Chapter 463: Ink of Betrayal
Wilhelmina’s quill paused mid-notation. She leaned so near that Alicia caught the faint cedar scent of her hair tonic. "Show me ink batches," she murmured, glass catching the eerie light, turning her eyes into twin moons.
Alicia extended her left hand, fingers curling in a sigil that coaxed the mist to thicken. The whorls condensed into a single droplet, hovering like a crystal bead between her thumb and forefinger. She whispered a separating charm; the droplet split. Treated silver in the ink drifted to one half, violet dye to the other, revealing the unique chemistry of royal scriptorium stock. Only scribes sworn to the crown could access such pigment.
"Unique blend," she said, voice barely breaking her trance, "only mixed in the royal scriptorium."
Wilhelmina exhaled through her nose—not a gasp so much as the hiss of figures misaligning in her mental ledgers. "Court access," she stated, as though the words were a minus sign slashing through her accounts.
Alicia’s vision dimmed at the edges. She swallowed, tasting copper. She had been channeling constantly for an hour, but they needed proof, not exhaustion. She reached into the fragile hush inside her chest where Cynthia often lingered. (Steady, little star) Cynthia crooned, warmth blooming across Alicia’s nerves. (Your weave is silk, but silk can cut.)
Alicia blinked the warning away and shifted to the next scroll, mindful to keep the droplet suspended. She rolled the brittle parchment open. The glow burst forth like cold lightning—hidden glyphs curled around margins, weaving illusions so clever they almost sang. Whoever penned these had studied at an arcane academy, or worse, learned from a demon tutor. Her stomach churned.
The door banged open.
She jumped, sigils faltering—the droplet quivered but held. Wilhelmina clucked in mild irritation, catching an inkwell that nearly toppled. Rain-scented air gusted in ahead of Lyan as he strode across the threshold, boots leaving dark prints on the worn carpet. His hair clung to his temples in damp strands, storm water running in thin rivulets down his cloak. Candleflame caught silver in those locks, a fleeting crown that vanished as quickly as it formed.
"Belle and Josephine found a lead," he said, voice gravel-rough from running the courtyard. "A masked woman, serpent brooch. Josephine’s carrying a serpent-sealed letter."