The old book market near the Obvodny Canal was a maze of narrow alleys choked with the smell of decay. Not the clean, honest decay of rot, but the slow, sour death of paper. It was a smell of forgotten words and damp wool, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat. Sineus moved through the labyrinth, his boots silent on the slick, uneven stones. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy with moisture, the grey light of Petrograd swallowed by the tight press of brick buildings. He was looking for a door. A door with no sign, painted the color of a faded bruise.
He found it at the end of a dead-end passage, a featureless slab of wood set into a crumbling brick wall. It was the color Morozov had described. A sick, purple-grey, like old blood under skin. There was no handle, no knocker. Sineus hesitated for only a second, then knocked. Three hard raps. The sound was flat, absorbed by the damp wood. For a long moment, nothing happened. He was about to knock again when a dry, scraping sound came from within. A bolt being drawn. The door swung inward on silent hinges, opening into a passage of absolute black.
Sineus stepped across the threshold. The door closed behind him, cutting off the grey light and the smell of the city. Here, the scent of decaying paper was overwhelming, a physical presence. It was dry and dusty, with an undercurrent of something else. Something like dried herbs, or old bones. A faint light glowed at the far end of the passage. He walked towards it.
The passage opened into a room. It was not a shop. It was a cavern carved from books. They were stacked from floor to ceiling in teetering, impossible columns. They formed the walls, the furniture, the very air. A single, bare bulb hung from a wire, casting a weak, yellow light that was swallowed by the shadows. Behind a desk made from bound ledgers sat a man. He was as frail and dry as the pages surrounding him. His skin was the color of old parchment, stretched thin over a delicate frame. He wore a simple, dark coat dusted with a fine layer of paper fibres. He did not look up.
— You are not one of my usual patrons, — the man’s voice was a dry rustle, the sound of a single leaf skittering across stone.
— I was told you could help me, — Sineus said. He kept his voice even. He would not show weakness here.
— People are often told things that are not true. It is the foundation of history.
Sineus placed his hands on the desk. The surface was a mosaic of faded leather and gilt lettering.
— I am looking for an artifact. They call it the Heart of the Artisan.
The old man finally looked up. His eyes were pale, the color of watered-down ink, and they seemed to hold a vast, tired knowledge. He looked at Sineus, but also through him, as if reading the title on his spine.
— You use the language of myth to ask for a thing of science. The Heart is not a jewel. It is not a talisman. It is a sealed death-memory. The final, perfect, creative spark of a master craftsman, captured at the moment his life was extinguished.
The Archivist of Ruin leaned forward. The movement was slow, his joints creaking like the spine of an old book.
— It is a moment of pure creation, so potent it can overwrite the chaos of the plague. But it is also a memory of death. To open it is to stand in the presence of two absolutes at once. It is not a cure. It is a gamble with reality itself.
— I need to find it, — Sineus said. The words were flat. A statement of fact.
The Archivist stared at him for a long time. The only sound was the faint, dry rustle of his own breathing. It had a strange rhythm. A quiet, ticking sound.
— The workshop where it was made, where the artisan died, was erased. The Censorium was thorough. But no erasure is perfect. There are maps.
He reached under the desk and produced a rolled tube of parchment. It was brittle, yellowed with age. He spread it carefully on the desk. It was a map of a section of Petrograd, but a version Sineus had never seen. The streets were different. The landmarks were wrong.
— A pre-erasure map, — the Archivist whispered. He tapped a thin, dry finger on a specific point. — The workshop was here. In the district you now call the Iron Palimpsest.
Sineus looked at the map. It was a key. A tangible piece of a world that no longer existed. He felt a surge of something he had not felt since the cafe. Hope. He reached for it. The Archivist’s hand shot out and covered the map. His fingers were surprisingly strong.
— Everything has a price.
— I will pay it, — Sineus said.
— I do not want your money, — the Archivist said, his pale eyes fixed on Sineus. — Your kind always thinks in terms of currency. It is the most primitive form of memory. No. I want something real.
— What?
The Archivist leaned back, his fingers steepled. The dry, ticking rustle of his breath seemed to grow louder.
— I want a memory. A happy one. Of her. The one you are trying to save.
Sineus froze. The air in the room grew cold. This was the price. Not gold. Not a service. A piece of his own soul. A piece of Lilya. To trade a memory of her to save her life. The logic was a serpent eating its own tail. He could refuse. He could walk out, try to find another way. But there was no other way. Morozov had said it. The experts had confirmed it. The clock was ticking in the shallow breaths his sister was taking. This was the choice. Fail the quest and lose her, or cut a piece of himself away and hand it to this creature of dust and shadow.
— A specific memory, — the Archivist continued, his voice soft. — Not a grand one. A small, perfect moment. A moment of pure, uncomplicated joy. Give it to me.
Sineus closed his eyes. His mind was a fortress, every memory cataloged and secured. To give one up was a violation of his deepest principles. It was a surrender to the chaos. But Lilya’s face floated in the darkness behind his eyelids. Her cold skin. The emptiness in her eyes. The price was his identity. The cost of failure was her life. There was no choice.
— Very well, — he said. The words tasted like ash.
He searched his memory. He pushed past the arguments, the disagreements, the moments of frustration. He looked for the light. He found it. A summer afternoon, years ago. The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The smell of cut grass and warm dust. Lilya, her face flushed with effort and frustration, trying to ride a bicycle for the first time. She was seven.
He remembered the scraped knee. The tears. His own impatience, and then a sudden, unexpected wave of tenderness. He remembered holding the back of the seat, running alongside her, his legs longer than hers. He remembered the exact moment he let go. She wobbled. She cried out. And then she was riding. Her laughter, clear and bright as a bell, echoing across the lawn. A moment of pure, uncomplicated joy.
He focused on it. He held it in his mind, every detail sharp and clear. The color of her dress. The glint of sun on the handlebars. The sound of her laughter.
He felt a strange, pulling sensation in his mind. A cold, precise pressure, like a surgeon’s scalpel. It was not a violent tearing. It was a clean excision. The memory, with all its warmth and light, was drawn out of him. It flowed across the desk, a shimmering, silent river of light that only he could see. It flowed into the Archivist.
The old man closed his eyes, a faint, serene smile on his lips. He was savoring it.
When it was over, Sineus felt a void. A clean, hollow space in his mind where the memory had been. He knew he had taught his sister to ride a bicycle. It was a fact in a ledger. But the warmth, the laughter, the feeling of the sun on his neck… it was gone. He had paid the price. He had moved on the axis, sacrificing a piece of his past to secure a future.
The Archivist opened his eyes. They seemed brighter now, less tired. He pushed the map across the desk.
— Your payment is accepted.
Sineus took the map. His hand was steady. He rolled it carefully and placed it inside his coat. He felt a new emptiness inside him, a cold, clean wound. He had crossed the threshold. He had traded a piece of his soul for a piece of paper. He was committed.
The air outside was cold and sharp against his face. The smell of the city was a welcome assault after the dry dust of the archive.
He had a destination, but the Iron Palimpsest was not a place you could navigate with a map alone.
