The morning after the audience, I returned to the Hall of Records before the sun had cleared the eastern wall.
I needed to trace the forged letter.
Not the one they used to arrest my father—its original was locked away in the Vizier's vault, no doubt—but the copy that had been circulated among the council. Every decree, accusation, and petition was duplicated for the archives. That was the law. The empire did not trust memory.
I found the file under "Security Matters – Month of Nisan." A plain clay tablet marked the box. Inside, a single papyrus scroll, sealed with red wax bearing the coiled serpent of Kardax.
I broke the seal.
The letter was short. Written in a hand meant to mimic my father's—close, but not perfect. The slant was too rigid. The loops on the aleph and mem were tighter than his aging hand could manage. And the ink… it was too dark. My father used a blend of soot and gum arabic, giving his script a warm gray tone. This was iron gall, sharp and black.
A forger's mistake.
But not just any forger. This was someone with access to official materials. To my father's past writings. To the king's scribes' chamber.
Only a high minister or his agent could have that.
I copied the text onto a wax tablet, then resealed the scroll with a fresh dollop of wax, pressing my thumb into it—no seal, but the break would be less noticeable than a clean edge. I returned it to the box, replaced the tablet, and stepped back.
I needed to know who had access to the forgery.
That meant the Royal Scribes' Log, a ledger that recorded every official document copied, by whom, and when. It was kept in the Inner Archive, a small, guarded chamber behind the main hall, accessible only to senior scribes and the Vizier's appointed overseer.
I did not have clearance.
But I knew someone who did.
Malka.
He was a eunuch of the royal household, stationed in the women's quarters, but his duties were broader than they appeared. He delivered messages, oversaw the cleaning of private chambers, and—most importantly—knew where every scroll was stored, who had seen it, and when the guards changed shifts.
I had spoken to him only a handful of times. My father trusted him. Said he was "a man who listens more than he speaks, and remembers everything."
I found him in the east corridor, supervising two servants as they carried oil lamps to the queen's chambers.
He was slight, with a face that seemed older than his years, his dark hair streaked with gray. He moved quietly, like a shadow given form.
I waited until the servants left.
"Malka," I said, stepping into his path.
He looked up, wary. "Elara. Your father—"
"I need to see the Scribes' Log," I said. No greeting. No pretense. There was no time.
His eyes narrowed. "You know I can't allow that."
"I'm not asking for permission. I'm asking for help."
He glanced down the hall. "Why?"
"Because the letter used to arrest my father was forged. And the man who ordered it is preparing something worse."
He didn't flinch. But his fingers tightened on the oil flask he carried.
"How do you know it was forged?"
I told him—quickly—about the ink, the handwriting, the seal.
He listened. Said nothing.
Then: "The Log is checked daily by Kardax's overseer. If it's disturbed, they'll know."
"There's a way," I said. "You go in every third day to collect the queen's correspondence. You're allowed to wait while the clerk retrieves it. You could… look."
"And if I'm caught?"
"They'll say you were careless. A servant's mistake. But if I go in, they'll say I was spying. And I'll be gone before sunset."
He studied me. "You're asking me to risk my life for your father."
"I'm asking you to risk it for your own survival," I said. "Kardax doesn't stop at Jews. He removes anyone who isn't pure Persian. Who's next? The Medes? The Babylonians? The eunuchs who serve the queen but were born in Elam?"
His jaw tightened.
I pressed. "You knew my father. He never spoke against you. Never treated you as less. When the last overseer tried to strip you of your duties, who wrote the appeal that saved you?"
He looked away.
Silence.
Then, barely a whisper: "Tomorrow. At dawn. I'll be in the Inner Archive for twelve heartbeats. No more."
I nodded. "That's all I need."
The next morning, I waited in the scribes' chamber, pretending to review trade records. My hands were steady, but my pulse was not.
At first light, Malka passed by, silent as ever. He did not look at me.
An hour later, he returned.
He stopped at my table, placed a small oil flask on the edge—something he'd never done before.
"Box seven," he said, voice low. "Entry for the third of Nisan. A copy of a sealed letter, marked Urgent – Council Eyes Only. Copied by Tiras, assistant scribe, under order of the Vizier's Office."
Then he was gone.
I waited another hour. Let the chamber fill with other scribes. Let the rhythm of reed on papyrus return.
Then I went to the Inner Archive.
Box seven was near the back. I found the entry.
Tiras.
I knew him. A young man, early twenties, with a nervous stutter and ink-stained fingers. He worked in the lower scribes' wing, assigned to copying routine decrees. He had no reason to be involved in a treason case.
Unless he was forced.
Or bribed.
I found him that afternoon in the ink room, grinding gallnuts into powder.
He didn't see me at first. His hands shook as he worked the mortar.
"Tiras," I said.
He jumped. Dropped the pestle.
"Elara. I— I didn't expect—"
"I need to know about the letter," I said. "The one you copied. The one with my father's name."
His face went pale. "I can't—"
"You can," I said. "And you will. Because if you don't, I'll go to the overseer and tell him you kept a copy. That you're hiding evidence."
It was a lie. But a necessary one.
He looked around, panicked. "I didn't write it! I only copied it!"
"Who gave it to you?"
He swallowed. "A man. In the Vizier's robes. He said it was urgent. That the king demanded it by evening."
"Did you see his face?"
"No. He wore a veil. But… his hand. On the papyrus. There was a ring. A serpent coiled around a dagger."
Kardax's personal seal.
"He told me to copy it exactly. Not to read it. Not to speak of it. Then he took the original and left."
"And the copy?"
"It went to the council. I watched it leave with the courier."
I believed him.
He was too afraid to lie well.
But he was also a loose end. If Kardax suspected he'd talked—
I stepped closer. "Listen to me. You say nothing. To no one. Not even your mother. If anyone asks, you don't remember the letter. You were ill that week. You were on leave."
His eyes widened. "But—"
"Do this, and you live. Do not, and you vanish. Like the governor from Ecbatana last year. Remember him? They said he fell down the stairs."
He nodded, trembling.
I left him there, staring at the mortar like it held the answer to his survival.
That night, I went to the Jewish quarter, to the home of Leah, a weaver and elder of our community.
She was old, her back bent from years at the loom, but her eyes were sharp as flint. She had been in Susa since the time of Cyrus. She remembered the first exile. The first return.
I told her what I had learned.
She listened, winding a length of blue thread around her finger.
"So Kardax moves," she said at last. "And you are the only one who sees."
"He's not just after my father. He's after all of us."
She nodded. "We've felt it. The new taxes. The patrols in our streets. The way the Persian merchants now refuse to trade with us unless we swear by Mithra."
"He's building a case," I said. "A decree. Something final."
She looked at me. "And you will stop it."
It was not a question.
"I don't know if I can."
"You must. Because if you do not, who will? The men? They are afraid. The elders? They pray, but they do not act. You are the one who walks in the palace. The one who hears the whispers."
"I'm not a prophet."
"No," she said. "You are something better. You are a scribe. And in the empire, words are law."
She rose, went to a chest, and pulled out a small scroll—ancient, fragile.
"This is the first letter from Jerusalem after the wall was rebuilt. It speaks of Ezra, standing before the people, reading the Law. And the people wept, because they had forgotten."
She placed it in my hands.
"You are not just writing to save us, Elara. You are writing to remember us."
I held the scroll. Felt the weight of centuries.
I returned to the scribes' quarter under a moonless sky.
I did not go to my chamber. Instead, I went to the oil storage room—a small, windowless closet behind the main hall, used for storing clay jars of lamp oil.
I had discovered it months ago, when I was searching for a missing ledger. The back wall was cracked. I had pushed, and a single brick gave way. Behind it: a hollow space, just large enough to hide a scroll.
I placed Leah's scroll inside.
Then I took out my own—my growing record of the silence.
Day Three.
I have a name: Tiras, the scribe who copied the forgery.
And a truth: Kardax himself delivered it.
He is not working through proxies. He is in the shadows, pulling every thread.
I have also a warning: he removes not only his enemies, but those who serve him too closely.
Tiras will not last the month.
I must move faster.
Leah gave me a scroll from Jerusalem.
It is not a weapon. Not a shield.
It is a reminder.
We are not the first to be forgotten.
But we will not be the last to remember.
I am not a prophet.
But I will be a witness.
I rolled it. Hid it beside the other.
Then I stepped out.
The night was still.
But I could feel it—the slow, steady beat of the serpent's heart.
And I knew, with a cold certainty, that dawn would not come quietly.