Dinadan walked away, but the words clung to him like damp wool.

  Stories could move men faster than a king’s decree and shift the weight of a kingdom—not by steel, but by the quiet, relentless pull of belief.

  And this one?

  This one was already moving.

  The market carried on, voices rising, coin changing hands, but the whispers gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

  The land blackened. The animals dead. The tithe demanded all the same.

  Had it happened? Maybe.

  Had it happened that way? That was another matter altogether.

  Stories twisted, reshaped with every telling.

  Truth never made it to the end whole.

  Dinadan pulled his cloak tight against the wind and made for the inn. He needed distance. A quiet corner. A night unburdened by stories refusing to settle.

  But the night was waiting.

  The wind carried whispers. The shadows stretched too far.

  And when he closed his eyes, the ink was still wet on his hands.

  The scent of ink and old parchment filled the air—thick, familiar, unshaken by time. Candlelight flickered over bowed shelves, their wooden frames sagging under the weight of scrolls and books, while dust clung to the air like forgotten words.

  Dinadan sat at a long wooden table, a reed pen cool between his fingers. The parchment before him was pristine, waiting.

  "Again."

  The voice came from behind him. Measured. Firm.

  Dinadan glanced down. The letters he had written were smudged where his hand had rested too long, the ink blurred from hesitation.

  "A record must be clean," the voice said. A hand, ink-stained and calloused, rested on his shoulder. "Truth does not endure if written without care."

  Dinadan swallowed.

  "Again."

  He dipped the reed pen into the inkwell, careful this time. The nib scraped against the vellum, leaving letters dark and certain.

  Truth must be written.

  Truth must endure.

  But as he pulled the pen away, the ink bled.

  At first, just a stray blot—his hand lingering a breath too long.

  Then the letters shifted.

  The ink twisted, stretched, and formed into shapes he hadn't made.

  Not what he had written.

  Not what he had meant.

  His father’s voice echoed in his mind. "If truth is not written, it does not survive."

  But this—this was not the truth.

  The words warped.

  Blurred.

  Changed.

  He tried to stop it. His hands pressed to the page, but the letters smudged beneath his fingers, curling into new shapes, new meanings.

  Not what he had written.

  Not what he had meant.

  A story told once. A story told twice.

  And by the third telling, it was not the same story.

  The letters darkened, thickened—

  And in the ink, he saw figures moving.

  A farmer, kneeling in the blackened ruins of his fields. A tax collector, unmoved by his grief. A sword drawn not in defiance, but in desperation.

  A kingdom tilting, not by war, not by conquest—

  But by the weight of a thousand voices speaking a story into truth.

  Dinadan’s chest tightened.

  He pressed his hands flat against the parchment, but the ink kept shifting.

  Twisting.

  Rewriting itself.

  Truth must endure.

  But whose truth?

  The ink seeped through the vellum, darkening, spreading—

  Until the whole page was black.

  Dinadan jerked awake.

  The scent of ink and parchment faded, replaced by salt and cold stone.

  His breath came quick, sharp against the hush of the room.

  He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face.

  He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, but the dream clung to him—not in memory, but in meaning.

  Truth had to be written.

  Truth had to endure.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  He needed ink.

  The path to the abbey cut through a thin stretch of woodland, the ground damp from the morning mist.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The oaks stood ancient and gnarled, their roots buried deep in the damp earth, their branches twisted like the fingers of an old storyteller weaving a tale into the wind. Beneath their canopy, a lone monk moved with quiet purpose.

  His robes were worn, the hem dusted with fallen leaves. One hand clutched a wicker basket, half-filled with small, knobby growths, the other gripped a long wooden staff, which he used to knock more loose from the branches above.

  Brother Caelus.

  Dinadan had met many scribes in his travels, but few who spent their days beneath the open sky instead of hunched over a desk.

  Caelus straightened, rubbing an ink-stained thumb over one of the gathered oak galls. The stain was old, sunk deep into his skin—the mark of a man who had spent his life in the service of words.

  Dinadan eyed the dark little spheres in the basket.

  "So, these little things you’re after—oak galls—are the secret behind all those beautiful manuscripts?"

  Caelus chuckled, breath clouding in the crisp air.

  "Indeed, Sir Dinadan. Without them, the words of kings, the wisdom of saints, and the tales of knights such as yourself would fade into obscurity. Ink gives permanence to thought, and oak galls give us ink."

  Dinadan raised a brow.

  "Never thought the forest held such power."

  Caelus tapped the gall against his palm. "The trees know more than men do. We take their wood for our halls, their bark for our fires, their leaves for our cures. And here—" he lifted the gall —"even their battles give us ink."

  Dinadan glanced upward at the towering oaks, their leaves burnished gold in the slanting morning light.

  "Battles?"

  "The gall is born of war," Caelus said. "A tiny wasp lays its egg on the tree, and the oak, in its wisdom, seals the intruder within this hard shell. The wasp is trapped, and the gall forms—rich with tannins, perfect for ink-making."

  Dinadan smirked.

  "So, we’re harvesting the fruits of a battle between a tree and a wasp? Seems fitting for a knight."

  Caelus grinned, lifting the staff and pressing it into Dinadan’s hands.

  "Then climb, Sir Knight, and lend your strength to the work. I’ll catch what you knock down."

  Dinadan huffed a laugh, rolling up his sleeves.

  "A knight’s duty is never done."

  With practiced ease, he hauled himself up into the low branches, balancing against the rough bark.

  The oak swayed beneath his weight, its leaves whispering secrets only the wind could carry. He reached out with the staff, rapping it against the higher limbs, watching as the galls rained down into the waiting basket below.

  They fell with soft, hollow thuds, rolling in the damp earth—small pieces of a forgotten war, now gathered for a different kind of battle.

  When the basket was full, Dinadan swung down, landing on his feet.

  "A fair haul," Caelus said, shaking the basket. "Enough for ink to last through winter’s writing."

  "And what will you write?" Dinadan asked, brushing the dust from his hands.

  Caelus smiled, cradling the basket as if it held something far more precious than hardened oak growths.

  "The same thing I always do." His voice was thoughtful. "That which must not be forgotten."

  Dinadan exhaled, nodding.

  "Then we’d best get to the scriptorium."

  Together, they started down the path, walking toward ink, vellum, and the weight of truth waiting to be written.

  Dinadan walked with his hands loose at his sides, his thoughts caught between what he had heard and what he meant to write.

  A shadow rippled across the path ahead.

  Long. Gliding.

  He lifted his gaze.

  High above them, a shape circled against the pale sky. Wings outstretched, riding the wind in slow, deliberate arcs.

  "Haven’t seen Wyott in some time," Dinadan mused, watching the wyvern tilt its head as if listening.

  Beside him, Brother Caelus squinted against the light.

  "Then we know his master isn’t far."

  Dinadan huffed.

  "Merlin never is, when he chooses not to be."

  Caelus chuckled, adjusting the basket of oak galls against his hip.

  "Aye, but when he does wish to be seen, he makes certain we all know it."

  The wyvern banked to the side, shifting with the wind and drifting westward—toward the cliffs.

  "Strange creatures, wyverns," Caelus murmured, watching it go. "Too clever by half. Some say they think deeper than men."

  Dinadan smirked.

  "If that’s true, Wyott may as well have written half the books in your scriptorium."

  Caelus shook his head, a knowing glint in his eye.

  "If he had, they’d be less riddles and more useful wisdom."

  Dinadan let out a slow breath, glancing once more at the sky. The wyvern was gone now, its shadow no longer stretching across the hills.

  But it had seen them.

  And if Wyott was watching, so was Merlin.

  "Let’s keep moving," Dinadan muttered, rolling his shoulders. "I need ink before I need prophecy."

  Caelus smiled. "A wise priority."

  They walked on, toward the waiting halls of the abbey.

  Its weathered stone walls rose from the hillside as it had grown from the land itself. Age clung to it—not in decay, but in permanence. A place built to endure.

  The great wooden doors stood open, the scent of beeswax and parchment drifting from within.

  Brother Caelus led the way, nodding to a passing novice who hurried toward the cloisters, his arms laden with stacked vellum. The quiet hum of work filled the air—the kind of silence made by thought, not emptiness.

  Dinadan followed, his boots echoing against the stone.

  "You’ve been here before," Caelus remarked. Not a question.

  Dinadan huffed. "Once or twice. But not for ink."

  Caelus smiled. "Then today is a fortunate day."

  They turned down a narrow passage lined with tall arched windows, the sea visible through the latticework. The wind scraped against the glass, a restless whisper never finding its way inside.

  At the end of the corridor, a smaller door stood ajar. Beyond it, the scriptorium stretched wide and long, filled with rows of wooden desks. Monks hunched over their work, quills scratching, candlelight flickering against the gilded edges of illuminated pages.

  The scent of ink, vellum, and oil lamps thickened the air.

  Caelus strode forward, setting his basket of oak galls on a worktable where a large pot of darkened liquid was already steeping.

  "Brother Osric will see to the ink-making," he said, dusting off his hands.

  Dinadan glanced over the room, eyes drawn to a shelf lined with stacked rolls of parchment.

  "And what of vellum?"

  Caelus gestured toward the opposite wall. "Take what you need. But be certain of what you write, Sir Dinadan. Words set to ink do not bend easy like words spoken."

  Dinadan exhaled, running a finger along the edge of an empty page.

  "That’s what I’m counting on."

  He had come to write the truth.

  Now he only had to decide where to begin.

  The road back from the abbey wound along the cliffs, the sea stretching endless and grey beneath the sky’s low-hanging hush.

  Dinadan walked with his satchel slung across his chest, the weight of vellum and fresh ink pressing against his ribs. A strange kind of armor, this—a defense made not of steel, but of words.

  He had what he needed. Now, he only had to decide how to use it.

  The thought lodged in his chest, pressing deep, unmoving.

  Ink held truth, but it also held permanence.

  And if the market had taught him anything, it was a story spoken often enough could become truth, whether it was or not.

  The wyvern was gone from the sky, but the weight of its shadow still lingered in his thoughts. Merlin had seen him. Perhaps the old man already knew what he meant to write.

  Perhaps he was waiting.

  The road he walked was uneven, worn by years of wind and passing feet. But further ahead, where the path bent inland, it was not just time wearing it down.

  Dinadan slowed.

  Three men—maybe four—stooped over a section of stone, iron rods wedged between the cracks, prying the slabs free.

  They were not mending what had broken.

  They were taking.

  He stepped closer, watching as the men heaved another stone loose, stacking it beside the others.

  "Heavy work," he said.

  One of them glanced up. Not startled. Not welcoming.

  "Aye," the man grunted, shifting his grip.

  Dinadan let his gaze drift to the growing pile.

  "You could just build with timber," he suggested.

  One of the men gave a short snort. "Timber rots."

  Dinadan tipped his head. "So does a kingdom without roads."

  Another man wiped his brow, setting his iron rod against the pile.

  "The Empire left, didn’t they?" he muttered. "No sense letting their stone sit here when it can be put to better use."

  Dinadan huffed a quiet breath, looking down at the jagged wound left in the road.

  "Aye," he said. "No sense at all."

  He stepped past them, letting the conversation settle behind him.

  It was not the first time he had seen a road taken apart.

  And it would not be the last.

  The forge came into view, its thick stone walls standing stubborn against the wind’s assault. Even from the road, Dinadan could hear the steady rhythm of the hammer inside, each strike ringing like a heartbeat against the anvil.

  A fire that never dimmed.

  He stepped inside, the scent of coal smoke and hot metal wrapping around him.

  The armorer glanced up, pausing mid-strike.

  "You’re late."

  Dinadan smirked, tossing his satchel onto a nearby workbench. "Had to pick up some protection."

  The armorer snorted. "Didn’t take you for a man who needs a talisman."

  Dinadan tapped a finger against the satchel. "Not that kind. Ink."

  The armorer’s hammer stilled.

  "You plan to fight with words, then?"

  Dinadan exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

  "A sword can cut down a man. A story can cut down a kingdom."

  The armorer studied him, his grip tightening on the hammer’s worn handle. With a grunt, he returned to his work, steel ringing again against the anvil.

  "Then best you have armor for both."

  Dinadan leaned against the workbench, watching the forge’s fire glow against the darkened steel.

  Ink and iron.

  One to carve history. One to write it.