Night fell upon Greyrock like a heavy, damp cloak. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, charged with the gossip about the poisoned wine that had spread through the village with the speed of wildfire. Arteo, holed up in his stable, felt the weight of the Ink of Destiny in his mind like a throbbing bruise. Ninety-five. Ninety-five points remaining. And that dizziness, that sense of emptiness that had followed the use of the power, hadn't completely vanished. It was there, an annoying echo, like the memory of a fever.
He had altered history. Minusculely, perhaps, but he had done it. And the world hadn't collapsed. On the contrary, perhaps he had prevented a disaster. The dangerous euphoria of success clashed with the warning of the Proofreader, whose shadow now seemed to permeate every corner of the village. He felt its gaze upon him, a chilling and impersonal attention, like that of a scientist observing an experiment gone wrong.
He couldn't sleep. Every sound made him jump: the cry of an owl, the creak of wood, the distant bark of a dog. Roric's forge was silent, but a flickering orange light filtered through the cracks in the closed door. The man was inside, with his crucible and his obsession. The pour was imminent.
He was brooding over all this when a slight rustling sound made him turn sharply. Lyn was on the stable threshold, wrapped in a shawl too big for her, her eyes glistening in the dark like a cat's.
"I can't sleep," she whispered, without preamble. She sat on a pile of hay next to him, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Roric is still there. He says he has to finish tonight. That he feels... the metal calling." She shook her head. "Sometimes he talks to the silver as if it were alive."
Arteo remained silent, letting the girl's words fill the space between them. He knew she hadn't come here just for this.
"That man... Torvin's servant," she continued, her voice a thread lower. "He came back. Just now. He knocked on the forge door. Roric didn't open, but the servant spoke through the crack." She stared at her thin hands. "He said that Lord Torvin is dying. That his cough... now he's coughing blood. Black blood, that tastes of metal. He said if Roric doesn't bring him the silver by dawn, he will send his men to take it. All his men."
Arteo's heart stopped. Dawn. Time had suddenly contracted, from a vague future threat to a precise hour, only a few hours away. The tragedy of the book was coming true with ruthless precision.
"What did Roric say?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
"He yelled for him to leave. He said the silver is not Torvin's. That it belongs to the village, to the future." Lyn hugged her knees. "But he was scared. I heard it in his voice. I'd never heard it before."
Just then, the stable door opened with a creak. Borgo was on the threshold, a dead lantern in his hand. He did not have his pipe, nor his chisel. He wore a thick leather vest and his face held an expression Arteo had never seen on him: genuine concern, not veiled by aphorisms.
"The night is long and full of teeth, little one," he said to Lyn, his voice unusually gentle. Then he turned to Arteo. "And you, Scribbler. Does your pen still have ink? Because tonight it might be needed more than a hammer."
Arteo looked at him, surprised. "What do you mean?"
Borgo entered and closed the door behind him. "I heard the voices. I know what Torvin's messenger said." His dark eyes were serious. "That man is not bluffing. Torvin is desperate, and a desperate man is more dangerous than a pack of wolves. His thugs are gathering at the manor. A dozen, perhaps more." He paused. "Roric is a good blacksmith, but he is not a warrior. And he cannot forge and fight at the same time."
"And you?" Arteo asked. "What will you do?"
Borgo emitted a sound halfway between a grunt and a sigh. "I've spent my life mending stories, not making new ones. But sometimes, to save the page, you have to hold the book steady." He looked at Lyn. "Little one, you know the forge better than anyone. Is there a way to reinforce that door? Something that can hold them out for a while?"
Lyn nodded, a flicker of determination in her eyes. "There are the iron bars for testing tensile strength. They're heavy, but we can use them to block the door from the inside."
"Good," Borgo said. "Then let's go. Before the night gives birth to the monster it's waiting for."
Arteo stood up, his heart pounding. Borgo, the cynical philosopher, was taking a stand. He was becoming an active character in the story, not just a commentator. And he, Arteo, had to do the same. The Ink in his mind pulsed, 95/100. Ninety-five possibilities. But how to use them? Against a dozen armed men?
They left the stable and crept toward the forge. The pale, spectral light of the full moon illuminated the deserted village. Every shadow seemed to hide a threat. They knocked on the forge door.
"Go away!" Roric's voice roared from inside.
"It's us, Roric," Borgo said, his voice low but firm. "Open up. The night has ears."
There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back. The door opened just enough for them to slip inside.
The interior of the forge was an oven. The heat of the forge, now fully fueled, was oppressive. Roric was in a singlet, his body slick with sweat, his features strained by exhaustion and tension. In the center of the room, the crucible was suspended above the flames, and inside it, something bright and white was beginning to melt. The silver.
"What do you want?" Roric growled, his feverish eyes flicking from one to the other. "You must leave. All of you. It's too dangerous."
"It is precisely because it is dangerous that we are here, blacksmith," Borgo said, closing the door and shooting the heavy bolt. "Torvin won't wait until dawn. He'll come sooner. And we can't leave you here alone."
"I didn't ask for your help!" Roric shouted, but his voice cracked. He looked at the crucible, then at the door. For the first time, Arteo saw an emotion other than obsession in his gaze: doubt. Fear. The man, not just the blacksmith.
"It doesn't matter if you asked or not," Borgo said with surprising calm. "Sometimes help arrives like rain, not because the earth asks for it, but because it is its destiny." He placed his hands on his hips. "Now, Lyn says we can reinforce this door. And I know how to make the entrance a little more... uncomfortable for unwanted guests."
While Borgo and Lyn began dragging heavy iron bars to block the door, Roric returned to his crucible, his hands trembling slightly. Arteo approached him.
"Roric," he said, trying to find the right tone. "I know you don't know me. I know you don't trust me. But... believe me when I tell you that I know what will happen if we don't do something. I know how this story ends."
Roric looked at him, and for a moment seemed to see right through him. "You... you have the eyes of one who has already seen the ashes," he muttered, a strange, sudden realization in his voice. Then he shook his head, as if to ward off a crazy thought. "It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is this." He pointed to the molten metal. "I must finish. I must."
Arteo nodded. Perhaps he couldn't convince him, but he could help him. He could use what he had. He stepped away and sat in a corner, closing his eyes. The ebony inkwell was there, the black Ink calling to him. Ninety-five points. He had to be strategic. He couldn't stop an army, but perhaps he could change small things. An idea began to form in his mind. An intervention not to alter the main events, but to influence the probabilities. To give them an advantage, however small.
Concentrating, he imagined dipping the pen. This time he did not trace a word, but a mental image: the forge door, sturdy, unyielding. He imagined the wood thickening, the iron bars becoming more solid, the bolts resisting beyond all expectation. Not a physical change, but a strengthening of its natural resilience. An increase in the probability that it would hold.
A sharp pain shot through his temples, much stronger than the first time. A wave of nausea washed over him. When he reopened his eyes, the number in his mind was 85/100. He had spent ten points. Double the first time. The cost increased with the complexity of the intervention.
He looked at the door. Externally, it hadn't changed. But he felt, or perhaps imagined, a certain extra solidity, an aura of determination that seemed to envelop it. Maybe it was just suggestion. Or maybe not.
Shortly after, from the village, came the sound of heavy footsteps and threatening voices. Many voices. Torvin hadn't waited for dawn.
Borgo approached the door, a knotted wooden club in his hand that Arteo didn't know where he had pulled from. Lyn huddled near Roric, her eyes wide. Roric himself, pale but determined, gripped a large blacksmith's hammer.
"They are tired of knocking with words," Borgo muttered, listening to the noises from outside. "Now they will knock with force."
The first blow against the door sounded like thunder in the forge. A massive strike, from something heavy. The door shook, but held. The iron bars seemed to absorb the shock better than expected.
Arteo held his breath. Had the Ink worked? Or was it just luck?
From outside, a voice snarled: "Open up! By order of Lord Torvin!"
Roric did not answer. His gaze was fixed on the crucible, on the silver that was finally melting, becoming a single, luminous lake of pure metal. His bell. His obsession. His only hope.
And it was at that moment, as the blows against the door intensified, that Arteo understood that the true night of whispers was not outside, but within him. The Ink whispered of power, the Proofreader whispered of failure, and his own conscience whispered the most terrible question of all: how much would it cost to save this story? And what would be left of him, after paying the price?