The first time I saw a man erased, he was still breathing.
It was not a blade that cut him from the world, nor fire that consumed him. It was a scribe's hand.
I was twelve. My father had taken me to the Hall of Records, a long chamber of sun-baked brick and high, narrow windows, where the air smelled of dust and dried ink. Rows of clay tablets lined the shelves—laws, taxes, names. The empire kept its memory here, not in songs or statues, but in script.
A man stood before the chief archivist—tall, proud, dressed in the robes of a minor governor. His crime? He had spoken against the king's brother at a banquet. Not rebellion. Not treason. Just words, carried on wine and wind.
The archivist did not look up as he said, "Remove him from the rolls."
A junior scribe reached for a tablet. With a damp cloth, he wiped the man's name from a tax record. Then another. Then a census list. A grant of land. A marriage certificate. Each stroke was quiet. Precise. Final.
The man shouted. He begged. He offered gold.
But you cannot bribe memory.
When they were done, he was still alive. He still walked, still breathed, still had a face and a voice. But he no longer was—not in the eyes of the empire.
My father placed a hand on my shoulder. "Remember this, Elara," he said, low. "Power does not always roar. Sometimes, it whispers. And sometimes, it writes."
I never forgot.
Now, I am the scribe.
And I have learned what my father did not say:
That a name can be restored.
That a lie can be unmade.
That a single word, placed in the right ear, can undo a decree.
They think I am only the diplomat's daughter.
They think I serve, I bow, I remain silent.
But I write what the king reads.
I hear what the court fears to speak.
And when they move to erase my people—our faith, our history, our children's future—
I will not wait for a miracle.
I will write one.
Because I am no longer the girl who watched.
I am the hand that holds the pen.
And this time,
the empire will hear my voice.