Respected Father,

Another decree issued today, and though the Three Kings’ names are written at the bottom, most know it was Vana’s hand that held the quill. In the scriptorium, we whisper more of her than of the laws we copy. Some call her a guardian, others a hidden tyrant. I do not claim to know which.

The ink I spill feels heavy these days. When the Black Rose sigil is stamped upon a page, the air grows colder. The army it commands is said to march even when we sleep, though none admit to seeing them openly. I think sometimes the sigil itself listens, judging each letter I write.

I am but a scribe, Father, yet I feel the weight of oaths thicker than the parchment. If words can rule kingdoms, then I fear my hand helps bind chains I cannot see.

Your obedient son,
Tovan