Ash fell like snow.
The sky, scorched in hues of dying fire, hung low over a battlefield of bones. Swords rusted in silence, shields half-buried in the dirt, and the wind carried the stench of forgotten wars. All was still—until he rose.
He did not remember his name.
Clad in tarnished armor, the knight stirred from a grave not dug, but formed by the corpses of those who had come before him. His hand trembled as it reached for the sword by his side—a blade chipped, worn, but still sharp enough to kill.
He stood.
Around him lay the dead. Not enemies. Not allies. Just echoes of the past. Some held on to their weapons. Others reached toward the sky, as if begging to be remembered.
But no one remembered. Not even him.
> "You awaken, yet carry no name. You walk, yet leave no footprint in the tale."
The voice was not sound. It was... inside. Like a whisper woven into the marrow of his bones.
He turned, slowly, to the west—where a ruined arch stood beneath a bleeding sun. Strange symbols pulsed faintly on the stones. Something pulled him toward it. A memory, perhaps. Or a curse.
He walked.
With each step, the weight of the forgotten world pressed upon him. Shadows stirred in the corners of his vision. Eyes watched him from places where light no longer reached. He did not flinch. He had nothing left to lose—because he had nothing.
He was one of The Forgotten.
They once had names. Histories. Homes. But they defied fate, and fate erased them. Now they wander, unliving and unclaimed, until their memory is reclaimed... or their soul consumed.
A sigil glowed faintly on the back of his gauntlet—an old mark. A brand of exile, some said. A seal of ancient debt, whispered others.
But to him, it meant one thing:
> "Your story begins where others end."
He passed through the arch, and the world changed.