Anything except that. That had to have been a slip up.

  I felt the impulse to intervene rise. My stamina was at 49%. I could use my actual voice.

  But I didn’t. Up until now, I had been the shadow at her shoulder. I was the silent, the watchful, the fearsome one. Fearsome guardians did not offer gentle conversational course corrections. To suddenly clear my throat and redirect the discussion would shatter that illusion at once.

  Prodvin, however, did not react the way I feared.

  He merely inclined his head as if she had remarked on the weather. “Administrative evolution is not within this chamber’s remit. Priest Calsen prefers such matters remain compartmentalized.”

  “Of course,” she said, as though mildly chiding herself. “I forget how neatly the Concord divides its memory. A habit of mine, I’m afraid. I tend to read past the labels.” She gestured vaguely at the shelves. “These, then, are more transactional in nature.”

  “Precisely,” Prodvin replied. “They document custody, movement, and condition. Nothing poetic. Merely necessary.”

  “Necessary things are often the least appreciated. Still, I can’t help admiring the preservation. Some of these bindings look as though they’ve never been handled. Ah—we’ve reached the relevant section.”

  Prodvin stopped before a recessed alcove set into the far wall, less ostentatious than the shelves but unmistakably more secure. The wood paneling here was darker, reinforced at the corners with iron fillets that had been polished by hands far more careful than reverent. A narrow placard had been etched directly into the stone above it—no calligraphy this time.

  He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a dense cluster of keys bound together by a metal loop, each one tagged with a thin stamped plate.

  He reached the rightmost key—fifth from the end, slightly more worn at the bow—and I saw a shallow engraving: 5–12. There were dozens of these keys, more than could possibly belong to a single room. This meant each chamber had its own set. Each set had its own divisions. And each division had been locked deliberately.

  Prodvin selected the marked key without hesitation and fitted it into a narrow slot concealed along the panel’s edge. A precise click resounded.

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  “Foundational acquisition records,” he said, almost conversationally, as the panel swung inward. “Early custodial chains are stored separately. They require… context.”

  Inside were a series of shallow drawers, each lined with oiled parchment and fitted with small brass pulls, every one engraved with the same meticulous numbering system. Prodvin slid one free and set it atop the pull-out writing ledge beneath.

  Anabeth leaned forward just enough to be interested, not enough to be eager.

  “I appreciate the care,” she said. “Too often, provenance is treated as an afterthought.”

  I caught the faintest glimmer at the tips of her right fingers before she folded her hands neatly behind her back.

  What? Was she casting something?

  I stepped closer without thinking, close enough that my shadow swallowed the space behind her shoulders, blocking whatever light might betray her.

  I angled my head, just enough to see past her wrist.

  The glow wasn’t spilling anymore. Lines of light were threading themselves through the air above her palm, sketching shapes that made my stomach drop.

  A ring formed. Then one key. Then two. Three.

  She was copying the entire keychain.

  She pulled metal memory from observation alone, every variance preserved. I could see the wear at the bow, the micro-scoring along the teeth, and even the imbalance where the loop had been stressed too often in one direction.

  I’d only read about this. High-tier rogue-mages, metal-leaning, usually bonded to an artifact that did half the work for them. And I’d heard they needed touch, proximity, time.

  She’d had seconds.

  I’d never seen this kind of magic in person. She was an exceptional thaumaturge, and possibly an even better rogue if not for her misfiring mouth.

  I very carefully did not stare at her.

  Anabeth let out a soft, almost indulgent hum. “It’s refreshing, honestly, to see so many custodial archives drift over time. But this suggests continuity. I imagine you have to care,” she went on lightly. “Foundational records invite interpretation if they’re mishandled. And interpretation invites… inconvenience, especially when early acquisitions are involved.”

  He chuckled under his breath. “You’ve had dealings with auditors.”

  “Regrettably.” She smiled, a small, conspiratorial thing. “They always assume negligence where there is usually only time.”

  Prodvin nodded, warming to the topic. “Which is precisely why these drawers are segregated. Original acquisition notices sit in the first set of drawers, date back to the first decade, signed receipts, initial condition reports. They speak for themselves, if one knows how to listen.”

  He gestured to the drawer he’d already set out. “This section covers peripheral holdings later deemed core—sites incorporated post-founding, artifacts reassigned after jurisdictional revisions.”

  Her eyes lit just enough. “May I?”

  He hesitated only long enough to appear prudent. Then he slid the drawer the rest of the way toward her and withdrew, folding his hands behind his back.

  “By all means,” he said. “I’ll stand ready if you require clarification. Some of the early notation conventions can be… idiosyncratic.”

  Anabeth leaned over the writing ledge and lifted the top folio with care, as though it might bruise. “Oh, I rather enjoy idiosyncrasies,” she said pleasantly. “They tend to reveal what systems try to smooth over.”

  Prodvin smiled, pleased, and began explaining the catalog structure without being asked.

  Behind her, the glow faded completely.

  And the keys, now complete, were already cooling. She recovered really well from the first hiccup, if I do say so myself.

  Prodvin’s explanation tapered off as he scanned the open folio. “Hm,” he murmured, then reached back into the alcove. “For an item of that age, the summary ledger alone is insufficient.” He slid the drawer back into place and moved one position lower, fingers finding another brass pull by memory rather than sight. This drawer came free with more resistance, revealing the parchment within. “Ah. Here we are.”

  He withdrew a single packet, bound not in wax but in a braided cord sealed with a flattened sigil of tarnished silver. The mark impressed into it was unfamiliar to me.

  “Original attestation,” Prodvin said, with faint but unmistakable satisfaction. “Filed at the time of acquisition, prior to the Concord’s adoption of uniform ecclesiastical certification.”

  “That seal,” she said. “Independent consecrator?”

  “Correct,” Prodvin replied. “Master Erren of the Third Measure. Pre-Concord, unaffiliated. His evaluations were notoriously exacting, and widely accepted, even now.” He loosened the cord and unfolded the packet. Inside lay a single sheet of heavy vellum, inscribed in a hand so steady it looked almost printed.

  Anabeth leaned in to scan. “This is impeccable,” she said. “The assessment is contemporaneous and I could see no retroactive sanctification.” She smiled. “I would accept this without reservation.”

  As she spoke, her left hand drifted back, casual, almost idle. Her satchel rested against her hip, where the flap had loosened from earlier.

  The movement was unremarkable.

  The sound was nonexistent.

  By the time she straightened, the copied keyring was no longer in her palm.

  Prodvin refolded the vellum and returned it to its packet. “Shall I have a certified duplicate prepared for your records, Lady Armas?”

  “That would be most appreciated,” she replied. “You’ve been very thorough.”

  I watched her hands as she clasped them again behind her back. If I hadn’t been standing exactly where I was, watching exactly what I had watched, I would have sworn nothing had happened at all.

  She really did have experience with taking things.