The storm above the Gate of Unbeing was not ended—it only changed form. What had previously been voidlight swirling into shattered heavens now fell as a soundless wind, imperceptible to everyone but him. Aeren, the Crownless King, stood on the fractured lip of the Hollowed Steppe, his cloak billowing against currents no human wind could move.
Here, where names turned to ash and memories went as burnt parchment, something very old moved.
He breathed in.
Whispers rode the air—shreds of identity lost long ago.
He heard them:
"I was Elaren the Dancer…"
"Tiros the Unspoken…"
"My name. I. was…"
The winds past the name did not sing. They wept.
The Forgotten Pilgrims
Aeren's footsteps did not leave any mark upon the grey earth, for no man owned this place. His destination was to the north—where Nocthallow Tower's ruins slumped against the horizon like an expiring watchman. But he was no longer alone.
Behind him crept three of them, quiet and covered, three survivors from the fall of the Spiral Court. Exiles like him. Or unlike him altogether.
Velmoria, her fire-pit heart numbed now, breathed quiet words to the others.
"He doesn't talk unless talked to. And even that, only if it burns."
Northwyn, the Betrayer, strode farthest back, his shadow longer than it ought to be.
"He pays attention to the winds," Northwyn breathed. "And they remember more than we do."
"They remember what we used to be," Velmoria replied.
"Do you?" Northwyn inquired.
Velmoria did not reply.
They arrived at Nocthallow's cracked doorway at evening. Here, the wind howled against stone teeth and shattered glyphs etched by memory-eaters. The tower was not vacant.
The Weaver in the Wind
Within, among winding stairways twisted by time, they discovered the Weaver. A creature of silk, bone, and ink-stained fingers, its face concealed behind a thousand floating veils.
It recognized Aeren.
"You come, child of nothing, bringer of no throne, no name, no peace. You seek the space where the world loses itself."
Aeren did not answer.
"But why?" the Weaver breathed, sliding down the air like a snake on threads. "You tread beyond kings, beyond gods, yet still you hunger for meaning."
"I don't hunger," Aeren finally answered. "I am what is left when hunger ceases."
The Weaver hissed.
"Then you are ready to move beyond the name."
It pointed to the wall at its back, where a lone rune blazed.
Not drawn. Not written. Recalled.
Aeren moved forward. The rune resonated with familiarity—as if it once belonged to him, or to a part of him.
"To pass," said the Weaver, "you will need to relinquish even your legend. What lies beyond the name? Can you be king in a land where no one recalls that you ruled?"
Aeren lifted his hand. The rune didn't fight back. It dissolved into him like a dying world's sigh.
The wind howled.
The Breaking of the Sky-Mirror
Velmoria fell to one knee outside. Northwyn's eyes rolled back as the Mirrorborn essence of his soul broke.
"He's opened the Second Wind," Velmoria breathed.
"What does that mean?" asked the third—young Kairen, once a page of the Spiral Court.
"It means the sky will bleed.
The stars flashed.
The black mirror of the sky—once entire and absolute—splintered. From its wounds emerged tendrils of old mind, formless yet alive, seeping into the world.
Names disentangled.
Velmoria's furnace-heart burst out in wild flames as she gripped her chest.
"My mother's name… I forget my mother's name!"
Northwyn did not say a word. He already had no name remaining.
The Silent Duel
Aeren exited the tower changed.
His face was unchanged, but there was something in his bearing that had changed—no longer weighed down, no longer seeking.
He turned to Northwyn.
"Your betrayal was never yours. The Spiral Court taught you what it meant to forget loyalty. I recall now. I forgive you."
Northwyn's face crumbled.
"And I would betray you again," he whispered. "Because I wanted to be remembered."
They clashed.
No sword. No magic.
Only thoughts.
Blades of memory against shields of silence. The duel took place in the gap between moments, where there were only truths.
Finally, Aeren withdrew his hand.
"You lost the duel when you ceased to think you were real."
Northwyn fell to his knees, not in defeat, but in peace.
He disappeared. Not in death—but in the wind.
A whisper.
The Throne Beyond Names
In the clearing that was a battlefield, only Velmoria and Kairen were left.
Velmoria cried—not sadness, but relief.
"He's doing it," she breathed.
"Doing what?" Kairen probed.
"Constructing the throne. not in the world—but in what exists after the world forgets."
Closing Echoes
The winds moved once more. Not in mourning, but in a heartbeat—slow and steady.
Somewhere, in the depthsless depths past thought and time, a shape took form.
Not a throne of gold. Not of power.
But a place. A memory. A truth.
Aeren stood by itself in its center.
And for the first time, the emptiness whispered his name back to him.