It did not rise quickly.
No—it unfolded, as if waking from centuries of drowning. Ashend stepped from its iron cradle like a shadow separating from its source. It had no face, only a pale, porcelain mask—blank, featureless save for a vertical crack running down its center. Its body was cloaked in rotted regalia, stitched with threads of forgotten kingdoms. Crowns melted into its ribcage. Scepters broken and bound to its arms. Where its feet passed, the stone sweated.
The Chainfather stood still, veiled in thread and shadow, his chains whispering at his sides. No fear. Only purpose.
"You remember the pact," he said.
Ashend turned its cracked mask toward him. From behind the veil, came a voice like breath on old glass.
"I remember every pact. That is the curse."
"And the name I ask of you?"
A pause.
Then, from Ashend's throat, a single whisper:
"…Caedren."
The stones of the crypt seemed to sigh. Dust fell from the ceiling like lost time.
The Chainfather stepped back, chains swaying like restless vipers.
"Erase him. Not the man. The meaning. Let them forget why he ever mattered."
Ashend tilted its head.
"It is costly."
"I will pay it," the Chainfather said. "With every soul in Highrest, if I must."
Ashend knelt, clawed fingers brushing the floor. It drew a circle in the dust. In its center: a single sigil, burning without flame.
The price had begun.
—
Elsewhere—
Dusk turned the sky to copper as Caedren walked the ramparts of Highrest. Below, the forgefires hummed. Lanterns flickered. The people moved with quiet strength. But something gnawed at the edge of the wind.
Neris found him at the highest point, arms crossed, eyes tracing a trail of storm clouds rising from the south.
"You've felt it too," she said.
He nodded.
"Something old," Caedren murmured. "Something that doesn't want to kill me. It wants me to… unhappen."
She handed him a folded cloth.
"What's this?"
"A name-band," she said. "The children started wearing them this morning. One word: Caedren. They said if they keep it near their heart, they'll never forget what you gave them."
Caedren turned the cloth in his hand. It was simple. Hand-stitched. Frayed at the edges.
"I don't want worship."
"They're not worshiping," Neris replied. "They're remembering. That's the seed he's trying to burn."
Caedren looked out at the quiet city. "Then we make sure the roots grow deep."
—
Night fell, and with it came the dream.
He stood in a dead field. No stars. No moon. Just a plain of ash that stretched beyond vision. The ground crunched with every step—bones of memory.
Before him stood a figure in a cracked porcelain mask.
Ashend.
"You have too many names," it said. "Too many truths."
Caedren reached for his sword—but it was gone. He opened his mouth, but no voice came. The air was thick with silence.
Ashend stepped closer.
"I will wear your meaning, Caedren. I will scatter your echoes."
It raised its hand.
Upon its finger gleamed a ring—a twisted band of silver and coal, etched with the mark of the old sages.
Ivan's ring.
Caedren's breath caught. His ancestor. His oath.
"You know nothing of what was promised," Ashend whispered.
The plain cracked. The dream shattered.
—
Caedren woke, gasping. His tunic clung to his chest with sweat.
He reached for the name-band.
It was gone.
No—ashes. Blackened cloth, reduced to dust across his chest.
He stared at the remnants in silence. Then rose, heart pounding like a forge bell.
He would not be unwritten.
He would not be forgotten.
He would answer the name-eater with a voice that even time could not silence.