The moons weren't aligned yet.
But they were close.
Vaelen, bright and cold, had begun its rise.
Ashrah, dim and wounded, followed.
In the sky, they looked like eyes.
One seeing.
One remembering.
The Concordium called this phase Moonblight.
It came once every generation.
A brief sliver of days where memory-magic weakened—where branding failed, and some names vanished from ledgers without anyone noticing.
But this time… it started early.
And this time, it started with Keiran.
He woke in his quarters surrounded by scraps of paper.
All blank.
He didn't remember writing on them.
But his hands were stained with ink.
On the mirror, scratched with something sharp:
"Don't say your name."
He stared at it.
"What name?"
He blinked.
Then forgot what he was reading.
Rell found him that afternoon, half-dressed, standing in a corridor he didn't remember walking into.
"You're bleeding."
He looked down. His fingertips were raw. His wrist burned.
The glyph was changing again.
Widening.
Like a mouth.
At dusk, it began.
The first collapse.
An Initiate Archivist, second tier, tried to speak Keiran's name aloud during record-keeping.
She choked mid-word.
Not metaphorically—physically.
Like the syllable had turned to glass in her throat.
She collapsed.
Her assistant tried to help her.
But forgot who she was reaching for halfway through.
Then forgot what the Archivist was holding.
Then forgot where they were.
Then forgot her own name.
By the time the stewards arrived, both women were gone.
Not dead.
Just… absent.
Still breathing.
But blank-eyed.
Empty.
As if their memory-flames had been snuffed—
without ever being lit.
That night, the Concordium gathered in emergency quorum.
Seven Masters. Four Luminaries. Two Sentinels on guard.
They demanded Keiran be confined. Not for punishment.
But for preservation.
"He is unraveling," said the Head Luminary. "Not just himself. The air around him forgets."
"You think this is contagion?" one asked.
"No. It's consequence."
They summoned a Brand-Cleaver.
A pale figure with silver blades and lips sewn shut.
Keiran didn't fight.
He sat on the floor. Silent.
The Cleaver approached.
Raised the blade.
Touched the edge to Keiran's wrist.
And the metal began to dissolve.
Not melt.
Not break.
Just… forget itself.
Like it had never been forged. Like it had no right to exist.
The Cleaver gasped.
And then vanished.
Not in smoke.
Not in light.
Just…
Gone.
No mark left. No breath. No memory.
Even the blade hit the floor with a sound that echoed too long—
Like the world had forgotten how to end it.
The Concordium fled.
Not out of fear.
But because one by one…
They couldn't remember why they had come.
Keiran sat alone.
His mark pulsed.
And from somewhere outside time—
a voice whispered through the fracture.
Not Lys.
Not his own.
Something deeper.
Older.
Smiling.
"The moons remember you now."
He looked up.
Through the skylight.
The twin moons were nearer than ever.
And in the glass above—
his reflection was missing.