# Chapter 2: Words Take Form

"That completes the official announcements, sir," the scribe said, setting down his quill and blowing gently on the ink to dry it.

Amatziah nodded with satisfaction. "Excellent. Have copies prepared by morning. I want these distributed throughout the farm by midday tomorrow."

The scribe gathered his papers, careful not to smudge the fresh ink. He bowed respectfully before the eleven leaders and backed toward the door.

"Wait," Benjamin called. "What about that ancient scroll? I'd like to study it further."

The scribe looked confused. "Which scroll, sir? I wasn't given any ancient documents."

Benjamin frowned and turned toward the side table where he'd left the yellowed parchment. "It was right there. Did someone move it?"

The leaders glanced at each other, but no one admitted to touching the scroll.

"Perhaps a servant tidied it away," Drorit suggested. "You can look for it tomorrow."

Benjamin seemed dissatisfied with this explanation but didn't press the issue. The scribe took his leave, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

The servant girl continued her futile battle against the strange black mold, which had now spread to cover nearly half of one wall. She scrubbed vigorously, but the substance seemed impervious to her efforts.

"You might as well stop," Amatziah told her. "We'll have someone examine it properly tomorrow. A specialist, not a mere cleaning girl."

The servant nodded and gathered her cleaning supplies. "As you wish, sir. Will there be anything else before I retire for the night?"

"No, that will be all," Amatziah dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

After she left, the eleven leaders remained at the table, finishing the last of their wine. The candles had burned low, casting long shadows across the chamber.

"A productive evening," Eyal said, leaning back in his chair. "By this time tomorrow, the entire farm will be buzzing with fear of our eastern neighbors."

"And looking to us for protection," Ofra added with a smile.

Sara stared into her wine glass, swirling the dark liquid. "I still think we should be cautious. What if our lies lead to actual conflict?"

"Then we'll deal with it," Amatziah said firmly. "We always do."

The leaders gradually drifted away to their private quarters, leaving the chamber empty except for the spreading black mold that continued its silent progression across the walls.

---

Morning arrived with a pounding at Amatziah's door. He groaned and pulled himself from his silken sheets, cursing whoever dared disturb his sleep.

"What is it?" he demanded, yanking open the door to find a messenger standing there, breathing hard as if he'd been running.

"Sir, urgent news from the eastern border," the young man gasped. "The eastern territory has mobilized troops. They're positioning forces all along our shared boundary."

Amatziah blinked, momentarily confused. "They've what?"

"Mobilized troops, sir. Armed men, hundreds of them, gathering along the border. The patrol captain sent me immediately to inform you."

"That's impossible," Amatziah muttered. "They wouldn't dare..."

But even as he spoke, a cold realization dawned on him. Their lies had somehow reached the eastern territory overnight, and their neighbors were responding as if to a genuine threat.

"Wake the others," he ordered the messenger. "Tell them to meet in the Chamber of Whispers immediately. This is an emergency."

As the messenger hurried away, Amatziah dressed quickly, his mind racing. This wasn't how things were supposed to unfold. The rumors were meant to frighten their own people, not provoke an actual military response from their neighbors.

Within the hour, all eleven leaders had gathered in the chamber, most still looking sleepy and disgruntled at the early summons.

"What's so urgent it couldn't wait until a decent hour?" Dudi complained, stifling a yawn.

Amatziah explained the situation, watching their expressions shift from annoyance to concern and, in some cases, fear.

"But how did they hear our rumors so quickly?" Orni asked. "We only drafted the announcements last night. They haven't even been distributed yet."

"That's what I'd like to know," Amatziah replied grimly. "Someone must have informed them."

"The scribe?" Itzhak suggested.

"Or servants," Drorit added. "They were in and out all evening."

Sara shook her head. "Or perhaps it's simpler than that. Maybe the eastern territory was already planning some kind of military exercise, and this is just coincidence."

"A coincidence that they position troops exactly when we fabricate stories about them planning an invasion?" Benjamin scoffed. "That stretches credibility."

As they debated, no one noticed that the black mold had spread further overnight. It now covered most of the far wall and had begun creeping across the ceiling. The strange patterns it formed seemed almost deliberate, like words in an unfamiliar script.

"Regardless of how they found out," Amatziah cut through the discussion, "we need to respond. If we back down now, we'll appear weak."

"Back down?" Sara looked incredulous. "We created this crisis out of nothing! We should send word immediately that there's been a misunderstanding."

"And admit we were spreading lies?" Amatziah shook his head. "Impossible. We'd lose all credibility."

"We could lose a lot more than credibility if this escalates to actual fighting," Benjamin pointed out. "Our guards are barely trained for peacekeeping, let alone warfare."

Amatziah paced the length of the table, thinking. Finally, he stopped and turned to face the others. "We don't back down. We double down."

"What does that mean?" Dana asked warily.

"It means we manufacture evidence," Amatziah explained. "We create proof that the eastern territory was indeed planning something against us. We make it so convincing that even they begin to doubt themselves."

Eyal laughed. "That's brilliantly devious. I love it."

"It's madness," Sara countered. "You're suggesting we fabricate evidence to support a lie we made up just yesterday?"

"Exactly," Amatziah nodded. "Ofer, you have contacts among the merchants who travel between territories. Have them report seeing unusual shipments crossing the eastern border. Military supplies, weapons, that sort of thing."

Ofer nodded slowly. "I can arrange that."

"Drorit, your cousin works in the eastern territory's grain storage facilities, doesn't he? Have him report that they've been stockpiling food supplies, as if preparing for extended conflict."

Drorit hesitated but eventually nodded. "I'll send word to him today."

"And Itzhak," Amatziah continued, "use your connections in the messengers' guild. Intercept any communications from the eastern territory that might contradict our narrative. Replace them with versions that support our claims."

Itzhak raised his eyebrows but didn't object.

"This is going too far," Sara insisted. "We're not just spreading rumors anymore; we're actively falsifying evidence. That's a far more serious offense."

"Would you prefer war?" Amatziah challenged her. "Because that's what we're facing if we don't control this situation."

"A war that we started!"

"A war that we will prevent," Amatziah corrected her. "By the time we're done, the eastern territory will be too busy defending themselves against our accusations to consider any actual aggression."

The debate continued, with the leaders split between those who supported Amatziah's plan and those who urged caution. In the end, as usual, Amatziah's faction prevailed. The "Heads of the Farm" dispersed to carry out their assigned tasks, leaving only Benjamin, Sara, and Amatziah in the chamber.

"I want to search for that scroll," Benjamin said, moving toward the side tables and cabinets.

"Now? With a potential war brewing?" Amatziah sounded exasperated.

"Yes, now," Benjamin insisted. "Something about that text bothers me. The timing of its appearance, the warning about evil speech... it's too coincidental."

Sara joined his search, while Amatziah watched impatiently. They checked every drawer, cabinet, and corner of the chamber, but the ancient scroll was nowhere to be found.

"It's gone," Benjamin concluded, looking troubled. "Completely vanished."

"Someone must have taken it," Sara suggested. "But who? And why?"

Amatziah shrugged. "It's just an old piece of parchment with superstitious nonsense. Forget about it. We have more important matters to attend to."

As he spoke, his gaze drifted upward, and his words died in his throat. There, on the ceiling above them, the black mold had formed a distinct pattern. No longer random splotches, it now clearly spelled out words in their own language: "Lies become flesh."

Sara followed his gaze and gasped. Benjamin turned pale.

"What is this?" Amatziah demanded, his voice not quite steady. "Who did this? Is this some kind of joke?"

"No one could reach the ceiling to write that," Benjamin pointed out. "And it's the same mold that was spreading yesterday."

"Impossible," Amatziah whispered, but there was a hint of fear in his voice now. "It's just... coincidence. Random patterns that happen to look like words."

"Random patterns that happen to echo exactly what the missing scroll warned about?" Sara challenged. "This is no coincidence, Amatziah."

Before he could respond, a servant entered the chamber. "Sir, the eastern delegation has arrived. They're demanding an immediate audience."

"Eastern delegation?" Amatziah tore his eyes away from the ceiling. "What eastern delegation?"

"Three representatives from the eastern territory crossed our border under a flag of truce," the servant explained. "They say they're here to discuss the false accusations being spread about their people."

Amatziah exchanged glances with Sara and Benjamin. This was developing faster than any of them had anticipated.

"Tell them we'll meet with them in the great hall in one hour," Amatziah decided. "And gather the others. We need to present a united front."

The servant nodded and withdrew. Amatziah turned back to Sara and Benjamin.

"Not a word about this," he warned, pointing to the mold on the ceiling. "To anyone. We deal with the eastern delegation first, then we'll investigate whatever... prank this is."

Sara looked like she wanted to argue but held her tongue. Benjamin nodded reluctantly.

As they left the Chamber of Whispers, none of them noticed that the black mold was continuing to spread, forming new words even as they departed.

---

The meeting with the eastern delegation went poorly. The representatives—two men and a woman, all wearing the formal green robes of their territory's leadership—came armed with specific knowledge of the rumors being spread.

"You claim we're diverting water from shared streams," the lead delegate said, her voice sharp with indignation. "You tell your people we're stockpiling weapons for an attack. These are serious accusations, and completely false."

Amatziah maintained a facade of diplomatic concern. "We've received reports from multiple sources suggesting unusual activity in your territory. As leaders, it's our responsibility to investigate potential threats."

"What sources?" the woman demanded. "Name them. Let us confront these liars directly."

"We protect our informants," Amatziah replied smoothly. "Surely you understand."

The back-and-forth continued for hours, growing increasingly tense. The eastern delegates presented evidence refuting the rumors, while Amatziah and the others deflected, insinuated, and occasionally introduced new, previously unmentioned "concerns" about eastern activities.

By the end of the meeting, nothing had been resolved. The eastern delegation departed with a warning: if the false rumors continued, their territory would consider it an act of aggression requiring response.

"Well, that was successful," Dudi commented sarcastically after the delegates had left.

"Actually, it was," Amatziah countered. "We learned how much they know, and we planted seeds of additional concerns. They came in confident and left defensive. That's a victory."

"They left angry," Sara corrected. "And with a clear threat of retaliation if we continue."

"Empty threats," Amatziah dismissed her concern. "They're as unprepared for conflict as we are. They're bluffing."

"Are you willing to bet all our lives on that?" Benjamin asked quietly.

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

---

As night fell once again over the farm, the eleven leaders retreated to their private quarters, exhausted from the day's tensions. The Chamber of Whispers stood empty, the black mold continuing its inexorable spread across walls and ceiling, forming words and patterns visible only to the darkness.

Eyal couldn't sleep. He paced his luxurious room, pouring himself glass after glass of wine to calm his nerves. The eastern delegation's visit had unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

He paused at his window, looking out at the moonlit farm. Something moved in the shadows below—a figure slipping between buildings. Eyal squinted, trying to make out details.

The figure stopped, seeming to sense his gaze. It looked up, directly at Eyal's window. Though it was too dark to see clearly, Eyal could have sworn the figure had no face—just a blank, featureless expanse where features should be.

Eyal stumbled backward, spilling his wine. When he gathered his courage and looked again, the figure was gone.

"Too much wine," he muttered to himself, trying to calm his pounding heart. "Just my imagination."

But as he turned from the window, he caught movement from the corner of his eye—inside his room. A shadow detached itself from the wall, taking shape in the dim light. It resembled a person, but wrong somehow, like an artist's sketch that had been smudged before the ink dried.

"Who's there?" Eyal demanded, his voice cracking. "Show yourself!"

The shadow figure moved closer, and Eyal could now see what was wrong with it. The figure had features, but they were constantly shifting, never settling into a recognizable face. One moment it resembled the eastern territory's lead delegate, the next a farm worker Eyal had accused of theft last week, then someone else entirely.

Eyal backed away until he hit the wall. The figure continued its approach, and as it drew nearer, Eyal heard whispers—his own voice, repeating the lies he had helped craft the previous night.

"...secretly gathering weapons... diverting water... planning an invasion..."

"Stop it!" Eyal shouted, covering his ears. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The figure reached out a hand—not quite solid, not quite shadow—toward Eyal's face. He screamed and lunged for the door, fumbling with the latch in his panic. When he finally wrenched it open and looked back, his room was empty.

Eyal stood in the hallway, breathing hard, trying to convince himself he had imagined the whole encounter. Just stress and too much wine. Nothing more.

---

Across the complex, in her own quarters, Ofra was experiencing a similar visitation. She had been preparing for bed, brushing her long hair before her mirror, when the reflection changed. Instead of showing her own face, the mirror displayed a scene from the eastern territory—farmers weeping over dried-up fields, children drinking from muddy puddles.

"What is this?" Ofra whispered, touching the mirror's surface.

The image shifted, showing eastern guards patrolling their side of the border, looking worried and confused by the sudden military escalation. Then it changed again, displaying the faces of people Ofra had never seen—ordinary citizens from both territories who would suffer if conflict erupted.

"Stop it," she demanded, turning the mirror to face the wall. "It's not my fault. It was Amatziah's idea."

But when she turned back to her bed, she found it occupied by a figure made of shadow and whispers—a figure that rose and approached her with her own voice echoing from its formless mouth.

"...to prosperity... to us... it costs nothing but words..."

Ofra backed away, her brush clattering to the floor. "Leave me alone! You're not real!"

The figure paused, tilting its head as if considering her words. Then it smiled—a terrible expression on its ever-shifting face—and spoke in Ofra's exact voice:

"I'm as real as the lies you told. And I'm hungry for more."

Ofra fled her room, not stopping until she reached the main hallway, where she collided with Eyal, who looked as terrified as she felt.

"You too?" he asked, seeing her expression.

She nodded, unable to speak.

"What's happening to us?" Eyal whispered.

---

Ofer's experience was different but no less terrifying. He had fallen asleep quickly, exhausted from the day's events, only to wake suddenly, feeling a weight on his chest. He opened his eyes to find his room filled with scrolls and papers—hundreds of them, suspended in the air as if frozen in a whirlwind.

Each paper contained words in his handwriting—the lies he had crafted about the eastern territory, the false evidence he had agreed to manufacture, the rumors he had suggested spreading about their own citizens.

As Ofer watched, frozen with fear, the papers began to move, swirling around him. They folded themselves into shapes resembling people—paper constructs that surrounded his bed, their edges sharp as knives.

"No," Ofer gasped, pulling his blanket up as if it could shield him. "This isn't real."

One of the paper figures leaned close, its face a crumpled mass of written lies. It spoke in a dry, rustling voice:

"You wrote us. You gave us form. Now we hunger for truth."

Ofer screamed, flailing at the paper constructs, but his hands passed through them as if they were smoke. When his door burst open, revealing a concerned servant, the room was normal again—no floating papers, no folded figures.

"Sir? Are you all right?" the servant asked, looking around the seemingly empty room.

"Yes," Ofer lied, his voice shaking. "Just a nightmare. Leave me."

The servant withdrew, closing the door. Ofer sat in his bed, trembling, afraid to close his eyes again. In the shadows of his room, he could still see the paper figures watching him, waiting.

---

By dawn, Eyal, Ofra, and Ofer had found each other, huddled together in the kitchen where servants were beginning their morning preparations. They spoke in hushed tones, comparing their nocturnal visitations.

"It has to be some kind of trick," Eyal insisted, though his voice lacked conviction. "Someone trying to frighten us into backing down."

"Who could create such illusions?" Ofra challenged. "And why only target the three of us?"

"Because we were the most enthusiastic about Amatziah's plan," Ofer suggested. "We contributed the most specific lies."

They fell silent as a kitchen servant approached with bread and tea. After the servant retreated, Ofer leaned closer to the others.

"Do you remember that scroll Benjamin found? The one warning about evil speech?"

Eyal nodded slowly. "It said something about lies taking form."

"And now we're seeing exactly that," Ofra whispered. "Our lies, becoming... something."

"We need to tell the others," Ofer decided. "We need to find that scroll again."

They agreed to meet the others in the Chamber of Whispers after breakfast. But when they arrived, they found Amatziah already there, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of horrified fascination.

The black mold had spread overnight, covering the entire ceiling now. The words "Lies become flesh" had grown larger, more defined. And beneath them, new words had formed: "The speaker becomes the spoken."

"What does it mean?" Dana asked, her voice small.

No one answered. No one needed to. They all understood, on some level, what was happening. Their campaign of lies was taking on a life of its own, manifesting in ways none of them had anticipated.

Benjamin searched again for the missing scroll, more frantically this time, but it remained stubbornly absent. The ancient warning had appeared just long enough to deliver its message before vanishing, leaving them to face the consequences of their actions.

As the eleven leaders stood in their chamber, staring at the mold-formed words on the ceiling, they felt the weight of their own deceptions settling around them like a shroud. Outside, tensions with the eastern territory continued to escalate. Inside, something darker was taking shape—something born of their own malicious words, hungry for truth, and growing stronger with each new lie.