The East Wing Transcription Room was designed for secrecy. It had walls lined with lead to block scrying magic, a door reinforced with silencing runes, and no windows. It was a place where treaties were forged and death warrants were signed.
Today, however, it contained three men and a very confusing manuscript.
Master Elian (60, Senior Scribe): A man who loved grammar more than his own children. He wore robes so starched they cracked when he moved.
Gerrick (40, Journeyman): A cynic who had transcribed so many tax audits his soul had turned beige.
Lucas (22, Junior Scribe): Fresh from the Academy, eager, and terrified of everything.
They sat at a long oak table. In the center lay the master copy of The Nocturnal Tragedy.
Marcus, the High Steward, stood by the door. He looked like a warden.
"Your orders are simple," Marcus said, his voice clipped. "You are to produce five hundred copies of the these chapters by sunrise. You do not speak of the content. You do not smuggle pages out. If a single sentence leaks, I will have you reassigned to the Sewer Maintenance Archives."
Elian sniffed, adjusting his spectacles. "We are professionals, Steward. We have transcribed the Emperor's bowel movements. Do not insult us."
"Good," Marcus said. He placed a heavy key on the table. "You have food, water, and ink. Do not come out until the ink is dry."
The heavy door slammed shut. The lock clicked.
The three scribes looked at the manuscript.
"Probably another treatise on grain," Gerrick sighed, dipping his quill. "Let's get this over with. What's the title?"
Elian squinted at the cover page. "The Nocturnal Tragedy. By... Truck-kun."
"Truck-kun?" Lucas blinked. "Is that Elvish?"
"It sounds like a sneeze," Elian grumbled. "Author names are getting ridiculous. Well, open it. Let's see how bad the syntax is."
Hour 1: The Horror
The room was silent, save for the scratching of three quills.
Scratch. Scratch. Scra—
Lucas stopped. He put his quill down. He looked at the candle in the center of the table.
"Master Elian?" Lucas whispered.
"Keep writing, boy," Elian snapped without looking up. "We are on page four."
"I know," Lucas said, his voice trembling. "But... did you read the part about the mirror? The Count... he didn't have a reflection."
"It's a metaphor, obviously," Gerrick grunted, though he was writing slower than usual. "It symbolizes his... lack of soul. Or tax evasion."
"But the way he moves," Lucas insisted, pointing at the text with a shaking finger. "He crawled down the castle wall, face down, his cloak spreading like the wings of a great bat."
Lucas swallowed hard. "People don't crawl down walls, Master Elian. Spiders do."
Elian paused. He looked at his own copy. He had just finished transcribing the scene where the protagonist, Justus, cuts himself shaving. The Count hadn't offered a bandage. He had watched the blood drop onto the floor with eyes that dilated.
Elian felt a sudden, irrational need to cover his own neck.
"It is... vivid imagery," Elian admitted, clearing his throat. "The author has a flair for the grotesque. But it is just fiction. Continue."
They continued. But Gerrick noticed that Lucas had moved his chair slightly closer to the others. And Elian had stopped correcting the grammar.
Hour 3: The Seduction
The silence was broken by a loud slam.
Gerrick slapped the table. "Oh, come on!"
Elian looked up, startled. "What is it? Did you spill the ink?"
"The Count!" Gerrick pointed at the manuscript, his cynical face flushed red. "He's... he's making a move on the girl! On Lady Elena!"
"He is a monster, Gerrick," Elian said stiffly. "He plans to eat her."
"Does he?" Gerrick challenged. "Read page twelve, Elian! Look at the dialogue!"
Gerrick stood up and began to read aloud, acting out the parts.
"I have walked through centuries of darkness," the Count whispered, brushing a tear from her cheek with a cold, pale thumb. "And the sun never burned me. But you, Elena? You burn me."
Gerrick looked at his colleagues. "That is smooth. That is... uncomfortably smooth."
Lucas, the junior scribe, was chewing on his knuckle. "I know he's evil," Lucas mumbled. "I know he killed the crew of that ship. But... he brought her a moon-flower that only blooms once every hundred years. That's dedication."
"He is a corpse!" Elian shouted, slamming his hand down. "He is an abomination against the Solar Saints! He shouldn't be dating; he should be decomposing!"
"He's misunderstood!" Lucas argued, standing up. "Look at his backstory! He was cursed! He didn't ask to be a vampire!"
"He ate a wolf, Lucas! Raw!"
"He was hungry!"
"Gentlemen!" Gerrick intervened. "The question isn't whether he's evil. The question is... does she kiss him?"
The three scribes looked at the pile of untranscribed pages. They weren't writing anymore. They were reading.
"We have to know," Elian whispered, his grammar obsession forgotten. "Does the monster get the girl?"
They dove back into the ink.
Hour 5: The Tragedy
The room was quiet again. But it wasn't the silence of work. It was the silence of a funeral.
Lucas was openly weeping. He was using a rejected page of parchment to blow his nose.
Gerrick was staring at the wall, looking like he had just watched his puppy get kicked.
Even Master Elian, the man of iron discipline, had taken off his spectacles to wipe his eyes.
"They burned it," Lucas sobbed. "They burned the castle. She was inside. She was waiting for him."
"He was bringing her the cure," Gerrick whispered, his voice hollow. "He found the alchemist. He was going to become human again. He was two days away."
"The mob," Elian muttered, his voice shaking with a rage that had nothing to do with syntax. "The ignorant, filthy, illiterate mob. They didn't even check the tower. They just lit the fires."
Elian picked up the final page of Chapter . The scene where Dracul returns. Where he finds the locket in the ash.
"God is not here," the Count said, his voice sounding like cracking ice. "And if He is... I shall drag Him down to the dark."
Elian shivered. It wasn't fear this time. It was awe.
"He's going to kill them all," Gerrick said quietly. "And I hope he does. I hope he drains every single one of those villagers."
"Justice," Lucas sniffled. "It's not murder. It's justice."
Suddenly, the heavy iron lock on the door clicked.
Clack.
The door swung open. Marcus stood there, holding a lantern.
"Sunrise," the Steward said. "The courier is here for the distribution. Are the five hundred copies rea—"
He stopped.
He saw Lucas crying into a rag. He saw Gerrick looking ready to commit arson. He saw Elian, the strictest man in the estate, clutching the manuscript to his chest like a holy relic.
"What happened?" Marcus asked, his hand drifting to his dagger. "Is it a poison trap? A curse in the ink?"
Elian stood up. He walked over to Marcus. He grabbed the Steward by the lapels of his pristine suit.
"Where is next Chapter ?" Elian hissed.
Marcus blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Next Chapter !" Lucas yelled from the back of the room. "Does he kill the Priest? Tell me he kills the Priest!"
"I... I don't know," Marcus stammered, taken aback. "The Young Master hasn't written it yet."
"Hasn't written it?" Gerrick stood up, knocking his chair over. "What do you mean 'hasn't written it'? You can't end it there! He just found the ashes! He's standing in the ruin!"
"It is a cliffhanger," Marcus explained, remembering Julian's words.
"It is torture!" Elian roared. "I have transcribed treaties that declared war on whole nations, and I felt nothing! But this? This is cruel! Go wake him up!"
"I cannot wake the Young Master," Marcus said coldly. "He is 'visually meditating'."
"Then we strike!" Elian declared, slamming his fist on the table. "No more copies! No more ink! We do not work until we know if Dracul gets his revenge!"
Marcus looked at the three grown men, reduced to emotional wrecks by a teenager's story about a made-up vampire.
He smiled. A small, terrifying smile.
"The Young Master predicted this," Marcus said smoothly. "He told me that if you refused to work..."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, folded sheet of paper.
"He authorized me to let you read the Preview of Next Chapter ."
The three scribes froze. They looked at the paper in Marcus's hand like starving wolves looking at a steak.
"Give it to us," Elian whispered.
"Get back to work," Marcus ordered. "Finish the five hundred copies. Pack them for the courier. Then... you get the preview."
Elian looked at Gerrick. Gerrick looked at Lucas.
They sat down instantly.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The quills moved faster than they ever had in the history of the Aurelian Empire. They weren't writing for money anymore. They were writing for the plot.
Marcus watched them for a moment, then stepped out and closed the door.
"Truck-kun," Marcus whispered to himself, shaking his head. "You are a dangerous boy."