"This is where the true nature of the gods is reflected."
At first glance, Lioren's domain appears normal—quiet streets, gray towers, and pale-faced citizens going about their daily lives beneath a soft, ashen sky. But if you watch closely, if you truly linger, something begins to unravel.
A man walks toward his home but stops midway, confusion creasing his brow. He turns around, retraces his steps, and forgets why he was walking at all. A mother looks down at her child and blinks—her heart stutters, because she cannot remember the name of the tiny face staring up at her.
This is the nature of Lioren, the God of the Forgotten—his mercy and cruelty are one and the same. In his domain, memories fade like ink washed by rain. Here, loss is not an event—it is the air itself, the law that binds every breath.
The people live in a cycle of confusion and déjà vu, forever reaching for something they once had, but cannot recall. They wake each morning haunted by the sense that a part of them is missing—sometimes a person, sometimes a word, sometimes an entire lifetime. And they call this torment peace, because they cannot remember what pain once felt like.
The temple of Lioren stands at the heart of this world, a monolith of stone carved from a fallen moon. Its fragments still drift across the gray horizon, orbiting like broken memories that refuse to rest. The temple itself hovers above the land, its base suspended by unseen power, neither anchored nor free—just like the souls within it.
To enter the temple, one must first bring a sacrifice.
Not of blood, but of memory.
A pilgrim stands before the floating gates and offers a recollection—a face, a voice, a promise—something that once gave their life meaning. The moment it leaves their tongue, it is devoured by the mist surrounding the gate, never to return. Only then does the way open, and the pilgrim is drawn upward into the hollow sanctuary.
Inside, the silence is heavy. The walls are etched with names, but the carvings are incomplete—letters missing, words unfinished. Candles burn without flame, and their light reveals the faint silhouettes of those who once prayed here but have long been erased. The priests of Lioren wear veils of pale cloth to hide their faces; even they do not remember who they were before they swore their service.
It is said that, deep within the temple's heart, stands a mirror that reflects nothing. Those who gaze into it do not see themselves—they see the absence of themselves.
And yet… sometimes, for an instant, something flickers in that mirror.
A shape. A whisper. A god perhaps—watching, remembering, or perhaps forgetting.
I wonder, as I write this, whether the people of this domain will one day forget even their god.
Or perhaps, far more tragic—perhaps it is Lioren himself who has already forgotten them.