A cold dread washed over Elias. Exposing Varrick would mean ascension, or annihilation. Corrupting a Rune, even a minor one like Sustained Flow, was an ultimate transgression punishable by having one's own Runes rewritten into permanent servitude or, worse, erasure.
Yet, ignoring it felt like complicity. The Rune was already showing signs of decay; the parasitic script was accelerating the Fatigue. If he simply copied the flawed Rune, he would be perpetuating the corruption, and the integrity of the Grand Archive was founded on perfect copies.
What would an Archivist do? An Archivist would petition the Central Repository. But Elias was a Scribe, a powerless cog. If he petitioned, Varrick would intercept the report and Elias would vanish before the sun set.
He had one choice, the choice he always fell back on, the choice that defined his defect: he had to fix the Active Rune itself, and he had to do it silently, untraceably.
He scanned the immediate vicinity through his defect-sight. The nearest Scribes were absorbed in their own tasks, their minds focused on their parchments, not the air. The containment Runes around his desk, meant to prevent accidental magic, were strong enough to mask his subtle interference.
Elias placed his hand over the copied parchment. The Rune of Sustained Flow felt alive under his palm. He needed to find the parasitic script in the conduit, isolate it, and apply a counter-script that would erase it, and then patch the resulting hole.
This required more than obsidian ink. This required his Aether Ink.
He closed his eyes and released his containment. The pain was immediate. His Aether Ink, a volatile, coppery-smelling energy unique to him, surged up from his core. It felt like fire spreading through his veins, but when it reached his hands, it didn't burn; it sharpened.
The world snapped back into his defect-sight, but this time, the scripts were not just visible; they were tangible. The air tasted of ionized metal. The parasitic script within the conduit's Rune shimmered, a malignant black strand woven into the deep blue of the Containment sub-Rune.
Isolate.
Elias mentally reached out, drawing a thin, precise thread of his Aether Ink from his palm. He did not touch the parchment; he used the paper as a focal point, projecting his intent directly into the Conduit Rune a mile away.
The Aether Ink, fueled by his desperate will, pierced the layers of the Active Rune. It located the black, parasitic thread.
Erase.
He applied the Aether Ink. It wasn't a forceful blast; it was a microscopic, perfect excision. The Aether Ink worked like an atomic scalpel, dissolving the corrupting script without damaging the Containment sub-Rune around it.
A wave of nausea hit him. Rewriting a single line in a primary Rune was like holding back a tidal wave with a spoon. For a horrifying half-second, the entire Rune of Sustained Flow threatened to unravel. The constant buzzing in his ears became a shriek.
Patch.
He immediately filled the void left by the corrupted script with a blank, neutral thread of his own Aether Ink—a temporary, invisible patch that would allow the surrounding Runes to repair themselves naturally, leaving no trace of the corruption or his intervention.
The pressure receded. The shriek subsided back into the gentle, persistent buzz of the world's Runes. Elias slumped, his entire body drenched in cold sweat, his energy completely spent. The pain in his wrist, which had been copying the Rune, was a dull ache compared to the mental exhaustion.
He had just saved Veridia from Varrick's greed, and no one would ever know. The Active Rune was now clean.
He quickly finished the remaining three copies, ensuring they reflected the clean original on the slate, not the corrupted one he had just fixed in the wild
Elias spent the next few hours in a haze, checking his work, cleaning his quill, and trying to recover his internal reserves. The Rune of Sustained Flow was safely transcribed, and the integrity of the Active Rune was slowly knitting itself back together. He felt a secret, powerful satisfaction that transcended the meager reward a Scribe received. He was not a mere copier; he was a silent editor of the cosmos.
As the crystalline light shifted to its sunset gold, Master Varrick reappeared. This time, the Curator did not drop the slate. He approached Elias's desk, his bulk casting a shadow that seemed to snuff out the light in the Cell.
"Thorne," Varrick said, his voice unusually smooth, carrying a deceptive weight. "The Veridia Water Report was just filed. The numbers indicate a sudden, inexplicable surge in systemic stability. The Fatigue Runes that have been slowly accumulating for the last cycle… they've vanished. It's as if they were never there."
Elias held his breath, keeping his expression utterly blank. He focused on the simple, repetitive scripts of the desk—Structural Integrity, Structural Integrity—to ground himself.
"Impossible, Master Varrick," Elias replied, his voice a dry whisper. "Runal Fatigue is natural decay. It doesn't simply reverse itself."
Varrick leaned closer, his stale breath smelling of cheap pipe-weed and cynicism. "Yes, it is impossible. Which is why the Central Repository has flagged it. A correction like that takes a massive expenditure of Aether and the knowledge of a Rank Six Archivist, at minimum. Yet, it happened here, in our small, forgotten guild, immediately following your verification task."
Elias carefully packed his quill. "My verification was perfect, Master. I copied the slate accurately. Perhaps the Central Archivists misread their own telemetry."
Varrick gave a slow, predatory smile. "Perhaps. But a miracle like this cannot go uninvestigated. The Grand Curator himself has authorized a special petition. I have been commanded to send the Scribe who verified the Sustained Flow Rune to the Central Repository for a Full Integrity Audit."
Elias's heart hammered against his ribs. The Full Integrity Audit. It was a euphemism for a magical interrogation, an intense process where Rank Nine Archivists probed a Scribe's mind, Runes, and Aether Ink for any sign of corruption or manipulation. No Scribe with a defect like his could ever survive that. He would be exposed, erased, and his Aether Ink—the most volatile source of true power in the Realm—would be seized.
"I am honored, Master," Elias said, though his voice was laced with terror.
Varrick didn't notice the dread, only the feigned compliance. "You leave tomorrow at dawn. Be prepared, Thorne. If you are found to be untainted, you will ascend to a Curatorial position far faster than your peers. If you are found to be lying…" He trailed off, the implication clear.
As Varrick lumbered away, leaving Elias alone in the dimming Cell, the Scribe finally allowed his inner turmoil to surface. He packed his meager possessions: the Gryphon quill, his ink block, a change of clothes, and a single, carefully wrapped leather scroll he kept hidden—an original, partial transcription of the forbidden Rune of Displacement.
The audit was a death sentence. Varrick hadn't sent him to the Central Repository for a promotion; he had sent him to be dissected, hoping to claim credit for discovering the impossible fix.
But the journey to the Central Repository, hundreds of miles away, also presented a horrifying opportunity. The Rank Nine Archivists would be expecting a frightened, compliant Scribe. They would not be expecting a young man who could rewrite the laws of the very road beneath his feet.
He looked at the scroll of the Rune of Displacement. If he could master just a fraction of that Rune—enough to slip through reality, enough to change his signature, enough to vanish—he could escape the Audit and use the chaos to leapfrog the entire hierarchy.
He had to become an Archivist before the Audit found him. He had to exchange the pen for the sword, the copy for the creation.
Elias Thorne rose from his cushion, the buzzing of the world's hidden script suddenly sounding less like a threat and more like a challenge. The journey had just begun. He was no longer a Scribe; he was a fugitive carrying the ability to destabilize reality itself.
He strapped the leather scroll to his inner thigh, grabbed his quill, and stepped out of the Scribe's Cell.
End of Chapter 1