III. The Vanishing Ink

Night wrapped the palace in thin silver, and in a guarded chamber Cairn sat with two watchmen, keeping company with the parchment that bore the destinies of two realms.

He read again the line that troubled him.
A single sentence granting Friar judgment over any sect deemed “harmful to the Cycle.”
A blade disguised as law.

Then, in no more time than it takes a candle to flicker, the line was gone.

Not scraped.
Not smudged.
Not overwritten.

Gone, as though it had never existed at all.

Cairn felt a chill creep through his armor. “Ink does not wander,” he muttered.

At that moment Vana entered, lantern in hand, its glow soft upon her face.

“You have found a puzzle,” she said.

“The treaty has been altered,” Cairn replied. “And none by mortal hand.”

“There are songs,” she said quietly, “so old that they bend not only the ear but the memory of what was written.”

“You speak of the Choir,” he said.

She offered no denial. “Tell me, Ser Cairn: is the treaty safer without the line?”

“Yes.”

“Then let this be a mercy to Kum.”

Cairn stared at her. “Mercy is never without price.”

Vana drew closer. “Then let the price fall where it must. We must watch what Friar does with the gift we have given.”

And Cairn understood that the Choir had moved a piece on the board, though none could yet see how the game would unfold.

Next Chapter, This Thursday!