The dawn arrived, timid and uncertain, painting the sky above Greyrock with shades of peach and gold. It was a dawn that no one, in the original book, had ever seen. A dawn that should not have existed. Arteo watched it from the shattered doorway of the forge, his body heavy as lead, his mind a tangle of voids and pain. Fifty points. The number bounced in his skull like a coin in an empty box.
Around him, the village slowly woke up, as if from a nightmare. The washerwoman, whom he had discovered was named Hilda, had taken charge with a general's efficiency. She had organized guard shifts, sent for old Megan, the village healer, for Borgo's wounds, and assigned someone to watch the road to Torvin's manor.
"Well, Scribbler," said Borgo, sitting on a stool while Megan bandaged his arm with clean rags. "It seems your mending worked better than expected. You mended an entire village." His tone was weary, but there was a flicker of his old humor in his eyes.
Arteo tried to smile, but the movement of his facial muscles caused a sharp pain in his temple. "It wasn't me. It was Lyn. And Hilda. And everyone else."
"Ah, modesty," Borgo mumbled. "A luxury for those who haven't just lost half their memories." His look was penetrating. Megan, an elderly woman with gnarled but delicate hands, cast a curious glance at Arteo.
"He has a strange aura, this one," she muttered, finishing the bandage. "As if... parts of him are blurred. Worn away."
Arteo shuddered. Did the woman see something? Or was it just his imagination, fueled by exhaustion and fear?
His attention was drawn to Roric. The blacksmith had remained silent, apart, his gaze fixed on the clay mold that contained the bell. His obsession had not dissolved; it had transformed. It was no longer the feverish fire of before, but a deep, almost reverential stillness. He approached the mold and, with a delicacy that contrasted with his size, placed a hand on it.
"It is time," he murmured. His voice was hoarse, but firm.
Everyone in the forge fell silent. Lyn approached him, grasping his free hand. With a screwdriver and a small hammer, Roric began the meticulous work of breaking the mold. The blows were precise, measured. Each falling terracotta shard revealed a fragment of polished silver beneath. The air was charged with an almost palpable expectation.
Arteo felt a tingling on the back of his neck. It wasn't the Ink, it was something else. A presence. He turned slowly. In a corner of the forge, where the shadows were thickest despite the morning light, a figure leaned against the wall. Tall, thin, wrapped in a kind of dark sackcloth. It had no defined face, only an oval pallor and, where eyes should have been, two patches of a black deeper than night. In its hand, it held a long bone pen that seemed to absorb the light.
The Proofreader. No longer a shadow, no longer a voice. A physical presence, or nearly so. Arteo was the only one who saw it. The others, absorbed in the scene of the bell, didn't seem to notice.
The figure tilted its head slightly. It did not speak, but a message formed in Arteo's mind, clear and cold as ice: A Pyrrhic victory, Narrator. You saved the bell, but at what cost? Look within. What have you lost? And what more will you lose? The ending is not written. It is only... delayed.
Then, the figure dissolved, vanishing like smoke. But the feeling of threat remained, more tangible than ever. The Proofreader was no longer just observing. It was communicating. It was questioning his victory.
At that moment, the last fragment of terracotta fell. The bell was free.
It was smaller than Arteo expected, simple in shape, but of a poignant beauty. The silver did not gleam aggressively; it emitted a soft, internal light, as if it held a piece of the moon inside. It did not yet have a clapper, but Roric looked at it with an expression that was a mixture of awe, love, and a deep, tremendous weariness.
"It's... perfect," whispered Lyn, her eyes wide.
Hilda approached, the rolling pin still gripped in one hand. "And now? What do we do? Do we ring it?"
Everyone looked at Roric. The blacksmith took a deep breath. "No. Not yet. Not here." His gaze drifted toward the door, toward the village. "The bell is for Greyrock. It must be hung at the highest point. It must ring for everyone."
It was decided, with general approval, to take the bell to the small village square, in front of the Drunken Boar Inn. The transport was a slow, almost ceremonial operation. Four of the sturdiest men in the village lifted it with the utmost respect, while the others lined the way. Children ran back and forth, excited. It was the first time, Arteo realized, that he had seen the village united, not by fear of Torvin, but by hope.
As the impromptu procession moved, Arteo noticed Borgo walking beside him.
"That shadow in the corner," the innkeeper said, in a low voice, without looking at him. "I saw it too. For a moment." He paused. "It wasn't a normal shadow. It smelled of... old ink and dust. And anger."
Arteo looked at him, surprised. "You... you saw it?"
Borgo nodded, serious. "I'm not just an old man who talks nonsense, Scribbler. I see things. I hear things. That's why I opened an inn. Places where people talk and drink are full of stories. And some stories... have bad characters." He looked at him. "And what is your role in this story? Because that shadow seemed to know you."
Arteo did not know how to answer. The truth was too crazy.
Arriving in the square, Roric supervised the installation of the bell on a sturdy wooden structure that had been quickly built. When everything was ready, the whole village seemed to hold its breath. Roric took the clapper, a silver sphere tied to a rope, and hung it inside the bell.
He turned to the crowd. His eyes sought Lyn's, then Arteo's. "This bell," he said, his voice managing to be heard despite his exhaustion, "is not just metal. It is our hope. It is the promise that the air can be cleaner, that diseases can be defeated. That a new beginning is possible." His gaze drifted toward Torvin's manor. "It will ring for everyone. Even for him."
With a slow, solemn gesture, Roric pulled the rope. The clapper moved, striking the silver.
The sound was not a joyful peal or a clangor. It was a single, pure, crystalline note that spread through the village like a wave of cool water. A sound that seemed to cleanse the air, not metaphorically, but physically. Arteo felt a slight tingling on his skin, and the pain in his temples lessened slightly. Around him, people gasped, some with glistening eyes. The sound lasted a long time, longer than was naturally possible, echoing between the houses of wood and stone like a blessing.
When the sound faded, a reverent silence descended upon the square. Then, a timid applause, which grew louder and louder, erupted. People were smiling, hugging each other. They had won.
Arteo looked at the bell, then at the celebrating village. They had changed the ending. They had won. But the Proofreader's words echoed in his mind. What have you lost? He tried to remember the face of his first restoration master. Nothing. Just a blurred spot. What more will you lose?
And as the village of Greyrock celebrated its new beginning, Arteo understood that for him, perhaps, it was the beginning of the end. The Proofreader had raised the stakes. And next time, the price to pay would be even higher.