Whispers of the Forgotten

The path before Alden was a wound torn through the land—blackened, scorched, and silent. Each step crushed ash beneath his boots, sending whispers into the air. Whispers that almost sounded like words, like names. Names he should have remembered. Names he had lost.

He walked because standing still was death. Not the kind that claimed bodies, but the one that devoured minds. The kind that turned warriors into shadows and memories into dust.

Above him, the sky remained bruised, an endless swirl of storm clouds that refused to break. There was no sun, no moon. Only the pale, cold light that filtered through like a dying breath. The world had forgotten warmth, and Alden wondered if he had too.

The sword strapped to his back felt heavier with every step, as though it carried the weight of lifetimes. Lifetimes he couldn't recall. Yet, in its silent weight, there was a strange comfort. A reminder that even if memories failed, purpose remained.

He would find her. The woman from his dreams. The one whose voice echoed in the deepest corners of his mind, urging him onward.

Find me.

But where? Who? Why?

He didn’t know. But the questions burned brighter than any answer.

As the path curved, Alden caught sight of ruins in the distance. Broken stone walls, remnants of towers that once reached for the heavens but now clawed at the earth, pleading for release. Something about the place pulled at him, a thread woven into his soul.

He approached slowly, the air thickening with every step. The shadows grew longer, curling like serpents at the edge of his vision. It was a place of endings, of things buried and forgotten. And it was waiting for him.

A figure stood among the ruins, cloaked in tattered black, its back turned. The figure didn't move, didn't breathe. It simply was—like a monument carved from the night itself.

Alden hesitated, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Who are you?”

The figure tilted its head, as if considering the question. Then, slowly, it turned.

Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but two eyes burned from within—eyes of ember and shadow. They pierced through Alden, cutting deeper than any blade.

“You are late,” the figure said, its voice soft but heavy, like the final toll of a bell.

Alden’s brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”

The figure chuckled, a sound like dry leaves crumbling beneath heavy boots. “You did. Once. Before the ashes.”

Alden stepped closer, his heart hammering in his chest. “Tell me. Who am I?”

The figure's head tilted again. “You are Alden Cross. Ash-Born. The one who dies and rises. The cursed. The forgotten.”

The words struck him like iron to flesh, sharp and merciless. He had heard the titles before, but never the name. Alden Cross. It felt right. It felt wrong. It felt like a lie and a truth, tangled in shadows.

“And you?” Alden demanded. “Who are you?”

The figure’s eyes flared. “I am the Keeper of Ashes. The one who remembers what you forget. The guardian of truths you refuse to face.”

Alden’s throat tightened. “Then tell me.”

The figure’s gaze drifted to the ruins. “You have stood here before. Many times. Each time, you ask the same questions. And each time, you forget the answers.”

Alden’s fingers clenched around his sword. “Then remind me.”

The Keeper’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She waits for you. Beyond the ruin. Beyond the death. Beyond yourself.”

Alden’s pulse thundered. The woman. The one he dreamed of. The one he needed to find. “Who is she?”

The Keeper shook its head. “She is the ember in the ash. The light that remains. But beware, Ash-Born. The closer you come to her, the deeper the shadows will grow. And when you find her, you may not like what you remember.”

Alden’s breath caught. Fear clawed at him, but he pushed it down. “I have to know.”

The Keeper’s gaze burned brighter. “Then step into the ruin. Face what waits. And remember… not all shadows are born from the dark.”

With that, the figure turned and vanished, dissolving into the mist like it had never been there.

Alden stood alone again, the weight of the moment pressing down. He looked to the ruins. The walls stood jagged, bones of a forgotten world. An archway waited, shadowed and dark, promising nothing but pain.

He swallowed hard and stepped forward.

The air grew colder as he passed beneath the arch. The ash beneath his feet thickened, clinging to him like a second skin. The ruins echoed with silence, a heavy, waiting stillness.

And then, a whisper. Soft and broken.

Alden.

He froze. The voice was close—too close.

Alden, find me.

The same words. The same voice. But this time, it wasn’t just in his mind. It came from deeper within the ruin.

He moved, each step heavier than the last. Stones crumbled beneath his boots. Shadows twisted, reaching for him. The ruin wasn’t dead. It watched him.

And then he saw it—a pool of black glass, resting in the center of the ruin like an open eye. Its surface rippled, though there was no wind.

He approached, his reflection wavering as he stood at its edge. His face stared back, scarred and hollow-eyed. But behind his reflection, another face appeared. A woman’s.

Her eyes were filled with sorrow. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Yet he heard her.

Find me.

Alden reached out, his fingers trembling. But as they brushed the surface, the reflection shattered, dissolving into darkness. The pool swallowed the image, and with it, the woman.

“No!” His voice echoed through the ruin, raw and broken.

But it was too late.

Only his reflection remained. And in its eyes, Alden saw something that chilled him to the bone.

Not hope. Not sorrow.

But fear.

He stumbled back, breath ragged, heart pounding. The pool’s surface stilled, dark and empty. But something beneath it stirred. Watching. Waiting.

Alden turned, leaving the ruin behind. But he knew he had not escaped it.

The shadows had seen him.

And they would not let him go.

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