The quill snapped against the parchment, a dry crack that echoed in the small, stifling room, and I stared at the ink bleeding through the page like a wound that refused to close. My fingers, stained black to the second knuckle, trembled not from the cold but from the racking cough that had seized my lungs for the third time that morning. Outside, the wind tore at the shallow tin roofs of the shophouses, a physical assault that rattled the windowpanes and sent dust swirling into the chart room where I had been confined. I am Idris bin Ismail, a senior scribe whose name is written in the registry of the mill, though the registry itself is a lie that the Chief Minister, Tan Sri Ahmad, prefers to keep. The ink on my quill had begun to bleed through the parchment days ago, a physical manifestation of my deteriorating health that the court interpreted as a sign of divine displeasure rather than illness. I had sought to complete the royal chronicle before my body failed me, but the institution had stripped me of my official seal and replaced my work with a junior clerk named Ravi, an act of bureaucratic betrayal that isolated me from the only purpose that had kept my destructive self-love from consuming me entirely. The sextant of a beached captain sat on the desk, its brass tarnished and cold, a reminder of the debts I owed to a man everyone feared, a debt that had wiped out my savings in a single currency reform. I ignored the blood that now stained my fingers and the pages alike, driven by a desperate need to prove my worth to the institution that had discarded me. The clock in the wrong tower, visible through the barred window, struck the hour with a dull, off-key thud that seemed to vibrate in my teeth.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌⁠​​⁠⁠‍‍‌⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍‍⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠​‌​​‌⁠​⁠‍​‍

Ravi came to verify the new text, his face pale with the fear of the foreman’s informant who watched every move we made. He did not report the insubordination when he found the hidden manuscript; instead, he was horrified by the raw, unfiltered truth of the king’s failures that I had recorded, realizing that the "curse" was actually a mirror of the court’s own moral rot. We met in the scriptorium, the air heavy with damp paper and rot, and the tension between us was a physical weight, a static charge that made the hair on my arms stand up. Ravi’s hands shook as he held the pages, and I saw in his eyes the same terror that I had felt when the Chief Minister had ordered my confinement. The junior clerk was tasked with verifying the new text, but he had discovered the hidden manuscript and, rather than reporting the insubordination, was horrified by the raw, unfiltered truth of the king’s failures that I had recorded. The "curse" was actually a mirror of the court’s own moral rot, a reflection of the lies that had kept the realm stable for so long. I watched him read, his face draining of color, and I knew that he understood what I had always known: that the truth was a weapon, and we were holding it with bare hands. The clock in the wrong tower struck again, and the sound was sharper this time, cutting through the silence of the room. He remembered, too, seventeen of the Bellfounders' Walk — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌⁠​​⁠⁠‍‍‌⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍‍⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠​‌​​‌⁠​⁠‍​‍

A sudden fever broke my concentration, and I collapsed in the scriptorium, the quill snapping in my hand, the moment of physical defeat forcing a sudden, terrifying clarity that my struggle against the disease and the court’s indifference was a futile war I was never meant to win. The Chief Minister arrived to confiscate the "corrupted" texts, but he found me awake and calm, watching the clerk burn the original chronicle in the courtyard. The public act of destruction transformed the private tragedy into a political scandal that the court could not suppress, the flames licking at the sky like a hungry beast. I realized that the destruction of the text was the only way to preserve the truth within my own mind, and I accepted my fate with a tragic dignity, understanding that my body’s failure was the final, inevitable correction to the court’s lies. I stopped fighting the fever, letting the darkness take me, and I felt a strange, cold peace settle over my shoulders. The ash settled on the palace steps, the official record now blank, while my body lay cold in the scriptorium, my hands still stained with ink. He remembered, too, the Wexford scrimshaw button — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌⁠​​⁠⁠‍‍‌⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍‍⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠​‌​​‌⁠​⁠‍​‍

The meal was set with one chair empty, the table covered in white cloth that looked like a shroud in the dim light of the lanterns. The hiss of the lanterns was the only sound, a constant, low whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. I sat in my chair, my hands resting on the table, the ink still black on my skin, a permanent mark of my labor. The wind continued to tear at the roofs, a relentless force that reminded me of the debt I owed, the debt that had consumed my life. The sextant of the beached captain sat on the sideboard, its brass tarnished and cold, a reminder of the past that I could not escape. The clock in the wrong tower struck the hour, and the sound was dull, off-key, a reminder of the time I had lost. I looked at the empty chair, and I knew that I would not be eating alone for long, but I would be eating alone for now. The ash settled on the palace steps, and the official record was blank, a silence that was louder than any scream.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌⁠​​⁠⁠‍‍‌⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍‍⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠​‌​​‌⁠​⁠‍​‍‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌⁠​​⁠⁠‍‍‌⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍‍⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​⁠‌‍⁠​‌​​‌⁠​⁠‍​‍