The town of Vireth slept uneasily under a waning moon, unaware that the world it believed solid and safe was fraying along invisible seams. Aerin Vael walked the cobblestone streets, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn cloak, as though he could hide from the whispers of the night itself. The lanterns along the market square flickered erratically, and for the briefest instant, he swore the shadows moved with a mind of their own—twisting, stretching, folding like a dark tide hungry for something unseen.
He shook his head. Nothing could possibly move on its own. Not in Vireth. Not anywhere. Yet the hair at the nape of his neck stood as if electricity ran through the air.
Aerin had always felt slightly… absent. Not absent in body, but absent in the memory of others. Teachers, neighbors, even friends would sometimes pause mid-conversation, blinking as if they had forgotten he existed for a fraction of a heartbeat. He brushed it off as idle imagination, a trick of the mind. But deep down, he knew the truth: there was something in the world that wanted him… and maybe, in some way, he belonged to it.
His nightly routine led him to the archivist's small, cluttered shop at the edge of the square. The door creaked as he entered, the familiar scent of parchment and candle smoke washing over him like a half-remembered dream.
"Late again, Aerin," came a voice, smooth and sharp, belonging to the archivist, Master Corvyn. "If you keep wandering the streets at night, the shadows may swallow you whole. Or worse, you might forget yourself entirely."
Aerin's lips twitched. "I suppose I've survived so far, haven't I?"
Corvyn's eyes, a piercing gray that seemed to look through time itself, narrowed. "Survival is not the point. Observation is. You are not ordinary, Aerin Vael. You never have been. You simply don't know it yet."
Aerin frowned, setting down his satchel of collected scrolls. "What do you mean?"
"Secrets. Hidden names. Forgotten truths. The world is stitched together not by kings or laws, but by things no one remembers exist. And you… you are connected to them more than anyone else alive." Corvyn's voice lowered, almost a whisper. "Tonight, something is stirring. I can feel it through the parchments themselves."
Aerin's pulse quickened. He had felt it too. A tremor in the quiet, a ripple in the air, as if the world's edges had frayed and the unseen were peering in. But what unseen? And why him?
Before he could ask, the shop's candles flared violently, shadows dancing wildly across the walls. Then, silence. The familiar comfort of the shop vanished, replaced by an oppressive stillness that made Aerin's chest tighten. A sound—soft, fleeting, almost imagined—echoed through the room: a whisper in a voice he did not recognize, yet somehow knew.
"Aerin…"
He spun, but no one was there. Only the stacks of ancient tomes and scrolls, dust motes floating in the cold candlelight. His heart beat faster, a strange thrill tinged with fear. He had heard whispers before, in the streets, in empty hallways, in the middle of a dream. But this… this was different. Personal. Focused. Like a thread of memory reaching for him across the invisible void.
Corvyn's voice broke the silence. "You feel it too. Good. That means you're awake, not sleeping through the world as others do." He stepped closer, his hand brushing the edge of a scroll. "There is a name that must be found tonight. Forgotten, erased, lost to time. If it is not restored… someone disappears. Someone important. And perhaps… you, too."
Aerin swallowed, the weight of the words settling in his chest. "Why me? Why is it always me?"
"Because," Corvyn said softly, "you are the anchor. And anchors are never truly seen. Only felt."
The thought clawed at Aerin's mind. If he was the anchor, what was the cost? Every day, he had glimpsed the edges of memory fading around him—friends, neighbors, events. People he remembered but who seemed to forget him at the slightest touch of a thought. And yet… without him, would the world itself unravel? He didn't know. Couldn't know. All he knew was that the thread of something immense was tugging at him tonight, insistent, demanding.
The archivist handed him a small, intricately carved box. "Take this," he said. "Inside is a fragment. A piece of what was forgotten. You must follow it to Noctyra. But beware—the veil between what is seen and what is hidden is thin. One step wrong, and even you may be erased."
Aerin's fingers closed around the box. The wood was warm, almost alive. Symbols etched in faint gold shimmered beneath his touch. A whispering began again, this time rising like a tide from the box itself. Words he could not quite hear, names he could not quite pronounce, but each one resonated deep within him, tugging at a part of himself he had never known.
Outside, the streets of Vireth lay silent, the moon casting a pale glow. Somewhere in the darkness, the faintest glimmer of movement—a shadow that did not belong—passed through the alleys. Aerin stepped forward, his cloak flaring, the box clutched tightly to his chest.
And in that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Because forgotten things never stay forgotten forever.
Because someone remembered him.
Because the veil was thinning.