Memories don't fade — they fray.
And when they fray too far, they snap. Kaien Veyron knew this better than anyone.
Floating high above a void of nothing and everything, Kaien sat alone. Below him, endless threads of light drifted like constellations — luminous and fragile. Each thread was a memory. Each shimmer, a story. This place — The Archive — wasn't built by man, or even gods. It simply was. A limbo between timelines. A vault of forgotten truths.
Kaien was its warden.
His eyes opened slowly, glowing faint crimson in the half-light. A cold sensation curled around his fingers — one of the threads had coiled itself there. Thin. Trembling. Afraid.
He didn't pull it. He never did. He simply listened.
"…No. Not again."
A sharp flicker interrupted the soft calm. Across the Archive's expanse, one thread glitched violently — sputtering, cracking, resisting its fate. It wasn't fraying. It was being tampered with.
Kaien stood at once. His chain weapon clinked as it uncoiled from his waist, the links humming with energy. Around him, other threads withdrew, reacting to the anomaly.
He focused, eyes narrowing.
Within the broken glow of that thread…A shape. Human? Perhaps. But wrong.
It watched him. And smiled.
Kaien blinked — and the vision vanished. The thread snapped into oblivion. Silence returned, too perfect to be natural.
"Azrael…" he whispered, though he hadn't spoken that name in years." You're back."
Below, in Lunether…
The city of Lunether wasn't built on stone — it was built on history. Literally.
Streets paved with collapsed timelines. Towers that changed shape based on who remembered them. People walking side by side, unaware they lived in different decades. This was the Memory-Tethered Capital, the last place on the edge of all reality.
Kaien passed through its shimmering layers like a shadow. His presence bent gently through time — subtle enough not to be noticed, but real enough to disturb mirrors and dogs.
No one remembered him. Not for more than a few seconds. It was a side effect of his role: the Stray Archivist. Keeper of frayed timelines. Hunter of stolen threads.
He walked past memory stalls selling bottled nostalgia. Children bartered toy soldiers made of forgotten dreams. Lanterns burned a pale fire — emotion-born.
A vendor turned toward him, offering tea.
"Stranger?" she said kindly. "Care to forget something tonight?"
He accepted the cup without a word. Steam rose — not from heat, but from displaced sorrow.
"Still chasing ghosts?" she asked, her voice trembling. "You look tired."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He already knew what she'd say next.
"Do I... know you?"
He smiled gently.
"No. But I know who you used to be."
He turned, his chain shifting softly as he moved down the alley.
In a mirror across the street — his reflection wavered. For a split second, it wasn't Kaien staring back. It was something darker.