"Before I was a warrior, I was a child.
Before I was a child, I was a name.And now—They have taken even that from me."
—Amine Toku
The sun over the Floating Capital of Virel shone gold and sickly green, fractured by the lingering tear in the sky left by the Hybrid's descent. Light filtered through the distortion like guilt through stained glass—unreliable, fragmented, and unwilling to settle on any one truth.
Amine stood in silence outside the Vault of Silent Names.
The wind didn't whisper here.
It accused.
What is the Vault?
In the heart of the Mage Council's oldest stronghold, buried beneath thirteen layers of memory wards, illusion bindings, and soul-ciphers, lay a door with no hinges, no lock, and no written language.
It could only be opened by remembering.
Not thinking.
Not knowing.
But feeling a memory too painful to speak aloud.
The kind of memory that bruised the soul.
The kind of memory they had sealed away from Amine.
"Are you sure?" Mira asked.
"No," he answered.
And stepped forward.
Entering the Vault
As his hand neared the invisible surface, he thought of his death back in Tokyo.
Of the cold floor. The silence after. The way no one found him until it was too late.
He thought of waking in this world, beneath blood moons and dragon fire, with a name no one here could pronounce—until he remade it.
He thought of Seralyn.
Not Seluin the council mage, not the teacher.
But Seralyn, the woman who had once whispered in her sleep about the Gates like they were her children.
He touched the invisible door.
And it opened—not with sound, but with recognition.
Inside the Vault
There were no books.
No scrolls.
Only light and memory.
Each fragment of forbidden history hovered like glass shards suspended in amber mist. If he listened too long, they began to speak.
Not in language, but in emotion.
The first fragment struck him: A Mage Embraces a Dragon.
Warmth. Fear. The weight of legacy. A child's heartbeat, confused by its own rhythm.
The second: Seralyn Standing Over a Cradle.
A dragon's wing around her. Tears in her eyes. Not sorrow—hope.
The third fragment: The Council's Verdict.
Screaming. Silence. Magic unraveling flesh from bone. The child—no longer there.
Amine gasped, stepping back.
But the fourth fragment caught him.
And pulled him inside.
The Memory That Wasn't His
He stood in a room not unlike his own in Elyth Seran—before the war, before the Hybrid, before death. A younger Seralyn sat at a desk, holding a silver feather, trembling.
A voice echoed:
"The child is neither dragon nor mage. It is blasphemy. If the Gate is to remain sealed, it must die."
She whispered, "No. He is balance."
The other voice hissed:
"Then you will be forgotten. Erased. Your name, your lineage, your soul—buried beneath false memories."
And Seralyn, tears falling, nodded.
"I accept."
Amine fell to his knees.
They had erased not only her child.
They had erased her motherhood.
And thus, the Hybrid had no past.
No mother.
No father.
Only rage, and the fragments of stories buried in others.
Amine Leaves the Vault
He emerged shaking.
Mira caught him. "What did you see?"
He looked at her. "I know why the Hybrid hates."
Seluin waited near the stairway, arms crossed.
"He was never allowed to be a child."
The silence grew deep.
Then Seluin's voice broke it.
"I warned them, Amine. Long ago."
"Why didn't you stop them?"
"I tried. They unmade the vote. Then unmade my memory of trying."
He stared at her. "Then why remember now?"
She smiled faintly. "Because you remembered first."
Elsewhere: The Hybrid Waits
He stood alone in the ruins of Cael'thra, where dragons once ruled, where the last Gate shimmered between stone arches like a dying heartbeat.
He whispered to himself:
"They remember now. The cracks will widen."
Behind him, a dozen cloaked figures emerged—rogue mages, hybrids, Gate-touched. Outcasts.
His army.
"They buried us," he said.
The others nodded.
"But they forgot we were seeds."
And the Gate began to pulse.