They arrived at the Bureau just after midday, though in Valeight time that simply meant the sky had given up trying to be consistent. Above them, clouds formed bureaucratic symbols that rearranged themselves whenever someone squinted at them too long.
The Bureau of Forgotten Deeds was tucked behind a cathedral that no one remembered building. Its exterior looked like the architectural equivalent of a shrug—towers half-finished, doors that opened to windows, and gargoyles that whispered legal disclaimers.
Rue was the first to speak. "This place reeks of suppressed identity. I love it."
Ashwen glanced at her. "You would."
"She would," muttered the coin, Groat, now seated comfortably in the inner lining of Ilyan's coat like a self-important parasite.
They passed through the warped gate, which asked for an admission fee in questions rather than coins:
Who are you pretending to be?What memory did you edit to become that person?
Rue blew a kiss at the gate. It let them pass.
Inside, the Bureau buzzed with paper spirits and floating stamps. Clerks wore blindfolds to avoid bias. The receptionist was a jar of salt labeled "MIRIAM."
"Please state the nature of your inquiry," the salt jar said.
Ilyan stepped forward. "We're here to verify a historical identity. And possibly a forged one."
"Do be more specific," Rue added, resting dramatically against the counter.
Miriam (the salt) replied, "Specificity costs extra. Vague curiosity is free. Would you like the Public Whisper Archives or the Paradox Filing Hall?"
Groat interrupted, "We need Section 7G. Misfiled Personas and Misremembered Contracts. Specifically, the Rue file."
Ashwen raised a brow. "There's a Rue file?"
Rue smiled. "Let's just say I've had identities. Plural."
They were led by an usher made of stacked file folders and regret. Section 7G was cold. Papers flapped without wind. Ink rearranged itself as if shy.
Groat hovered. "This file will likely insult you before it cooperates. Try not to take it personally."
The file, bound in leather that occasionally sighed, was labeled: RUE, PENDING: 12/12 UNRESOLVED.
It opened itself.
Rue of the Refused NamesAlias: Eightfold Echo, B. Peony, Veil-Lark, Rue AgainCurrent Validity: 43%
Ashwen read aloud. "You've lived under four aliases?"
Rue shrugged. "I like to collect selves. It's a hobby."
The file hissed. > Pick one already.
"I choose all of me," Rue whispered.
A spark crackled across the page. Symbols rearranged. A faint shimmer passed over Rue's body, like someone calibrating a hologram.
Groat glowed. "Congratulations. Your metaphysical tax burden just increased."
"I'm used to emotional debt," Rue said cheerfully. "What's one more bureaucracy?"
Suddenly, the lights dimmed. A shadow slithered across the wall. A voice like molasses whispered:
You shouldn't have opened that file... again.
A figure emerged from the stacks. Cloaked, eyes veiled by mirrored glasses. A Concord agent — minor rank, but with authority.
"You were warned," he said, eyeing Rue.
Ashwen unsheathed her dagger. "Let's not start this today."
The agent lifted a relic — a thin, glass knife that hummed with historical accusations.
Ilyan stepped between them. "You want her file? You'll have to go through the coin, the blade, the bureaucratic backlog — and me."
Groat coughed. "Please don't involve me in violence. I'm a certified non-combatant with opinions."
The standoff lasted a breath longer than comfort allowed. Then the agent hissed, stepped back into the shadows, and vanished with the scent of burned vellum.
Ashwen exhaled. "Next time, I throw you at him," she told the coin.
"I bruise easily."
Rue grinned. "Is it wrong that I'm flattered someone's trying to erase me?"
Ilyan looked at her. "We're not done with your past."
"No," Rue said softly. "But for now, let's walk forward."
They left the Bureau, the Rue file closed but not settled.