Chapter 3: The Weight of Ink
The blue candle flame haunted her. For two days, Elara didn't dare touch the journal. The memory of that forged merchant's pass was now a ghost, its sharp edges softened into a dull recollection. The magic was real, and it was a predator that fed on her past.
When Kaelen finally returned, he carried a new assignment, but his energy was different. Tense. He laid a complex trade agreement on her desk, a document thicker than her arm.
"The Merchant Lord, Braylon," Kaelen said, his voice clipped. "He is negotiating an exclusive contract for the northern steel routes. If he succeeds, he will have a monopoly that could strangle the empire's military. We need to adjust the terms."
"Adjust?" Elara asked, running a finger over the elaborate signatures at the bottom.
"Page seventeen, clause four-b. Change the percentage of tariff revenue from seventy-thirty in the crown's favor to ninety-ten."
Elara whistled softly. "That's not an adjustment. That's sabotage. He'll never sign it."
"He will if he doesn't notice," Kaelen said, a hard glint in his eye. "The official signing is in three days. He will review a clean copy, but the version that gets filed in the imperial archives will be yours. We only need to swap the documents after the signing."
The audacity of it took her breath away. This was high-stakes treason on their part, a breathtakingly bold move. "And how do we manage the swap?"
"We," Kaelen said, the word hanging in the air, "are going to the archives."
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The Imperial Archives were a cathedral of paper and dust. Endless rows of towering shelves stretched into the gloom, lit by flickering glow-stones. The air smelled of old parchment and profound silence.
Kaelen moved with a predator's grace, his boots making no sound on the stone floor. Elara followed, her heart thumping. This was the first time she had been outside her room since her conscription. Freedom, even this confined, tasted sharp and sweet.
"The active treaty drafts are here," Kaelen murmured, stopping before a large, brass-grated door. He produced a set of lockpicks from his belt. "The guard patrols this corridor every twenty minutes. We have fifteen."
"You're full of useful skills," Elara said, watching his nimble fingers work the lock.
"It's why I'm the Spymaster's favorite," he replied without looking up. The lock clicked. "Your skill is just… newer."
Inside, they found the treaty box. While Kaelen stood watch at the door, Elara got to work. She laid out her tools on a small reading desk: her inks, her pens, a stack of the correct, watermarked parchment. She had to replicate not just a signature, but dozens of pages of complex legal text, inserting the altered clause so seamlessly it would be invisible.
She fell into the work, her world narrowing to the flow of ink and the texture of paper. Time ceased to exist.
"Elara." Kaelen's voice was a sharp whisper from the door. "We have five minutes. Can you finish?"
"Almost," she said, her hand flying across the final page. She was adding the flourishes to Lord Braylon's signature. It was perfect. But a reckless idea, born of her secret experiments, sparked once more.
What if she didn't just copy the signature? What if she captured his intent?
She thought of the journal. 'The master forger replicates the intent.' She focused, not on the shape of the letters, but on the man. Braylon's greed, his ambition, his desire to seal this deal. She let that feeling, that memory of his character she'd gleaned from the documents, flow down her arm and into the nib of the pen.
A faint warmth spread from her fingers. The ink on the page seemed to darken, to settle with a finality that felt more than physical. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and the vivid image of Braylon's face from a wanted poster she'd once seen… flickered and grew dim.
The signature was done. It was more than perfect. It was authoritative.
"It's done," she said, her voice slightly unsteady.
Kaelen was at her side in an instant. He scanned the document, his eyes narrowing at the altered clause. "Good. The swap is easy now." He slid the forgery into the treaty box and placed the original in his tunic.
Just as he closed the box, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Too early.
Kaelen's eyes widened. He grabbed her wrist and blew out the glow-stone on their desk, plunging them into absolute darkness. He pulled her into the narrow space between two towering shelves, his body a solid wall shielding her from the door.
They stood pressed together in the black silence. Elara could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her back, or maybe it was her own. She could smell the scent of leather and soap on his clothes. His breath was warm on her neck.
The archive door groaned open. A lantern beam swept across the room, glinting off the brass of the treaty box. It hovered for an agonizing moment, then swept away. The door closed, and the footsteps faded.
Neither of them moved. The danger had passed, but the proximity remained. The air was thick with something unspoken, a tension far more dangerous than any guard.
Kaelen slowly released her, stepping back as if burned. "We should go," he said, his voice rough.
Back in her room, the lock turned, sealing her in once more. But the memory of the darkness, of his body shielding hers, wouldn't leave her.
She looked at her hands. The forgery was a success. But she had paid for it. The cost of the magic was no longer a theory. It was a hollow space in her mind where a memory used to be.
She had stolen a man's signature, and the magic had taken a piece of her in exchange. It was a brutal, terrifying arithmetic. And she had only just begun to learn the price.