The Binding Room sat below the Registry like a buried thought.
The stairs down were narrow and clean. The torches along the walls burned with white flame, too bright to be comforting. The air smelled of salt, soap, and old ink.
Sable walked between two officers. Captain Maera Flint walked behind her, close enough that Sable could hear her armor shift on each step.
No chains. No gag. No cruelty.
The promise did not make Sable feel safer. It only meant the Registry believed it owned her without needing proof.
They reached a door of pale wood banded in silver. A single symbol was carved into it, a thorned crown.
Sable stopped before she could be pushed.
"That mark," she said.
One of the officers avoided her gaze. "Do not speak."
Maera's voice came from behind, low. "We did not carve that. It appeared after the bells began."
Sable looked at Maera over her shoulder. "The bells are wrong."
"Yes," Maera said. "People on the street are already arguing about what month it is."
Sable felt cold beneath the heat in her throat. "That is the Seed."
Maera did not deny it. She nodded once.
The door opened from the inside.
High Registrar Oren Vale stood there with his sleeves rolled up, hands clean, no gloves. He looked more like a physician than a judge. That made him worse.
"Come in," he said.
Sable stepped over the threshold.
The room was larger than she expected. Pale stone walls. A shallow drain in the floor. A circular platform at the center carved with runes and thin channels for ink.
Binding work.
There were chairs in the corner, a kettle, and a stack of folded blankets. A pretense of comfort.
Two witches waited near the platform. Not in coven colors. In plain gray. Their hair was braided in different styles, but their hands moved with quiet precision.
Registry witches. Contracted craft.
Oren gestured to the platform. "Stand in the circle."
Sable did not move.
"If this is an execution," she said, "you will have to do it in front of witnesses."
Oren's mouth twitched. Not a smile. An irritation he tried to hide. "If I wanted you dead, you would not be walking."
"That does not mean you want me alive," Sable said.
Maera entered and stayed by the door. Her sword remained out, angled down, not threatening but ready.
Oren nodded at Maera. "Captain, keep your position. If she loses control, you act."
Maera's gaze stayed on Sable. "Define control."
Oren answered without looking away from Sable. "No flame. No rupture. No sudden oath shift."
Sable took a slow breath. "You speak as if those things are common."
Oren said, "They were."
Sable stepped onto the platform and stood inside the ring. The stone under her boots was warm.
One of the witches approached with a brush dipped in black ink.
"We will paint anchor lines," the witch said. Her voice was flat. Professional. "They will sting."
Sable held her arms out. "Do it."
The ink touched her skin. Pain sparked fast, sharp, controlled. It was not a burn. It felt like a rule being pressed into her.
The second witch painted her wrists and throat. The ink lines formed a pattern that was not a rune she knew, but it still made sense to her bones.
Oren watched closely. "Tell me what you feel."
Sable swallowed. "Heat behind my teeth."
"Anything else."
"Pressure in my chest," she said. "It moves when you speak about oaths."
Oren's eyes narrowed. "When I speak, or when you hear authority."
Sable stared at him. "Do not pretend the difference matters."
Maera's mouth tightened, almost amused despite herself.
Oren turned toward a shelf and lifted a thin metal tablet. It was blank at first glance, but as he held it near Sable, faint lines appeared. Text waking up.
"This is a record," he said. "Not in the public hall. Not in the officer archives. Not in any place a loyal warlock would ever be allowed to read."
Sable kept her voice steady. "You keep illegal records."
"I keep necessary records," Oren said.
He held the tablet closer.
The thorn crown symbol flickered on its surface, then settled.
Sable felt the coal in her throat shift. Her mouth watered as if her body prepared for heat.
Oren spoke carefully. "Your name is Sable Vane. That is the name you were given. It is also a cover."
Sable's hands curled. "For what."
"For who," Oren corrected. "You were not born in Knotspire. You were brought here."
Sable's stomach turned. "Liar."
Oren looked at the witches. "Begin the prompt."
One witch touched the ink at Sable's throat with two fingers and spoke a phrase in a craft tongue Sable did not recognize. The ink tightened.
A memory rose, unwanted.
A narrow room with red clay walls. Not stone. A different smell in the air, smoke and spices. A woman holding Sable's face in both hands. Warm palms. A voice saying a word that was not Sable.
Sable gasped and the flame surged.
It did not leave her mouth. The anchor lines caught it, pulling the heat back into her chest. Pain shot through her ribs.
Maera lifted her sword slightly. Her eyes sharpened.
Sable forced her breathing down. "Stop. Stop that."
Oren's voice stayed calm. "You remember."
"I remember something," Sable said. "That does not make you right."
Oren lifted the tablet again. "Someone stole the Crown Seed wearing your face."
"Yes."
"That means someone has access to your likeness," Oren said. "Or your body. Or your name."
Sable's pulse pounded in her ears. "I have been in the Registry since I was ten. They raised me."
Oren nodded once. "They shaped you."
Maera spoke for the first time since entering. "High Registrar. Enough riddles."
Oren did not look at Maera. "The Crown Seed responds to signatures in the oath chain. Last night, a forbidden mark appeared in the vault. The Seed pulsed too fast. The bells began to ring wrong."
He pointed at Sable. "Then you produced flame when the Seed was mentioned. You are not simply a warlock."
Sable's voice came out rough. "What am I."
Oren said, "A key."
Sable laughed once, sharp and joyless. "To what. Your vault."
"To the missing signer," Oren said. "To the oath that holds the realm together. A signer who vanished after the purge."
Maera's eyes narrowed. "The purge is not a public record."
Oren's tone stayed even. "Public records are polite lies."
Sable swallowed. "If you knew this, why bring me here at all. Why not hide me."
Oren's gaze held hers. "Because someone else already found you."
The torches along the wall flickered. White flame bent sideways, as if pulled toward the door.
Maera snapped her head toward the threshold. "Who is there."
The door handle turned.
It should not have. Maera had barred it from the inside.
The door opened anyway.
A young woman stepped into the room as if she belonged there. No armor. No robe. Simple clothes, sleeves rolled up. Her hair was tied back. Her eyes were bright with trouble.
Sable felt heat rise behind her teeth again, not from fear, but from recognition that made no sense.
The newcomer smiled at Sable.
"Hello," she said. "You have my face."
Maera moved between them instantly, sword raised. "Name yourself."
The woman raised both hands, empty. "Vessa Pyre. I am not here to fight you."
Oren's voice went quiet. "You were not supposed to reach this room."
Vessa glanced at him. "I reach many rooms."
Sable stared. "You said I have your face."
Vessa nodded toward Sable's throat where the ink anchors glistened. "And you have my fire. That part is worse."
Maera's blade rose higher. "Explain."
Vessa's smile stayed in place. "The Crown Seed was stolen because someone is building a new season order. A private one. A season that serves only one house."
Oren's eyes sharpened. "Which house."
Vessa looked at Sable again, not Oren. "The house that raised you."
Sable's stomach dropped.
Oren stepped forward, sudden anger breaking through his calm. "You are lying."
Vessa's expression turned flat. "No. I am late."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out something small wrapped in cloth.
The room tightened. The anchor lines on Sable's skin burned.
Vessa unwrapped the cloth.
A pale object sat in her palm.
The Crown Seed.
Maera surged forward.
Vessa exhaled.
Not flame.
A single word.
Sable did not hear it with her ears. She felt it in her bones. The thorn crown symbol on the door flared.
The floor under Sable's feet shifted.
The Binding Room runes rearranged themselves.
The circle became two circles.
Sable stumbled, looking down.
A second set of boots stood inside the new circle.
Sable lifted her eyes.
Someone stood there wearing gray robes.
Her face.
Her posture.
Her calm.
Sable Vane looked back at Sable Vane and smiled.
Then the second Sable spoke, using Sable's voice.
"Thank you for keeping my place warm."