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The job of the Royal Scribe was simple: write down what the King said, exactly as he said it. Truth was irrelevant. Dictation was law.
Barnabas dipped his quill into the new pot of ink. It was a gift from a traveling merchant, black as midnight and shimmering with a strange iridescence.
"The King," Barnabas wrote, "defeated the dragon with a single blow."
He looked down. The ink rippled. The words crawled across the parchment like spiders, rearranging themselves.
"The King hid behind a rock while the dragon choked on a goat."
Barnabas gasped. He scratched it out. He wrote again, pressing harder. "The King is brave and just."
The ink swirled. "The King is afraid of thunderstorms and cheats at cards."
"It's cursed!" Barnabas hissed. He tried to throw the inkpot away, but it was stuck to his desk. The ink bubbled, forming words on the wood.
"I am Verity. I cannot be silenced."
Just then, the King entered. "Scribe! Write this down! 'Today, I graciously lowered taxes.'"
Barnabas’s hand shook. He forced the quill to move. "The King... lowered... taxes."
The ink exploded. It splashed onto the royal proclamation, forming massive, wet letters: "THE KING RAISED TAXES TO BUY A GOLDEN POODLE."
The King turned purple. "Treason! Seize him!"
Barnabas was dragged away. But the ink didn't stop. It flowed off the desk, onto the floor, out the door. It stained the cobblestones of the capital, writing the secrets of the court for all to see.
By morning, the city was in revolt. The King was deposed. And Barnabas, sitting in his cell, watched a trickle of black ink slide under the door.
"You're welcome," it wrote on the stone floor.