"Even if I was never meant to be written, I still hoped you'd remember me."
— Unknown
A candle flickers in the stillness. Not from wind, but from something else — a shiver in time. A page turns, though no hand touched it. A pen waits by parchment, unmoved… and yet words appear, one by one.
The world begins, as all stories do, with light.
A forest clearing, early dawn.
A boy stands alone beneath a crumbling statue. His name is Lucen. He doesn't recall how he got there, only that he wasn't supposed to be.
The birds avoid him. Shadows cling to his steps, and every so often, the world around him skips like a melody played on a broken lute.
He hears names he should not know. He remembers people who don't remember him. He reads pages that no longer exist.
Elsewhere, a girl sharpens her sword.
Her hair is tied back, eyes steeled with silent resolve. This is Arden, the one who bears the Mark of Flame, the destined Hero.
She looks up, just once. There's a strange feeling in her chest, like someone is watching… or perhaps like someone she's forgotten.
A traveling healer watches her reflection tremble in the river.
Sylva smiles at children and sings lullabies. But when no one looks, her hands shake as if from hunger that is not of the belly.
A knight kneels before an empty throne.
Roderic, clad in tarnished armor, punches a wall until his knuckles bleed. He prays for patience, and curses his rage.
A priestess stands at an altar lined with gold.
Seraphina smiles sweetly, offering blessings. Yet every coin dropped in offering weighs heavier on her soul.
A scholar slouches over unread books.
Lysander yawns, pretending to study. But behind his boredom lies something else — the fear that he may never live up to his potential.
A pale archer walks alone beneath the moonlight.
Eira clutches a silver locket. She says she fights for love, but never speaks of the name engraved inside.
Somewhere, watching it all, a man types on a glowing screen.
Alex. The Writer. The god of their world.
He rewrites. Again. And again. Trying to fix things. To make them right. Yet something, someone, always returns.
Lucen.
One day, the page may no longer accept his name.
But until then…
The candle still burns. The pen still writes.
And the story begins, already fated to end.
"It is a cruel kindness, to be forgotten just enough to stay."
—Final Line of Lucen's Journal