Thoth had never left a blank page open this long. He stood in his library, a fresh reed pen dry in his hand, and stared at the first line of the book he meant to fill with every soul's true name. If he wrote them all, no destiny could ever be lost or twisted again. But he could not write the first name. A dead man's heart waited on the scale below, and the scale had gone crooked. He had seen it that morning in the hall of judgment. The feather of truth sat still. The heart beside it should have risen. Instead the arm of the scale sagged the wrong way, as if the metal itself lied. Thoth had recorded that soul as guilty. Then he checked the man's deeds and found him gentle. The scale had made him write a falsehood. Every name he set down now might be poisoned the same way. He went down to the weighing floor. Anubis stood over the crooked scale, one clawed hand on the beam. Anubis had built these scales. He had invented the whole rite to weigh his own father's worth. His jackal head tilted as he watched the arm quiver. "It's not the balance," Anubis said. "I checked the pin. It's clean." "Then why does it drop?" Thoth asked. Anubis lifted the feather off the pan. The arm swung level at once. He set the feather back. The arm sank again. "The feather is heavy," Anubis said. "Not the hearts." Thoth's chest tightened. The feather came from his wife. Truth itself should weigh nothing against a clean heart. If it now weighed too much, then truth had been altered, and no soul judged against it stood a fair chance. He took the feather in his own fingers. It looked the same. White, soft, edged in gold. But when he ran a thumb along the spine, he felt a second thread woven through the quill. Someone had bound something into it. A weight hidden inside the measure of truth. "This was done on purpose," Thoth said. "Yes," Anubis said. "Someone wants the dead judged wrong." Thoth pulled the hidden thread loose. It slid free like a splinter. The feather lightened in his hand. He laid it back on the pan, and the arm rose slow and true. The dead man's heart floated up, clean. Innocent, as Thoth had first believed. He let out a breath. He could measure again. He could begin his book. But the thread lay coiled in his palm, dark and fine. He had not made it. Anubis had not made it. It carried the smell of the deep desert, of storm and dry blood. "You know this work," Anubis said, watching the thread. Thoth closed his fist around it. He did. Only one hand in the Duat wove chaos into truth and called it fair. "Set," Thoth said. "He's tampering with the dead."