The presence of Torvin's servant remained like an ink stain on Arteo's perception throughout the day. Every time he left the stable or moved through the village, he felt that pair of impassive eyes following him. It was not an active threat, not yet, but a constant reminder that the time available to him was thinning like the light of a candle near its end.
The sensation of the Ink of Destiny in his mind had become a strange and disturbing companion. Sometimes it pulsed faintly, like an additional heart, when he passed near Roric's forge or when he crossed the servant's gaze. Other times it seemed to retreat into a distant corner of his consciousness, almost dormant, but never completely absent. It was the Sword of Damocles of the Library, suspended by the thread of his will.
The next day, he returned to the forge under the pretense of Lyn's spoon. The girl greeted him with a nod, less excited than the day before, her shoulders bowed by a worry a child shouldn't have to bear. Roric was already at work, the rhythmic clang of his hammer sounding like a metal-and-fire heartbeat. He didn't even look up when Arteo entered.
As Lyn handed him the bent spoon—"It gave up against the wall much more than the pot did," she mumbled, almost an admission of guilt—Arteo noticed that the covered crucible on the secondary anvil had been moved. It was now closer to the forge, almost like an offering to the fire. Roric cast quick, feverish glances at it between blows, like a lover checking the clock while waiting for a date.
"He's preparing the pour," Lyn whispered, following his gaze. "He says tonight is the right night. The moon will be full, the air will be stiller." She shook her head. "But Torvin's men came back this morning. They brought a 'gift'." She subtly pointed her chin toward a large wineskin resting carelessly near a pile of charcoal. "Roric hasn't even touched it. He says it's poison."
Arteo felt a chill. The sabotage of the original book—the explosion—must have been imminent. Perhaps tonight. And he was standing there, with a spoon in his hand and a magical resource he dared not use. He began working on the spoon, his hands acting almost automatically while his mind raced. He had to do something. He had to warn Roric, but how? The man was unreachable, trapped in his obsession. Lyn was the key, but she was just a child.
He was pondering this when a different sound arrived from the village. Not Torvin's cough, but the noise of cartwheels squeaking on the frozen ground, mixed with raised voices. Lyn ran to the door and peered out. "It's the traveling merchant," she announced, coming back to him. "He brings news from outside. And sweets," she added, with a flicker of her usual liveliness.
Shortly after, Borgo appeared on the threshold, his usual chisel in hand. "The world is full of chatter and the merchant sells it dearly," he declared, leaning against the doorframe. His dark eyes settled on Roric, who continued hammering, indifferent. "He says our beloved lord's illness is spreading. That it's no longer just a cough. That people in neighboring villages talk about a shadow walking at night, coughing up metal shards." He paused dramatically. "He also says Torvin has offered a reward. Live silver. For anyone who brings him news of a certain... silver object being forged here."
Roric's hammer hesitated for a fraction of a second, then fell back onto the anvil with a louder crash than usual. The man did not turn around, but the tension in his shoulders became as sharp as the blade he was shaping. The threat had just materialized tangibly. It was no longer just a matter of theft, but a man-hunt.
"Greed is a worse disease than fever," Borgo muttered, directing his words toward Arteo. "And diseases, as we know, are cured with unpleasant medicines." His gaze seemed to say: And you, Scribbler, what kind of medicine are you?
Arteo finished fixing the spoon and handed it back to Lyn. The girl took it, but instead of thanking him, she stared at him with her serious green eyes. "You... you know something, don't you?" she whispered, so low that only he could hear. "You arrived just now. And you look at things as if... as if you were reading a book. A sad book."
Arteo's heart leaped. Lyn's insight was almost supernatural. He opened his mouth to deny it, to find an excuse, but at that moment, something strange happened. From the outer courtyard, a sudden, cold wind snaked into the forge, making the forge flames flicker and extinguishing one of the oil lamps. For a moment, the darkness deepened. And in that darkness, on the wall opposite Arteo, the shadows did not form words, but a figure. The shadow of a man with a bone pen, pointing menacingly at the wineskin gifted by Torvin's men. Then the wind ceased, the lamp flame spontaneously relit with an unnatural hiss, and the shadow vanished.
The Proofreader wasn't just warning. It was pointing. The wineskin was the key. The sabotage.
Arteo felt the Ink in his mind pulse violently, like a rushing river pressing against a dam. Use me, it seemed to whisper. Observe. Edit.
Roric, annoyed by the interruption, had turned around. His eyes, fired by exhaustion and paranoia, fixed on the wineskin, then on Borgo, then on Arteo. "Enough talk," he growled. "Everyone out. I have work to finish. Lyn, throw that poison away."
Lyn stiffened, looking at the wineskin with fear. Borgo shrugged and walked away, muttering something about the stubbornness of blacksmiths. Arteo knew he had no choice. He had to act. He had to use the Ink.
He left the forge with Lyn, his mind racing. The Proofreader had shown him the threat. The Ink offered him the solution. But how? He couldn't simply make the wineskin disappear. He had to be subtler.
Shortly after, while Lyn was distracted talking to another child, Arteo slipped behind the forge, near a rainwater barrel. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the ebony inkwell in his mind. The black, viscous Ink gleamed, invitingly. He imagined dipping an imaginary pen and tracing a single, simple command in the air: Revelation.
He thought about the wineskin. He thought about the poison, the falsity of the gift. He imagined the truth emerging, clear and irrefutable.
An intense heat passed through his mind, followed by a sudden dizziness. When he reopened his eyes, the number in his consciousness had changed: 95/100. He had spent 5 points. And he felt no difference in the world.
Disappointed and confused, he was about to return to the stable when he heard excited voices. Two village women, drawing water at the well nearby, were talking to each other.
"...I saw it with my own eyes! A rat, as big as my foot, tasted that wine Torvin's men brought to the blacksmith and dropped dead instantly!" "Be quiet! If they hear you..." "It's the truth! The washerwoman's cat got it, it licked the puddle where some of that wine had been spilled, and now the poor animal won't move!"
Arteo was stunned. The Ink had worked. It hadn't changed physical reality, but it had revealed the truth; it had created a coincidence, an unwitting witness who had discovered the poison's nature. The news would spread through the village in an hour. Roric would no longer touch that wineskin. Perhaps he would become even more wary.
Was it a success? A small, tiny change. But was it enough? The sense of dizziness increased, mixed with a dangerous euphoria. He had used the power. And it had worked. The temptation to use it again, more, to force a greater change, was a seductive voice in his head.
That evening, as the village was enveloped by shadows and the news of the poisoned wine, Arteo saw Roric leave the forge and, with an expression of disgust, take the wineskin and empty it onto the ground, far from his workshop. The first, small obstacle on the road to tragedy had been removed.
But as he watched the scene, a long, thin shadow, unprojected by any visible light source, stretched across the road and stopped at his feet. When he looked up, he saw nothing. Only the oppressive feeling of being watched by something ancient, patient, and deeply irritated. The Proofreader had taken note of his intervention. And the game had just begun.