The ruins were silent.

  Not the silence of emptiness.Not the silence of waiting.

  But the silence of something that should not exist.

  And yet—a voice had spoken.

  Darius and Ais stood frozen at the temple’s shattered entrance, the weight of the erasure still pressing against their backs.

  The city of Vaelmoor was gone.

  The Recimer had consumed it.

  And yet, someone was still here.

  Someone who should not be.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The temple ruins stretched before them—half-standing columns, shattered stonework, and a lingering sense of wrongness.

  The voice had come from within.

  Ais's grip tightened on her dagger. "That voice..."

  Darius inhaled sharply. "It's impossible."

  And yet—it was real.

  He stepped forward, his boots crunching against loose gravel.

  Ais moved beside him, her stance tense, ready.

  Another step.

  Another.

  And then—

  The air inside the temple shifted.

  Like something was waking up.

  Or something had noticed them.

  A figure emerged from the shadows.

  Not flickering.

  Not shifting.

  Not rewritten.

  It was solid.

  Real.

  And yet—Darius knew it was not supposed to be here.

  The figure was draped in old, tattered robes. Dust clung to its skin, as if it had been buried beneath the ruins for centuries.

  Its eyes—sunken but sharp, hollow but aware.

  It met Darius' gaze.

  And when it spoke—it spoke his name.

  "Darius Vaelthorne."

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Darius' breath hitched.

  The way the figure spoke his name—not as if remembering it, but as if it had always known.

  Ais tensed. "Who the hell are you?"

  The figure’s lips twitched into a faint, weary smile.

  "I am the st fragment of a forgotten world."

  Darius’ heart pounded.

  Not because of the words.

  But because of the way the temple around them reacted.

  The air itself shuddered.

  The walls, the stones, the very foundation—they were resisting.

  As if this temple was not just ruins.

  As if it was a memory fighting to remain.

  Darius stepped forward. "What do you mean, forgotten world?"

  The figure exhaled softly.

  And then—it turned toward the shattered altar.

  "Let me show you."

  The altar was ancient.

  Carved into its surface were symbols—letters, names, markings.

  Most of them were broken, fractured, as if something had tried to erase them.

  But one name still remained.

  Darius' breath caught.

  Alden.

  Ais’s eyes widened. "That’s—"

  Darius’ hands trembled as he traced the name with his fingers.

  Alden had been erased.

  His city, his history, his existence—all gone.

  And yet, here was his name.

  Not erased.

  Not forgotten.

  Still fighting to exist.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The figure’s voice was quiet.

  "The Thanatarchy does not erase perfectly."

  Darius turned sharply. "What?"

  The figure’s gaze was distant.

  "You think they rewrite history completely. That once something is erased, it ceases to exist entirely."

  Ais’s fists clenched. "That’s exactly what they do."

  The figure shook its head.

  "No."

  It gestured to the altar.

  "Some things remain. Buried. Fractured. But not truly gone."

  Darius felt it.

  Not just the words.

  But the weight of the truth beneath them.

  The Thanatarchy’s erasure was powerful.

  Absolute.

  But even absolutes have fws.

  Even the greatest rewrite could not remove everything.

  Darius exhaled. "Then that means we can bring things back."

  The figure’s eyes darkened.

  "Not everything."

  Ais’s voice was sharp. "Then what?"

  The figure studied them carefully.

  Then it spoke.

  "The Thanatarchy does not erase the way you think it does. It does not remove something entirely."

  It stepped toward the altar.

  "It removes the idea of it."

  Darius stilled.

  Ais frowned. "What do you mean?"

  The figure touched the stone gently.

  "People do not remember Alden because the idea of Alden no longer exists."

  It turned toward Darius.

  "And yet, you remember him."

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The realization hit like a hammer.

  The Thanatarchy did not just erase.

  It made the world forget why something should exist at all.

  But Darius had resisted.

  Ais had resisted.

  And now—this temple had resisted.

  That meant something was broken.

  Darius swallowed hard. "Why can we still remember?"

  The figure’s lips curved into a sad smile.

  "Because the Thanatarchy has rewritten the world many times."

  It stepped closer.

  "And cracks have begun to form."

  Darius' breath hitched.

  Ais’s hands tightened around her daggers. "Are you saying this world is breaking?"

  The figure’s eyes met hers.

  "Yes."

  The temple shook.

  Not from an earthquake. Not from colpse.

  But from something pressing down upon it.

  Darius’ chest tightened.

  Ais cursed. "They found us."

  The figure sighed. "Of course they did."

  Darius turned sharply. "How do we stop them?"

  The figure’s gaze softened.

  "You don’t."

  Darius froze.

  The figure looked toward the entrance.

  "You run."

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The first crack split through the walls.

  The rewrite was already beginning.

  The Thanatarchy had found this pce.

  Ais grabbed Darius’ arm.

  "We have to go!"

  But Darius did not move.

  Because something was pulling at his mind.

  A thought. A realization.

  And a single question.

  He turned back to the figure.

  "What is your name?"

  The figure smiled.

  "You already know."

  The walls colpsed inward.

  And everything turned to white.