The colophon mark hovered like a stamp, vast and embossed, its shadow heavy with oil and old machines. The ceiling dimmed. The floor shivered under the weight of authority older than the Reviser.
—Printer, the voice said, not cruel, just inevitable.
—Deposit your proof.
Sal clutched the ERRATA to his chest like a child. The pages shook, words threatening to rearrange under the pressure of the demand.
Dominic stood tall, blade dulled by scuffs and wax but steady as law. “Proof isn’t count,” he said evenly. “It’s witness.”
The mark rotated, patient, grinding.
—Proof is count. Proof is number. One truth. One edition.
Kael spat into his palm and smeared shadow down his grin. “Darling, you’ve met the wrong village. We breed duplicates like rats.”
---
The Counting Begins
Numbers rained
