The river of silver pouring into the mold seemed to drain not only the crucible but also Roric's last bit of energy. The blacksmith staggered backward, his arms trembling from the immense effort, his eyes fixed on the clay form that now contained his solidified dream. For a moment, an unnatural silence fell upon the forge, broken only by the hiss of the hot metal and the groans of the men who had been knocked out.
Then reality violently burst back in. One of the assailants, a stocky man with a scar running across his cheek, got up from the floor where Arteo's intervention had made him slip. His eyes, full of hate, were no longer fixed on the silver, but on Borgo, who was breathing heavily, leaning on his club, a deep wound on his arm bleeding profusely.
"I'll wipe out every one of you!" the man snarled, his voice hoarse with rage. "One by one!"
Arteo felt panic rise. The Ink in his mind pulsed weakly, as if exhausted. 70/100. But those seventy points seemed a light-year away, a power out of reach. The pain in his temples had become a constant hammering, the nausea a leaden weight in his stomach. Every thought was an effort, like moving through thick honey. This was the price. Not just the points, but the wearing down of his very essence.
He had to do something. He could no longer afford to be a spectator. Borgo was wounded, Roric was at his limit, Lyn was missing. Torvin's men were reorganizing, their anger renewed by failure and humiliation.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the pain, and focused on the inkwell. What could he do? Something definitive. Something that would resolve the situation without further violence. He thought of sleep, of peace. He imagined a wave of calm engulfing the attackers, extinguishing their rage, closing their eyelids.
He dipped the pen. The world exploded in a blinding white of pain. A scream caught in his throat. It felt as if someone had plunged their hands into his mind and ripped out a piece of his memory. He saw fragments of his life in the workshop vanish: the smell of fish glue, the feel of ancient paper under his fingers, the sunlight filtering through the glass window. Memories dissolving into nothingness to fuel the power.
When he reopened his eyes, the number was 50/100. He had spent twenty points in a single, desperate attempt. And the world... the world hadn't changed.
The man with the scar was still there, angrier than ever. His companions were getting up. No one had fallen asleep. No one had become peaceful.
The intervention had failed.
A dry, metallic laugh echoed in his mind. Not a human laugh. It was the sound of pages violently rubbing together, of a pen scratching parchment with satisfaction. The Proofreader. It was reveling in his failure. It had shown him the limits of his power. He could not alter minds so directly. He could not impose such complex emotions.
Despair was an icy river that froze his veins. He had wasted twenty precious points. And now he was weaker, more confused, with holes in his memory like abysses.
"Arteo!" Borgo's voice pulled him back to reality. The innkeeper, pale from blood loss, looked at him with eyes that pleaded for a solution, a hope that Arteo no longer possessed.
It was in that moment of total defeat that Lyn reappeared. Not through the chimney, but through the main door, dragging with her an unexpected figure: the village washerwoman, a sturdy woman with her fists on her hips and a gaze that promised trouble. And behind her, other figures: the merchant whose sack Arteo had mended, the farmer whose shovel he had fixed, other tired and frightened but determined faces.
"Bastards!" screamed the washerwoman, brandishing a rolling pin like a war club. "You scared my daughter with your shouting! And you poisoned my cat!"
The small crowd of villagers, perhaps half a dozen, huddled behind her, armed with pitchforks, scythes, and work tools. They were not warriors, but they were the community of Greyrock, tired of Torvin's abuses, awakened by the courage of a little girl and the death of a cat.
Torvin's men, now clearly outnumbered, hesitated. Their determination, fueled by the promise of a reward, faltered in the face of the unified anger of an entire village.
Their leader, the man with the scar, looked at them, then at the crowd, then at Borgo and Roric still standing. His gaze finally rested on Arteo, and for a moment he seemed to see something in him, a shadow of something that did not belong to that world. He spat on the ground.
"It's not worth it," he muttered. "Torvin is doomed anyway. Let's go."
With a final look full of hatred, the men retreated, disappearing into the darkness of the village, leaving behind silence, disorder, and the bittersweet aroma of victory.
In the forge, relief was a physical wave. Borgo slid to the floor, leaning his back against the wall, closing his eyes. Roric fell to his knees next to the mold, a hand stretched out to touch the warm clay, as if to ensure the bell was real. Lyn ran to him, hugging him.
Arteo remained standing, trembling, his head throbbing. They had won. But the victory tasted like ashes. He had failed. His power had limits he did not know, and learning them had come at a heavy cost. And the holes in his memory... who was his first restoration master? What was the name of the cat that lived in his workshop? Small things, perhaps. But they were his. And now they were gone.
He approached Borgo. "Your arm..."
"It's just a scratch," Borgo lied, opening one eye. His gaze was penetrating. "You look terrible, Scribbler. Worse than me. It's as if someone tried to erase you and did a shoddy job."
Arteo did not answer. What could he have said?
The washerwoman approached. "That little menace told me you saved the village," she said, pointing at Lyn with the rolling pin. "Or something like that. Anyway, thank you." She looked him up and down. "You need a real bed, boy. And soup that isn't dirty water. Borgo's stable is no place for a hero."
As the small crowd began to disperse, promising to keep an eye on Torvin's manor for the rest of the night, Arteo felt himself sinking into a weariness he had never known. The price of power was not just in the Ink points. It was in his very soul, in his memories, in his vital energy.
He looked at the bell's mold. It was there, real. Had they changed the ending? Perhaps. But at what cost? And as the moon began to set, promising a dawn that had never arrived in the original book, Arteo felt that the game with the Proofreader had just begun. And that the stakes were not only the lives of the story's characters, but his own mind.