Chapter Six: The Crown and the Seven Scribes
The Court of Ink was not what Soot expected.
There were no golden thrones or marble pillars. No velvet banners or glass chandeliers. Instead, the court was built inside the hollowed-out remains of the Ink Tree — the same ancient being Soot had seen in his vision. Its roots curved upward into twisted arches, and its bark pulsed with faint words that shifted as one walked past them.
Each heartbeat echoed like the turning of a page.
Soot stood at the center of a massive circular hall surrounded by stone benches carved from petrified books. On each bench sat a figure in identical robes of gray and black, their faces hidden behind masks shaped like punctuation marks: a comma, a period, a colon, a dash…
These were the Seven Scribes.
And above them, in a raised alcove formed from the Ink Tree's core, sat the Crown.
She was not what he expected either.
No crown. No gown. Just a woman in her forties, pale, ink-stained hands resting on her knees. Her eyes were dark, heavy with sleeplessness, and her voice when she spoke was both sharp and tired.
"Soot. Ink Prophet. Born of no record. Bearer of the living script."
He said nothing.
The comma-mask Scribe to her left spoke next, his voice reedy. "You carry unstable prophecy. That makes you a threat."
The dash-mask Scribe added, "You disobeyed your death sentence. That makes you an anomaly."
The colon-mask Scribe leaned forward. "You awakened the Buried Prophets. That makes you an enemy of the Archive."
Soot looked up at them, eyes steady. "I didn't choose to be any of those things."
The Crown's eyes narrowed. "But you are."
A trial began.
But it was not a trial of facts.
It was a Trial of Versions.
"The Ink records every path you might have taken," the period-mask Scribe said. "We will show you three versions of yourself. You must choose which one deserves to remain."
Soot's stomach tightened. "And the others?"
"They will be erased," said the comma-mask.
"And if I refuse?"
The Crown answered coldly. "Then none of you survive."
The first version appeared in the center of the court — a vision made flesh.
It was Soot as a weapon.
His eyes burned with inklight. His arms were covered in violent, jagged script. He held a blade forged from shattered prophecy. Behind him, cities burned in a looped vision of destruction.
"I became the god of language," this version said. "I bent prophecy to my will and turned it into a sword. The world feared me. And that fear made peace possible."
The second version stepped forward.
It was Soot as a martyr.
His body was hollowed, weak, drained of ink. His voice was soft, almost fading.
"I sacrificed myself to stop the Ink from consuming the world," he said. "The silence returned, but the wars ended. People were free from the burden of destiny."
And then, the third version.
Soot blinked — because this version looked like him now. The only difference was a strange mark burned into his neck: a looped symbol of ink and flame.
"I didn't conquer. I didn't die. I rewrote," he said. "I found a way to make the Ink choose rather than command. Prophecy became possibility. Not prison."
The room was silent.
The Seven Scribes leaned in.
The Crown's voice cut the air like a blade.
"Choose."
Soot's heart pounded.
He stepped forward, facing the three versions.
The weapon terrified him.
The martyr saddened him.
But the third… the Rewriter…
He didn't understand it fully.
Yet it felt true.
"I choose the third," he said.
The weapon screamed. The martyr bowed. Both vanished into ash.
The third version remained for a moment… then stepped forward and merged into Soot's body with a surge of light.
His veins glowed.
The script on his arms flickered, reshaped.
New words appeared:
You are the version who survives.
Now you must become the version who decides.
The Crown rose.
Her voice softened, though her eyes stayed cold.
"You have passed the Trial of Versions. But understand this, Prophet—"
She stepped down from her platform and approached him.
"The world is not kind to those who change prophecy. The Ministry will not protect you. The Scribes will not follow you. And the Ink itself may turn against you."
Soot met her gaze.
"Then I'll rewrite the Ink too."
The Crown gave a slow, tired smile.
"We'll see."
That night, in a chamber beneath the Court, Soot dreamed of the Buried Prophets again.
Only this time, they spoke.
Their voices were layered with centuries of silence and fury.
You have taken the first quill.
But seven more lie waiting.
Each one must be claimed to rewrite the First Word.
Soot stood before the Ink Tree once more, the wind of thought tearing at him.
Then a new line carved itself into his chest — burning through his skin.
The next quill lies in the City of Forgotten Names.
He awoke gasping.
And he knew what Chapter Seven would be.
A journey.
A test.
And the beginning of his rewrite.