Three days after the Ritual of Unwriting, Lyothara began to heal.
The cracks in the streets sealed themselves—not with stone, but with soft moss that glowed faintly gold. The mist vanished. The Great Tree's sap ran warm again, and its leaves unfurled like green sighs.
People smiled. Children played.
No one spoke of the nameless hero who had saved them.
No one remembered there was a hero to forget.
Except Lira.
She sat alone in the Heart Chamber, staring at a blank space on the wall where Darien's name should have been carved.
Her hands trembled as she opened the breathing book.
Its pages were empty.
Not just blank—erased. As if the ink had never existed. Even her notes about goblin runes, dwarven lore, the First Hollow… all gone.
Only one sentence remained, written in her own hand, fading with every hour:
"Remember him."
But how could she?
Every time she tried to picture his face, it blurred like smoke.
His voice? A whisper lost in wind.
Even his ash-hand—once so vivid in her dreams—now felt like a story she'd read long ago.
She clutched the silver stylus—the one used in the ritual—and pressed it to her palm until it bled.
"I remember," she whispered. "I remember you."
A single drop of blood fell onto the page.
For a heartbeat, an image flickered:
Darien smiling at her during the Feast of Twin Moons, handing her a book on ancient scripts.
Then it vanished.
Tears streamed down her face.
"I'm losing you," she sobbed. "And I don't even know your name anymore."
Outside, the city celebrated.
King Aerion declared a Day of Renewal. Bells rang. Wine flowed. Dwarves and humans shared tables with elves for the first time in centuries.
But in the shadows, Malrik watched the eastern horizon.
He didn't know why he felt uneasy.
He only knew that when he passed the barracks, he sometimes paused before an empty bunk—and wondered whose it had been.
Prince Kaelin found himself walking to the western gate at dusk, though he couldn't say why.
"There's someone I'm waiting for," he told Queen Elira.
She laughed gently. "You've been through much, my friend. Rest."
Even Thorin, reforging his axe in the dwarven quarter, muttered a name under his breath as he worked—then frowned, unable to recall what it meant.
The world was healing.
But it was healing wrong.
Deep beneath Lyothara, in the silent vaults, the skeletal hands had withdrawn into their tombs.
But now, something new stirred.
Not the many-eyed horror.
Not the First Fear.
Something smaller. Sharper.
In the deepest crack—where Darien's blood had mixed with the Tree's sap during the ritual—a single black root began to grow.
It pulsed.
Not with void.
With memory.
And far below, the First Fear turned in its sleep…
and dreamed of a name it could not pronounce.
That night, Lira returned to the Heart Chamber.
She placed her hand on the blank stone.
"I don't know who you were," she whispered. "But I know what you did. And I swear—I will find a way to bring you back."
As if in answer, the breathing book—empty for days—let out a soft pulse.
On its final page, three words appeared, glowing faintly violet:
"He is watching."
Lira froze.
She turned slowly.
At the chamber's entrance, half-hidden in shadow, stood a figure.
Tall. Cloaked in tattered gray. One hand human. The other… ash.
His eyes met hers—filled with sorrow, gratitude, and a warning.
Then, like mist in morning light, he faded.
But Lira knew.
Darien wasn't gone.
He was unwritten—but not erased from existence.
And somewhere between memory and void, he was still fighting.
Outside, the bells stopped ringing.
The wind carried a new sound.
Not drums.
Not chants.
But a single, steady heartbeat.
And it was getting louder