The fickle spring sky brooded above Riverbend when a whisper spread: craftsmen in South Quay had rioted after a misprinted article claimed the Crown planned a 30% tool-steel tax. Windows smashed, guards injured, two mills torched before Herald issued correction—"decimal mis-set, tax proposal 3%, not 30." In chaos, one child died beneath collapsing balcony.
Sharath stared at the tragedy report, stomach churning. A misplaced period—simple mechanical error exacerbated by copydesk haste—had sparked blood. Truth had no role, yet the incident exposed systemic vulnerability.
He convened an emergency Media Ethics Council: editors from all papers, scribes' guild reps, theologians, even Varek—the reluctant monarchist. Meetings stretched into dawn hours in a candle-lit reading hall.
"Freedom demands responsibility," Sharath opened. "We unleashed power; now we forge its reins."
Proposals flew: pre-publication royal approval (rejected), guild gatekeepers (feared capture), heavy fines (punished small presses). Sister Calliane cited scripture: Words build worlds; falsehood cracks them. Eventually they drafted the Transparent Press Charter:
Two-Source Rule for factual claims.
Correction Box front-page mandatory within one day of proven error.
Ombuds Office funded by all papers, empowered to investigate complaints.
Printer's Mark on each edition identifying compositor, typesetter, and editor—accountability by name.
The Charter passed with narrow majority. Varek insisted on royal oversight board; Marcus countered with citizen representation. They compromised: half crown-appointed, half guild-elected, rotating chair.
Implementation revealed challenges. Rural presses lacked staff for two-source verification; Truth shipped training teams. Clarion's sensationalists balked but complied under seller pressure—readers now demanded the Mark.
One month later, a plague rumor surfaced in Dock 7. Charter mechanisms sprang alive: Herald delayed story, verified with apothecaries; Truth cross-checked port logs. The scare proved false; no riot erupted.
Sharath published a reflective column: "Caution may dull headlines but sharpens society." Critics called him censor. He replied, "Transparency is not censorship but illumination."
At the year's close, Council stats showed misinformation incidents down by half, corrections up threefold, public trust recovering. South Quay mills rebuilt with improved safety codes (printed widely). The child's name, Marra, appeared atop every Charter document—reminder of stakes.
Under moonlit eaves, Sharath confided to Elina, "We thought wheels would move bodies, press letters would move minds. We forgot hearts beat fastest in panic. Now we move carefully."
She kissed ink-smudged knuckles. "And in teaching caution," she whispered, "we teach courage—courage to seek truth, not just shout it."
Ink dried. Lessons etched. The Information Age matured from newborn cry to steady, questioning voice—one that could, with vigilant care, guide a kingdom toward ever-wider horizons.