By midmorning, Lavender and Vashir descended from the lavender hills into a town that looked like it had been painted by someone halfway between dreaming and day-drinking.
Cobblestone paths wound between thatched cottages, each roof slightly lopsided in a charming, intentional sort of way. Windchimes sang in curious scales, and the bakery smelled like cinnamon and stardust.
"Oh!" Lavender breathed, eyes wide. "It's a storybook village!"
Vashir gave her a wary glance. "Stay close."
"Afraid I'll wander off and join the local knitting cult?"
"I'm afraid you'll collect one."
She beamed.
The townsfolk were a curious mix - mostly beastkin with faint animal traits: pointed ears, clawed fingers, the occasional tail peeking from a cloak. They glanced at Lavender as she passed, not with suspicion, but fascination. A human female, wandering freely, unclaimed and unafraid? Practically unheard of.
"Do they think I'm lost or mythical?" she whispered to Vashir.
"Both," he muttered.
They stopped near a small open-air tea stall, where a wrinkled beastwoman with owl-like eyes offered them warm cups without question. Lavender sipped, then sighed in delight. "Tastes like warm rain and dreams."
But then something strange happened.
Vashir stepped forward to pay.
The owl-woman blinked at him and tilted her head. "You're a stranger."
Vashir's voice was calm. "I'm of the Venari."
A pause. A flicker of confusion.
"...The what now?"
Lavender glanced up. "The Venari. Snake tribe. You know, mysterious, elegant, definitely not extinct."
The woman frowned. "Never heard of them, dear."
Lavender blinked. "But surely-"
They tried again. A blacksmith. A merchant. A baker with flour in his ears.
Each time, the answer was the same: polite smiles, vague confusion, blank eyes.
Venari?
Never heard of them.
---
Back at the edge of town, Lavender leaned against a tree while Vashir paced. Not frantically-no, he was far too composed for that-but there was a sharpness in his movements, like a serpent coiled just before a strike.
"They've forgotten," he said softly.
"No," Lavender said. "They've been made to forget."
Vashir stopped.
She stepped closer. "You come from a powerful tribe. I can feel it. And yet, no name, no memory, no trace? That's not fading. That's erasure."
He looked down at his hands - elegant, claw-tipped. "Once, my people ruled the Obsidian Hollow. We guarded the Wells of Memory. We could remember things the world wanted to forget."
"And someone didn't like that," she guessed.
Vashir nodded. "One day, we were just... gone."
Lavender frowned. "No, you weren't."
He looked up.
"You're still here. You remember. And now I do, too. That makes two. And we collectors?" she added with a grin, "We hate losing pieces."
Something in Vashir's expression cracked - a flicker of something old and raw and barely stitched together.
"Come on," she said gently. "Let's go find whoever tried to make the world forget you."
He hesitated.
Then followed.