I wake to the rasp of quill on parchment, the soft hiss of ink pooling in the margin. My hand trembles—not from age alone, but because I cannot recall why I write. Candles gutter against the vast windows of the Silent Monastery, where shadows coil around empty shelves and dust motes drift like lost souls. Beyond the walls, I once commanded armies and spoke with gods; now I struggle to remember the names of my brothers in arms.
A single sheet lies before me: the opening of my chronicle. I read the first line aloud, uncertain if these words are prophecy, confession, or mere madness.
"On the fifty-second dawn, the sands of Va'rakan burned beneath twin suns, and I bore witness to the shattering of a dynasty."
I pause. Twin suns… the line is elegant, but does it mean anything? My mind sifts through the haze. There was a desert… yes, a city of ochre towers, caravans stretched like necklaces of glass beads, and the air trembled with the song of wind. I taste sand on my tongue. Yet no ledger in the monastery mentions Va'rakan, and the librarian's gnarled finger never points to such a name.
Still, I continue:
"The oligarchs of the Rada Dziesięciu struck at midnight, their emissaries cloaked in starlight. They stole the Heart of Sur'ut, the greatest of the Memory Stones, and plunged an empire into oblivion."
The Heart of Sur'ut. Memory Stone. My pulse quickens. I thrust my hand to my temple, hoping to seize the memory that lies just beyond reach. I see a crystal, blood-red, carved with swirling glyphs. I recall a hymn, low and mournful, echoing in marble halls. The oligarchs… I see their faces as pale as the desert moon, lips twisted in triumph.
But is this truth, or the fever dream of an unsteady mind?
A voice stirs behind me—one of the "Inner Echoes," I call them. "You doubt again," it whispers, soft yet insistent. "Would you rather believe the lies of this monastery, or the song of your own blood?"
I shiver. When did the voices begin? Yesterday? A month ago? I cannot be sure. My reflection in the inkwell's surface is gaunt, and my eyes—once keen as a hawk's—now swim in watery mist.
I dip my quill again, determined. If these memories are false, let them become my truth. I write a third line:
"At dawn, I found betrayal etched in the footprints of my own men. The desert rose in flames, and I tasted the ash of my failures."
The church bells toll—four strokes, though it should be none. Time is unreliable here. I rise unsteadily, weave through columns of empty desks, and step into the cloistered courtyard. The moon is new—a thin blade of silver hung against ink-black sky. My breath clouds—though no flame burns here—ghostly as my recollections.
A figure slinks at the edge of the peristyle: slender, clad in robes patterned like falling leaves. The visitor bows, voice clipped and urgent.
"Master," she says, "the Novitiates report a tremor in the eastern stacks. Tomes have shifted… runes glimmered on the walls."
I frown. Eastern stacks are sealed—no light, no spell may enter. Yet my scholar's instinct flares: forbidden knowledge stirs itself. I grasp the hilt of my staff—carved from ivory and crowned with a fragment of Memory Stone—and follow her into the vault.
Within, the air hangs heavy, as if the stones themselves exhale. The shelves, once rigid as funeral guards, lean like exhausted sentinels. A single book lies open on the floor, its pages turned by unseen hands. I approach, heart drumming in my ears. The script is unfamiliar—curlicues of ink that writhe like serpents.
I lay a finger on the page. Images flicker behind my eyelids: a black citadel eclipsing two suns, children kneeling before a bloodstained altar, and in the center, a man with hollow eyes—me, I think—chanting into the void.
The book slams shut. I stagger back. The Echo inside me laughs, low and dissonant: "They remember, you see. They call you home."
The novice gasps. "Master, you… you touched it. You summoned them."
"Who?" I demand. But already I know the answer: the dead, the gods, the echoes of a past I may have lived or only dreamed. My staff trembles in my hand. This is more than Alzheimer or solitude; this is a breach between worlds, and I am the threshold.
I carry the book away, sealing it in iron-bound chains. My memories will remain buried—unless I choose to exhume them. And yet, how can I resist? Each fragment I write, each crystal I touch, each rune I see pulls me deeper into the tapestry of what was or never was.
I return to my desk. The candle gutter burns low. My quill hovers above fresh parchment. My heart pines for clarity, but my mind revels in the fog.
I write a final line before sleep claims me:
"When the desert wind howls through the monastery's halls, know that I listen—but I may not understand."
The walls seem to lean closer, bending to catch every word. Outside, the desert waits. And beyond it, a realm of shattered empires and wounded gods—perhaps waiting only for me to remember.