Ashen was going down.
A step. Then another.
Each walk seemed to stretch, lie down under its weight as if the time itself hesitated to let it move forward.
-"It's too calm ..." he whispered, more to break the silence than by waiting for an answer.
His words were swallowed immediately. The silence here was not lack of noise, but refusal of echo. As if the walls refused to remember what he had just said.
He stopped for a moment, putting a hand on the stone ramp.
She was lukewarm.
- "This place breathes ..."
He felt the weight of the book beat slowly against his flank, almost worried.
No light. No torch. No flame.
Just an outstanding memory.
Something old watched its progression.
"They told me that this place was not on the cards ..." he thought. It's wrong. It is engraved in oblivion. Exactly where he is supposed to be ...
The last step resonated differently. Clearer. Heavier.
He looked up.
The ground was onyx, polished to the extreme, almost liquid in its texture. The walls were saturated with symbols: spirals, dead letters, long -prohibited language fragments.
In the center: a sarcophagus.
Black. Smooth. Mute.
Not a trace of ornament.
No writing.
Not even an imperfection.
Just ... a silence. Absolute.
Ashen advanced slowly. Each of his steps resonated with an almost guilty restraint.
An icy breath went back along his neck.
He stopped net.
-"I'm not alone ..." he whispered.
Not a spirit.
Something else.
An idea frozen in marble.
He stretched his hand. Hesitated.
-"I don't want to bother you ..." he whispered, as if he were addressed to a living being.
And yet the lid opened.
Alone.
Not slowly.
Not brutally.
Just ... inevitably.
The world overturned without shock.
Ashen was no longer in the room.
He was before.
Around him, a pale, pale light, like a memory being erasure.
Before him: a child. Barefoot. The right look. Closed fists.
Around: adults. In a circle. Mages, scribes, soldiers. None seemed comfortable. Their looks sometimes fled the child. Never long.
- "His gift is too strong. He cannot remain free. »»
- "If he lives, he will become a myth. »»
- "So ... let's erase. »»
The child does not even blink.
He looked at everyone. Right in the soul.
- "I have a name. Even if you kill it, it will remain. »»
One of the scribes trembled slightly. But the decision was made.
One by one, they approached.
Word after word, memory after memory, they erased him. Even the book tried to write it. The letters ... evaporated before being formed.
It was the first to be erased ... without dying.
And it all started there.
Ashen fell on his knees. His breath was chopped.
Blood flowed slowly from his nose, his ears.
He tried to speak.
- "His name was ..."
No sound.
Even the book remained silent. Its weight had changed. As if he refused to open this page.
Ashen understood.
- "This name ... does not belong to me. »»
He put a trembling hand on the sarcophagus.
- "I don't come to free you ... just ... so as not to forget you. »»
And this time, the silence was ... sweet.
Ashen emerged from the mirror.
Not leaping. Not in heroes.
But like someone we release. which comes back from a place where you do not completely come back.
The architects were waiting for him.
Motionless. Silent. Their faces were serious. Not out of hostility. By conscience.
The smallest took the floor, his narrow voice like a wire:
- "Have you seen?"
Ashen looked up, still troubled.
- "I saw. I understood. What you fear. What you locked."
The largest advanced.
- "And now ?"
Ashen fixed them one by one. Not with hatred. But with a kind of rough compassion.
- "Now, I know that I must not release all the names. Some ... must be kept. Not for you. For him."
He turned his heels. Then stopped.
- "He said one thing to me. That he was not afraid of being forgotten ... but that you were afraid that we wish."
The oldest slightly tilted the head.
-"And you? Do you want it?"
Ashen did not turn around. But his voice was more sharp than a blade.
- "No. But I respect it. And it's much worse."
Malen was sleeping
The book of names had remained open. A page vibrated slowly. No text.
Just a black flame floating, independent, between the absent lines.
Ashen approached slowly, with this caution that we reserve for relics or wounds still open.
A sentence had appeared, barely perceptible, as written at the bottom of a dream:
"Some names cannot be returned. But they can be kept by those who refuse oblivion."
He closed the book.
And for the first time for a long time, a prayer whispered.
Not for the living. Nor for the dead.
But for the one we don't even dare to write.
- "It is not the shadow that erases the light ... it is the hand that turns off the stars, one by one."
Clear night - Orvalum plateau, resumption of the road
The sky was clear. Too clear.
Ashen was walking. Right. Fatigue. But tense like an arc.
He looked up. And stopped net.
- "Malen ... look at the sky."
The boy, still half asleep, blinked several times. Then his face emptied.
- "They ... they disappear."
Ashen brutally closed the book.
- "They no longer want to erase the names. They erase what was carrying them."
Malen swallowed.
- "The stars?"
- "Witnesses."
Meanwhile - seven -look room
The architects were again gathered. But this time, they were no longer alone.
Seven black spheres floated around them. Cold. Inert. But alive.
Each ... a missing star.
An invisible voice slipped between the walls:
- "He starts to understand. He hesitates. But not enough."
The oldest sighed, tired but lucid.
- "So we're going to show him what's going on when we light too many flames ... in a room full of powder."
One of the spheres faded with a breath.
And elsewhere in the world ... an entire village was forgotten. Not burned. Not shaved.
Just ... never arrived.
Back on the road - silent plains
The wind was no longer blowing. Or rather ... he had nothing more to fly.
Ashen felt a cold that did not come from the temperature. A vacuum, more than the absence.
- "They erase the sources ..."
He opened the book, looking at the names inside. Some were pale. Even Nira.
Malen caught up, breathless.
- "What are you going to do?"
Ashen stopped. took out the madman's mask. Looked at him for a long time.
- "Not him. Not now. If he comes back now ... he will dance too hard."
He crouched, opened the book. His fingers were shaking.
-"To those I have engraved ... Hear me. You are not forgotten. You are my witnesses."
The vibra book. A page ignited slowly.
The blackened letters took the shape of stars. And in the sky ... one by one, they returned.
Not all. But those he had written. Those he knew.
He stretched the palm. A star went slowly.
- "Solen."
A gentle light. Almost a voice.
"Here."
Then another.
- "Nira."
"I am here."
Then a third.
- "Tharn."
"Forget fear. I exist."
But the sky rumbled.
A tear appeared between the stars. One eye. Cold. Immense. Not a creature. A will.
A voice tumbled in heavens, like a legion of lead bells:
"Stop, Ashen. You wake up what should not remember. What we have forgotten."
Ashen Chancela.
But his voice was calm.
- "I do not write for kings. Or for the judges.I graze for those who have nothing more than their name. "
He raised his arms. The book rose.
A black star appeared above his head.
The name without trace. The memory never born.
The first witness.
The architects simmer.
- "He invoked it ..."
- "It is no longer a war of namesIt is a war against forgetting itself. "
"The voices do not die. They go out when nobody reaches their ear."
Midnight - white breath border
They had walked overnight.
Not out of fear.
But because something called.
Malen felt pressure without being able to name it.
Ashen, he said nothing.
The book was hot.
The sky, half restored.
But the air ... loaded with old complaints.
They arrived at the edge of a chasm.
Immense.
Mute.
And at the bottom ... erect stones.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Some broken.
Others at half-child.
And between them, a whisper.
No wind.
Voices.
Ashen knelt at the edge of the abyss.
He recognized the place.
Not with his eyes.
But with his memory.
- "They built this to hide what they could not erase. »»
- "The dead?" »»
- " No. The voices of erased. Their last words, forcibly torn off, then deposited here. As we throw keys that we do not want to destroy. »»
Malen swallowed.
- "Do you want to go down?" »»
Ashen nodded.
And jumped.
The ground was made of frozen echoes.
Each stone, a vibration.
Each vibration, a word.
Sometimes laughs.
Sometimes howls.
Often ... just a name.
Ashen was walking between the steles.
And slowly, the voices were activated.
- " Mother… "
- "I did not steal. »»
- "Why me?" »»
-"Tell him I loved him. »»
Malen arrived behind him, trembling.
- "Can we answer them?" »»
Ashen closed his eyes.
- " No. Not yet. You have to listen. As long as no one hears them, this place is a prison. »»
He is crouching.
And put the book of names against the oldest stone.
No writing.
No engraving.
Just a footprint.
A voice ... never heard.
The book shivered.
And opened.
The pages turned out on their own.
White lines appeared.
Not names.
Sentences.
Last words, missed, rejected.
The book absorbed them.
And a soft light spread in the cemetery.
The stones shone.
The voices rose.
Hundreds.
Then ... thousands.
A song.
Messy.
Beautiful.
Terrible.
Ashen fell on his knees.
His ears were bleeding.
But he did not stop.
He blowed:
- "I hear you. Continue. »»
Elsewhere - in the seven -look room
The architects were aroused.
One of the mirrors vibrated violently.
The youngest hit the table:
- "He makes the voices speak!" He takes them out of their cage! »»
- "If he releases the whole song, the erased names will return ... and with them, their history. »»
The oldest closed his eyes.
- "So ... we have to break the altar. Even if it destroys the voices. »»
Another murmured:
- "What if he protects them?" »»
The old man straightened up.
- "Then he will die with them. And it will be ... a tomb of memory. »»
Back to the abyss - the awakening of the choir
Ashen was standing, the book open, floating in front of him.
The voices were now echoing in the sky.
Audibles.
Real.
And the stars, above, aligned themselves.
Not by magic.
By memory.
Each name inscribed formed a constellation.
Solen.
Nira.
Varlan.
Ardan.
Even Tarsus.
And in the center ... an empty shadow.
The first erased.
Still there.
Always ... silent.
Ashen raised his hand to the sky.
- "You will no longer be silent. Never again. »»
A light appeared above him.
A sentence, engraved in the sky, by the voices themselves:
"We are the namesWe are the memory. We are what you cannot kill. "
And, in the distance, in capitals, towers, prohibited rooms ...
The mirrors began to split.
"A broken mirror no longer returns a face. But sometimes he reveals what we dared not look at. »»
A few hours later - Voices cemetery, still resonating
The sky still sang.
The names vibrate gently between the stars.
Ashen had remained standing without moving.
His fingers were shaking.
His gaze, empty.
No pain.
No relief.
Just ... brutal lucidity.
- "They can no longer silence the names. So they're going to attack the mirrors. »»
Malen, exhausted, sat down against a stele.
- "I thought the mirrors were their own. »»
Ashen nodded.
- " Yes. But it is also their weakness. Everything they erase, they keep it ... in reflections. »»
Malen frowned.
- "This is where the stolen images are? »»
- "And the evidence. Faces. The scenes. Gestures. Everything they have removed in the world. Each mirror is a chest. »»
He turned his eyes to the north.
- "And I'm going to break them. All. »»
Meanwhile - seven -looking room, panic
The first bursts had appeared.
On the fourth mirror.
That of Raun -Ael, capital erased in -12.
Then a second.
That of the burned library of Adros.
Then another.
The youngest architect got up suddenly.
- "He does not break the mirrors. He turns them against us! »»
The oldest remained motionless.
But his fingers crisp.
- "We can no longer stop it with weapons. Nor with names. You have to ... send it back to the reflection. »»
- "He won't come out alive. »»
- " No. But either, if we wait. »»
Road to the central mirror - three days later
Ashen was no longer sleeping.
He walked like a convicted person.
Not out of fear.
But because he knew that the end had to come.
By his side, Malen wore the book.
But now there was something else with them.
The names engraved.
Their shadows.
Their murmurs.
Sometimes when the wind was blowing hard, they appeared briefly.
Solen.
Nira.
Ardan.
Even Tarsus, walking at a distance, not to mention.
Fragments of memory that have become guardians.
Ashen looked at them.
- "I'm not alone. »»
Malen replied slowly.
- " No. You are followed by those you refused to bury. »»
The central mirror - Temple of the last reflection
A tower without a summit.
Walls made of glass and silence.
Ashen arrived at the threshold.
The door unlocks itself.
Inside ... no guards.
Just architects.
In a circle.
And in the center: the last mirror.
Not an object.
Not a surface.
A vertical vacuum.
A frozen abyss.
The oldest spoke:
- "You want to release what we have retained. You want to break the reflection. »»
Ashen stopped a stone's throw away.
- "I want the world to be seen as it is. Without correction. Without deletion. »»
The youngest spat on the ground.
- "You destroy the order. »»
Ashen put a hand on the book.
- "I restore the balance. »»
The coldest of them whispered:
- "Then between. And see if your name stands in the reflection. »»
Diving - Absolute reflection
Ashen took a step.
And fell.
Not physically.
But internally.
He entered the reflection, the place of everything that has been erased, reversed, betrayed.
A flood of images.
Dead that cry without mouth.
Forgotten children before existing.
Names that are constantly rewritten.
And, basically ... his own reflection.
But twisted.
The Ashen who had watched the erasure without intervening.
Whoever had let the first die.
And the one who ... played with the mad mask without worrying about the consequences.
- "I'm you, if you continue. »»
Ashen fixed him.
And replied:
- "You are what I refuse to become again. »»
Then he brandishes the book.
And named it:
Ashen Valemyr - Witness until forgetting.
The reflection ... exploded.
Back - The fall of architects
The central mirror split.
Then one by one, the others.
Each round. Each sanctuary. Each cache.
Locked memories came back in the world.
Erased cities reappeared in the memories.
Lost songs were heard again.
Faces became familiar again.
And in the seven -look room ...
The architects fell, one by one, without being touched.
Not killed.
But emptied.
The world had stopped forgetting.
And they ... had nothing more to hold.
Ashen was standing.
The stars, all, had returned.
And by his side, the silhouettes vanished slowly.
Solen smiles.
- " THANKS. You can rest your book now. »»
Ashen hugged him.
- " Not yet. There is one last name remains. »»
Malen approached.
- " Who ? »»
Ashen looked at heaven.
And murmured:
- "Mine. »»
"It is not silence that closes a story. This is the refusal to speak again. »»
The still hot stones diffused a golden glow.
The last mirrors had just broken.
The sky, returned to life, spread its stars without hindrance.
And in the air ... a strange peace. Heavy. Not yet stable.
Ashen walked slowly between the rubble.
His steps cried out on memory bursts.
The book of names was in his left hand, tight like a relic.
Her right hand ... was naked.
Le masque du Fou gisait plus loin, brisé en deux comme une promesse qu'on a osé refuser.
Malen approached.
- "They left. All. Even architects. No one left. »»
Ashen did not answer.
He knelt in front of a collapsed slab, where the greatest reflections once was enthroned.
He put the book on it.
And opened it on the last page.
An empty page.
not a name.
Not a line.
Not even the murmurs of ancient names.
Malen murmured:
- "Are you going to write yours?" »»
Silence.
Then Ashen replied:
- "If I write it now ... he will become the last one. The end point. »»
- "What if you don't write it?" »»
Ashen hugged his teeth.
- "Then others will come. Maybe for better. Maybe for the worst. But it will not be ... finished. »»
Malen sat down slowly.
- "You have the right to rest, Ashen. You were the witness, the carrier, the referee. It's not nothing. »»
Ashen looked up to the sky.
Constellations now brought the names he had inscribed.
Stars that the book had recalled.
Names engraved in the light.
- "And if I write mine ... then my song stops. »»
A murmur suddenly rose.
The book ... questioned it.
Not with words.
With a weight.
As if he asked: are you ready to become memory?
A cold wind passed.
Not a wind of the world.
A breath from what observes the story without telling it.
Ashen felt a look.
He turned his head.
And lives ... a silhouette.
Dressed in a gray -free, age -free gray coat.
Not an architect.
not a reflection.
Someone - or something - who had never had a name.
The silhouette spoke without moving the lips:
- "If you don't serious ... you keep living."
But nameless, you will become like me. A trace. A floating voice. A memory that no one identifies. »»
Ashen asked:
- "What if I write? »»
- "You will stop. And the book will stop with you. Until another opens it. And that he starts again to erase, betray, or dream. »»
Ashen closed his eyes.
And laugh.
- "So it's not an end. It's just ... breathing. »»
He grabs the pen.
Slowly.
Certainly.
And wrote:
Ashen Valemyr, carrier of the book…
He stopped.
A drop of ink fell.
Then he put the pen.
And added:
… In transition.
Nothing else.
No death.
No conclusion.
A space left voluntarily empty.
a suspended beat.
Ashen closed the book.
The world had not changed.
But he now had his memory to choose.
He looked at Malen.
- "There are still names not found. Names that have never been said. Those of hidden peoples. Stolen traditions. Language land. »»
Malen nodded.
- "So do we continue?" »»
Ashen smiles, tired, but standing.
- " No. Now you start. I will listen. »»
And in the sky, a new star appeared.
She had no name.
Not yet.
But she was waiting for us to give it .