The Handwriting of a Ghost
The square fell into silence the moment the letter was unsealed.
The faint sound of parchment unfolding cut through the morning air like a blade. Thousands watched as the royal scribe lifted the page, his voice trembling, reading aloud the words written in an unmistakable, flowing hand—Sir Aden's handwriting.
The ink had faded in some places, but the strokes… the shape of each letter… there was no doubt. Even the way he curved his "R" and pressed too hard on his "T" carried the man's mark.
Gasps rippled through the crowd like wind through dry leaves. Some stumbled back in disbelief. Others froze, their mouths half-open, hearts hammering in their chests.
"No… it can't be…" whispered an old knight from the front line, his voice shaking. "That's truly his hand."
The square's noise died completely. What remained was the faint, cold wind brushing over marble, and the steady pulse of tension that held everyone still.
