Father Andel had never held a book he hadn't copied himself.
He had, over thirty years of temple service, produced eleven volumes — six copies of the Forge Catechism, three compilations of the foundational prayers, a parish record spanning two decades of births and deaths, and a thin devotional commentary he'd written himself and never shown anyone. Each copy represented months of work: the careful strokes, the measured lines, the specific ache in his wrist that accompanied long sessions and that he'd learned to treat with warm water and patience. He knew his own handwriting the way a carpenter knew the grain of familiar wood.
The shipment arrived at the village temple on a market day — three bound volumes in a wooden crate, packed with straw, sealed with the Crucible's crimson wax. The delivery rider handed him the crate, the requisition receipt, and a single sheet of instructions:
