An Enchanted Lie

A lie is not a falsehood, but a story told with more conviction than the truth.

A quiet, cloying stillness filled the inn room the morning after our meeting in the cellar. I watched a scene that felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Asverta was with Mu, her usual sharp focus softened into a gentle patience. She knelt beside him, her hands guiding his own.

"Feel the warmth, Mu," she whispered, her voice a low, melodic hum. "Don't force it. Just invite it."

Between his cupped palms, a soft, golden light began to coalesce. It pulsed, then took shape, unfurling into a delicate butterfly made of pure, shimmering mana. It fluttered into the air, circling the boy's head. Mu, unable to see its form, laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated delight. He tilted his head, his white eyes unfocused, yet his entire being tracked the gentle warmth of the mana construct as it danced around him. It was a moment of life-affirming magic, innocent and beautiful. And as I watched, the cold knot in my own chest tightened. The contrast between this simple, golden butterfly and the dark, monstrous thing we were about to create was a chasm I could not cross.

A discreet knock at the door shattered the illusion.

The warmth in Asverta's expression vanished. It was not a gradual fading, but a sudden, sharp extinguishing, like a snuffed candle. The gentle mentor was gone, replaced by the cold specialist I had seen in the cellar. "Wait here," she said, her voice clipped and efficient.

She returned a moment later with a small, cloth-wrapped package. "It's time," she announced, her gaze meeting mine. "We'll work elsewhere." The transition was so seamless, so absolute, it felt like a performance. A mask donned with practiced ease.

The room she had rented was in a quieter, more anonymous part of the city. It smelled of dust and disuse, a place designed to be forgotten. She unwrapped the package on a rickety wooden table. Inside lay the mundane tools of deceit: sheets of official Citadel paper stock, vials of specific ink, and samples of General Vorlag's handwriting. But there were two other objects. One was a dull grey stone that remained blank until Asverta channeled a whisper of mana into it, causing Kael's instructions to glow faintly on its surface. The other was a smooth, milky Crystal.

"His muscle memory," Asverta explained, pushing the crystal towards me. "The kinetic signature of his hand. You will need it."

She then drew a small, intricate magic circle on the tabletop with a piece of chalk, its lines precise and complex. "The ink is mixed with a reagent called 'Chronos Dust'," she said, her voice now that of a master artisan explaining her craft. "Once the letter is written, I will place it within the circle and channel time-aspected mana into it. It will force years of natural aging to occur in minutes. A delicate process, but effective." The way she spoke of it—a beautiful, corrupt, and deeply unnatural form of magic—sent a faint tremor through my own mana.

My task came first. I picked up the Crystal. The moment my fingers touched its cool, smooth surface, my mind was flooded. It was not with images or sounds, but with pure, kinetic sensation. The confident, almost arrogant grip on a quill. The impatient flick of a wrist. The heavy, decisive pressure of a downstroke. It was the physical ghost of General Vorlag. My soul, being that of an outsider, a foreign entity in this world, could process this information with a chilling detachment. I did not feel his pride or his anger; I simply downloaded the data of his movements. A unique, and deeply alienating, advantage.

I took the quill. The first letter, the one to the fictional lover, was the most difficult. I had to channel a voice of despair and longing I could not feel, mimicking emotions I did not possess.

My Dearest Linura, I began, the script a perfect imitation of the General's hand.

Pathetic, V sneered in the back of my mind. Whining about love. If he wanted her, he should have just taken her.

He sounds lonely, Nora whispered, his voice an ache. Like he was trapped.

I ignored them both, focusing on the mechanical act of writing. But as I formed the words of fabricated love and regret, I was haunted by the image of Asverta's gentle smile with Mu. Was that warmth just as manufactured as the words now flowing from my quill? Was everyone in this world simply a better actor?

"You have a forger's hand, Mori," Asverta observed quietly from across the room, not looking up from the reagents she was preparing. "Steady. Devoid of hesitation."

I did not respond, but her words echoed in the silence. Was it a compliment, or an accusation? Did she recognize my own performance?

"Your mana signature is unnaturally still as you write," she continued, her voice a soft, probing murmur. "Most people's mana ripples with the effort of memory or the echo of feeling. Yours... it is as if the hand that writes is not connected to the soul that lives. A useful, if unsettling, talent."

She knew. Or she suspected. The game was no longer just about deceiving the city; it was a quiet, unnerving game between us. Two performers, silently acknowledging each other's masks.

Finally, the letter was finished. A masterpiece of hollow sentiment. I handed it to her.

She placed it carefully in the center of the magic circle. Her hands moved, weaving intricate patterns in the air as she whispered words in a language I did not recognize. The circle flared with a soft, grey light. Mana flowed, and I watched as the letter transformed. The ink visibly faded from a sharp black to a soft, weary grey. The paper gained a brittle, yellowed quality at the edges, the very fibers seeming to sigh with the weight of phantom years. The ritual was over in less than a minute.

The finished letter not only looked authentic, but it now radiated a faint, false magical aura of sadness and despair, enough to fool any casual truth-seeing spell. She had not just aged the letter; she had enchanted it with a lie.

She handed it back to me. I held it in my hands. It was perfect. A beautiful, believable falsehood. But I felt no pride, no satisfaction. Only a profound sense of wrongness, a physical manifestation of my own alienation. The letter was a perfect mask, just like the one Asverta wore, just like the one I was forced to wear every day. I had successfully created a monster, and it looked just like a piece of paper.