"Some names are not remembered. They endure"
They didn't talk while they walked.
Not because there was nothing to say—but because the weight of Kaien's name still clung to the air between them like ash.
Vael.
Eira hadn't said anything more after that. She just moved, silent and vigilant, like they were being followed. And Kaien could feel it too—not footsteps or breathing, but attentiveness, stretched thin across the sky like thread poised to snap.
The ravine widened into old highways. Not ones suited for carts or horses—these had been erected for pilgrims, judging by the shattered statues half-buried in the rocks.
One had wings.
Another had a mouth sewed shut.
Kaien glanced at the second longer than he meant to.
"What did they mean when they said my blood burns with memory?" he said finally.
Eira didn't stop walking. "Some relics... remember people."
"You mean people remember relics."
"No. I mean what I said."
She kicked a rock. "There were twelve Sovereign Houses before the Rain. Each had a memory that anchored them to the world. Language, fire, metal, sky, blood... Names that couldn't be forgotten."
Kaien touched his palm. The word was still faintly there. Burned like a seal.
"Sovereigns were kings?"
"They were worse. They were reminders."
"Of what?"
"What power used to look like before the world learned to forget."
By evening, the stars refused to come out. Kaien wasn't surprised. He had the impression the sky was watching too, now.
They took shelter among the fractured ribs of a long-dead beast. The bones were tall as trees and etched with the same sign Eira had painted earlier—three overlapping circles.
Another deal made.
Or a warning.
Kaien fell by the ribs, peering into the darkness beyond the fire Eira lighted. Mourncaller reclined beside him, motionless and still for the first time in hours.
"Do you think the Citadels knew I was from one of the Houses?" he enquired gently.
Eira poked at the flames.
"They branded you Sovereign," she said. "Not Relic Thief. That word on your hand—that's a sentence, not a title."
He didn't like how chilly she sounded. Not angry. Just… resigned.
"They don't just kill Sovereigns," she added. "They erase them. Names, faces, entire lineages. That's why no one remembers your House."
Kaien leaned back.
"I think I'd rather be remembered as a thief."
Sleep didn't come.
The dreams did.
Not from the Archivist this time—these were his. Or they felt like they were.
He stood among a field of blades. Not planted, not left behind—grown from the dirt. Each one hummed with names he didn't know. His hands were stained with ink and blood, and his mouth twitched, yet no sound came.
Then—he turned.
Someone stood behind him.
A girl.
Not Eira.
She was younger. Pale hair. Sharp eyes. No weapon—just a paper lantern that hovered alongside her.
When she talked, it wasn't a voice—it was a place. A room he hadn't seen in years, a recollection that bled light.
"We are not forgotten. We are unremembered by choice."
Kaien stretched out, but the field caught ablaze.
The swords shouted.
He woke gasping on smoke that wasn't there.
Eira was already awake, pacing, arms folded.
"You dreamed again."
Kaien nodded. "A girl. I suppose she knew me."
"You should stop chasing it."
"Chasing what?"
"The past."
Kaien stood, wiping dirt from his coat.
"It's chasing me."
The next village wasn't a village.
It was a crater.
Nothing except black glass and burnt bones, all pointing outward, like something left violently instead of arriving.
In the center rose a tower. Or the ruin of one. It had originally been fashioned of marble and metal, but now it was bent in on itself, twisted like wet linen.
Eira hesitated near the edge.
"What is this?" Kaien asked.
"A Citadel outpost," she added. "They used to store memory-sealed relics here."
"Used to?"
"They stopped when one remembered how to scream."
She looked uneasy. Not afraid. Just… on edge, like something in the air was trying to push down on her lungs.
Kaien walked forward.
The wind shifted.
Words—half-burned—blew past his ears.
Vael.
Thief.
Return what you are.
The inside of the skyscraper was worse.
Walls curved with script that hadn't been written by hand. The letters looked grown, like veins through stone.
Kaien's head throbbed the closer he drew to the center.
There, bound to a slab of ruined obsidian, lay a body.
Not fresh. Not long-dead either.
Its mouth had been sewn shut with gold thread, its breast inscribed in scores of small markings.
Kaien stepped forward.
"Wait," Eira said. "That's not—"
The body opened its eyes.
It didn't yell. It didn't move. But suddenly Kaien was elsewhere—flung backward into a recollection not his own.
He stood in a chamber lighted with molten symbols. Twelve individuals stood in a ring, faces covered, garments sparkling with starlight and scripture.
One spoke:
"The House of Vael refuses surrender."
Another:
"Then let them burn. Let the Rain take them."
A third:
"What if it doesn't forget them?"
The tallest raised their hand.
"Then we erase the world that remembers."
Kaien blinked.
He was back.
The corpse lay still. Its mouth had cracked up slightly.
From within, a whisper:
"You are the ember they missed."
They didn't talk after that.
Even Eira stayed silent as they fled the wreckage. Her eyes weren't on the route anymore—they were on him.
Kaien didn't ask why.
He already knew.
As night fell, they approached the cliffside where the sky met fractured seas. The horizon shone softly, not with light, but with memory—scraps of towns floating in the dark, unreachable, like thoughts half-forgotten.
Kaien stood at the edge.
"Did the Rain fall here too?" he enquired.
Eira shook her head. "No. Here, the sea sought to drink it."
"What happened?"
"The sea forgot how to be water."
Kaien looked down. The waves didn't move. They merely breathed.
He turned to Eira.
"You said they erased the Sovereigns. That no one remembers them."
"I did."
"But someone does."
Eira met his eyes. "Who?"
Kaien raised his palm.
The mark still burned.
"I do."