Eltherra did not shine.
It loomed.
Built into the ribs of the fallen sky-serpent Saedyr, the city's spires arched like broken fingers toward the heavens, and its streets were woven between hollowed bone. Once, it had been the cultural heart of the East—called the Ivory Choir for its scholars, artisans, and keepers of ancient truths.
Now, the only choir that sang here were the bells tolling across the dead wind.
Valen and Lyra entered through the South Gate at dusk, their cloaks soaked in ashfall. No guards stood watch. No children played. The air was thin—like the city itself was holding its breath.
And then they saw it.
The procession.
A long line of mourners in grey veils, each holding a small black candle. They walked in silence, all following a figure dressed in blood-crimson robes, his face painted like a weeping sun.
A Mourning Priest.
The man turned as they passed.
His eyes—rimmed in soot and lined in silver ink—met Valen's.
And he stopped.
"You do not belong to the grief," the priest said.
Valen nodded. "No. But we've walked close beside it."
Lyra whispered, "What happened here?"
The priest gestured to the spire overhead. "The Dreamkeeper is dead."
Valen frowned. "Murdered?"
The priest shook his head. "Worse. Forgotten."
They followed him to the House of Remnants—a temple grown from polished bone and crystal marrow.
Inside, hundreds of names were etched into the walls. The priest pointed to a blank space where an entire panel had been erased.
"No one remembers her name," he said. "Not even her own blood."
Lyra stared at the blank wall. "But how is that possible?"
The priest bowed his head. "Because the Rusted Kings have passed through."
In the upper levels of the House, Valen stood before a window shaped from a single dragon-scale.
The city beyond was quiet—but not still.He saw figures moving where there should've been none.
Whispers crawled along rooftops.
Words spoken backward.
Candles burning in wells.
He turned to the priest. "How long ago?"
"Three days. One rider. No army. Just one crowned thing with nails in its eyes. Spoke a single word—and everything after her name unraveled."
Lyra stared at the priest. "Do you know what the word was?"
The priest didn't blink. "No."
Later that night, in a guest chamber of the House, Lyra sat beside the fire, her knees pulled to her chest.
"This is bigger than we thought," she said.
Valen didn't respond.
She looked up. "Do you think they're coming back?"
"I know they are," he said. "The Kings don't ride in vain."
"Then we have to stop them."
He nodded.
But then added, "And we can't do it alone."
Morning came slow, filtered through bone and mist.
A knock sounded at the door.
It wasn't a servant.
It was a girl—barely fifteen—her face marked with inked runes that shimmered faintly.
She bowed. "My name is Dhera. I was apprentice to the Dreamkeeper… before she was lost."
Valen stepped aside to let her in.
She held a scroll. "Before she was forgotten, she made me copy this. She said… if the 'Man Without Beginning' ever came to Eltherra, I must give it to him."
Valen took the scroll.
His name wasn't written anywhere on it.
But inside, he found sketches.
Maps.
Rituals.
And at the end—one word, carved in ancient glyphs.
"Vessel."
Dhera sat near Lyra as Valen paced.
"She knew something was coming," the girl said. "She always said Eltherra was too loud with memory. That something would try to silence it."
Lyra studied the glyph. "What kind of vessel?"
Dhera hesitated. "Not a ship. Not a jar. A mind. She said the world was forgetting too quickly. That the old truths had no anchor. So she tried to make one."
Valen nodded. "A living archive."
Dhera pointed to Lyra's hand. "Your Mark is part of it."
They left the House that evening, accompanied by Dhera.
The city grew quieter still.
Not from fear.
From loss.
In the central square, a monument stood: the Fang of Saedyr, now hollowed and blackened with mourning tattoos.
People gathered around it every dusk, reciting names.
But fewer names came each night.
Because more were being forgotten.
Then came the whisper.
Low.
Clear.
Right behind Valen's ear.
"You bear what should not have survived."
He turned.
No one.
The city shivered.
Dhera screamed.
A shadow moved across the square—a tall, thin figure draped in bone-cloak and iron laurels.
One of the Rusted Kings.
It did not attack.
It simply walked through the crowd.
And as it passed each person—
They paused.
Their eyes dulled.
And they forgot who they were.
A mother dropped her child.
A man stood from his cart and blinked, unsure what it sold.
A soldier saluted, then looked at his hands and whispered, "Who do I serve?"
Valen stepped forward. "Stop."
The King halted.
Its crown bent inward—nails twisted like thorns.
Its face was wrapped in veils.
But beneath, a single eye glimmered like molten salt.
"You have remembered too much, Nocturne."
Valen drew his blade.
Lyra's mark flared.
The King laughed.
Not loudly.
But with finality.
It raised a hand.
Spoke a word no tongue could hold.
The street behind it—stone, sky, memory—peeled like paper and turned to dust.
Dhera grabbed Lyra. "Don't listen!"
Valen charged.
But the King vanished.
Not fled.
Not turned.
Just ceased to be.
Like an idea forgotten mid-thought.
When silence returned, thirty people in the square no longer remembered why they were there.
Or where.
Or who.
Lyra looked at Valen.
"We're losing."
He nodded.
Then turned to Dhera.
"Can you still read the Vessel Rite?"
She nodded.
"Then we start tonight."