Ficool

THE TWELFTH FALL

CRUELIST
He woke up on concrete with nothing. No memory. No power. No name. Just a feeling — hollow and cold — like something that was supposed to be there simply wasn't anymore. He is not the only one. Across the city, scattered among the homeless and the forgotten, are others who carry that same emptiness. They don't know what they lost. They don't know why. They just know that something is missing and it's never coming back. His name is Yelambar. That much he has. But as fragments of forgotten scripture find their way into his hands, something stirs beneath the surface. Memories that don't feel human. Power that doesn't feel borrowed. A past so enormous it shouldn't fit inside one man. The truth is coming back to him slowly. And when it does — the world above and below will wish it hadn't.
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