The revelation under the moonlight had changed everything. Arteo was no longer a mere visitor in a pre-written story; he had become an architect of reality, and the building material was his very essence. Torvin's scream, still echoing in the night, was not just the sound of a man dying, but the lament of an entire narrative chapter crumbling to dust.
He had to act. Immediately.
He strode briskly towards the forge, his heart pounding wildly not from fear, but from a burning determination. He had to speak to Roric. He had to understand how to make the bell's "stitch point" so strong it could endure without him.
He found the blacksmith already awake, sitting on a stool facing the bell as if standing guard. The moonlight filtering through the open door reflected off the silver, creating plays of light that looked like ephemeral writings.
"It's ending, isn't it?" Roric said without turning. His voice was calm, but Arteo sensed the tension beneath the surface, like the heat before metal melts. "You feel the pull. Like iron feeling a magnet's call."
Arteo nodded, though Roric couldn't see him. "Before I leave, I must... I must help the bell stay. To hold the new story together." He searched for words to explain the abstract concepts of narratives and anchors. "It's as if... the reality we've created needs sturdier mooring points."
Roric finally turned. His eyes, once haunted, were now bright with a deep understanding. "Silver is pure, but soft on its own. To make it strong, you alloy it. You create a compound." His gaze grew intense. "The bell is pure narrative of hope. Perhaps... it needs to be alloyed with something equally strong. With something real, tangible. With roots."
"What roots?" asked Arteo, feeling a glimmer of hope.
"Ours," Roric replied simply. "My will. Lyn's strength. Borgo's determination. Hilda's righteous anger. This village's love for its future." He stood and went to a chest in the corner. From within, he pulled out a small, dark wooden box. He opened it. Inside, on worn velvet, were seven small silver cylinders, each the size of a pinky finger. "They were my mother's. She would have wanted it this way."
Arteo looked at the cylinders, then at the bell, and understood. "You want... to incorporate them?"
"Not incorporate them," corrected Roric. "Alloy them. Symbolically. Each of these will represent a person, a pillar of this new Greystone. We'll melt them together into a single seal, and that seal will become the heart of the bell. Not visible, but present. An anchor made of people, not just metal."
The plan was bold, poetic, and dangerous. It meant involving the others, revealing at least part of the truth. And it meant Arteo would have to use his power, the Ink, to forge this narrative alloy, with the risk of consuming even more of his memories.
The night that followed was the longest of Arteo's life.
They gathered the chosen ones in the forge: Lyn, Borgo, Hilda, the merchant Gerric, the healer Megan, and old Kael, the village shepherd. Roric explained to them, with simple yet weighty words, that the bell needed their strength to protect the village forever. That each of them must entrust to it a piece of their heart.
No one hesitated.
Lyn offered a worn ribbon that had belonged to her mother. Borgo, an old coin his wife had given him. Hilda, to everyone's surprise, offered not her rolling pin, but a small acorn she had kept for years, a symbol of a growth she had never dared hope for. Each gave something deeply personal.
Roric placed each object into one of the silver cylinders, then sealed them with a precise hammer blow. Then, he arranged them in the crucible along with another, larger one, destined to become the seal.
"Now, Arteo," said Roric, his voice tense. "Now it's your turn. The forge is hot. The metal is ready. But the alloy... the alloy must also be forged with intent. With the story we want to protect."
Arteo stepped forward. He felt everyone's eyes on him. He closed his eyes. The inkwell in his mind was there, 50/100. He had to use it. He had to weave the threads of their intentions, their hopes, around the molten metal. He had to transform objects and feelings into a narrative anchor.
He dipped his mental pen into the Ink. The pain was immediate and blinding, much stronger than before. It wasn't just a headache; it was a laceration of the soul. He saw his memories vanish like smoke: the taste of the first hot stew after a day's work, the feeling of rain on his face leaving the library, the sound of his first teacher's voice... Fragments of his identity dissolving to fuel the spell.
But through the pain, he focused his will. He imagined threads of ink flowing from him and intertwining with the objects in the crucible, with the hopes of the people in the room, with the incandescent metal. He imagined a web of light and intent wrapping around the bell, rooting it not just in the square, but in the very heart of Greystone.
40/100.
The world swayed dangerously. The forge seemed distant, as if he were watching it through water. He felt a strong hand steadying him: it was Borgo.
"Hold on, Scribbler," the innkeeper whispered. "You're almost there."
Roric, seizing the moment, tipped the crucible. The molten metal, now charged with Arteo's Ink and intentions, flowed into the seal mold with a hiss that sounded like a sigh of relief.
When Arteo reopened his eyes, he was exhausted, emptied. But on the workbench was a perfect silver seal, on which Roric was now precisely chiseling the symbols of the seven pillars: a heart for Lyn, a coin for Borgo, an oak tree for Hilda, and so on.
The work lasted until dawn. When the sun rose, the seal was complete and firmly fixed inside the bell, in a non-visible spot that became its narrative center of gravity.
As the first rays of light touched the village, an unreal silence fell over Torvin's estate. The screaming had stopped.
Then, from the square, Roric rang the bell.
The sound that emerged was different from the first time. It wasn't just pure and crystalline; it was deep. It resonated in the bones, not just in the ears. It was a sound that promised not just purification, but permanence. Arteo felt the narrative web he had created vibrate in harmony, solidly anchoring the new reality.
In that moment, the pull of the Library became a taut cord tightening his stomach. It was time.
He turned to his friends. Lyn threw her arms around his neck, crying silently. Borgo gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder, his eyes glistening. Hilda nodded, a new respect in her gaze. Roric shook his hand, a firm grip full of gratitude.
"We won't forget you, Scribbler," said Borgo. "Whatever your real name is."
Arteo smiled, a sad smile. He, perhaps, would forget them. But they would not forget. And their story, now, was safe.
Then the world began to blur. The colors dissolved into shades of grey. The voices grew muffled. The last thing he saw was Lyn's face smiling at him through tears, and the last thing he heard was the deep, reassuring sound of Greystone's bell.
Then, only darkness, and the rustle of infinite pages.