Chapter 9: Fragments of a Life Lost

Part 1: The Quiet Before

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the air crisp and cool, carrying the scent of wet earth and pine. Aedric sat by the small window of his room, watching the mist roll over the distant hills. The village—if it could even be called that—was little more than a collection of wooden homes nestled in the valley, hidden beneath towering trees. A sanctuary, untouched by the weight of the world beyond.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, there were no whispers. No shifting shadows. No sense of unseen eyes watching from the dark. Only the steady hum of life moving forward—soft voices in the distance, the clatter of pots in the kitchen, the occasional laughter of a child playing somewhere beyond the trees.

It was unsettling, in its own way.

Aedric wasn't sure what to do with stillness.

The past days—weeks?—had been a blur of fear, of running, of unraveling truths that refused to settle into place. Now, with nothing pressing down on him, his thoughts drifted into spaces he wasn't prepared to face.

How much had he truly forgotten?

He ran his fingers across the wooden table beside him, tracing the grain as though it might tether him to something solid. Who had he been, before all this?

Before Ravengarde. Before Elias. Before the cycle.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Part 2: Pieces of the Past

Aedric found Elias outside, sitting on a wooden bench beneath the shade of an old oak tree. He looked different here—more at ease, his usual guarded expression softened, the lines of worry less pronounced. The way he leaned back, arms stretched along the bench, almost made him look like an ordinary man enjoying the morning air.

Almost.

Aedric sat beside him, the silence between them stretching comfortably. It was the first time they'd been alone since escaping the ruins, and though questions burned at the edges of his mind, he didn't ask them. Not yet.

Elias smirked, tilting his head toward him. "You look like you're thinking too hard."

Aedric huffed, shaking his head. "Trying to remember something that doesn't want to be remembered."

Elias exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the distant treeline. "Memories are tricky things," he said, voice quieter now. "Especially when they've been taken from you."

Aedric turned to look at him. "How much do you remember?"

Elias didn't answer right away. He reached into his coat, pulling out a small, silver coin. He flipped it between his fingers absently, the metal catching the light.

"Enough," he said finally. "Enough to know that forgetting is sometimes kinder."

Aedric frowned. He wanted to push, to demand answers—but the weariness in Elias's voice held him back.

Some truths, it seemed, were not meant to be spoken so easily.

Part 3: The Weight of What Was Lost

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the small room with warmth. The stranger—the one Aedric had overheard speaking with Elias the night before—sat across from them, his face obscured by the dim light. He was older, his features worn by time, his sharp eyes holding the weight of someone who had seen too much.

Aedric had waited all day for this conversation.

"You know me," Aedric said, his voice steady. "Don't you?"

The man studied him for a long moment before nodding. "I do."

Aedric's fingers curled into his palms. "Then tell me who I am. Who I was."

The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Do you truly want to know? Or are you asking because you think you should?"

Aedric bristled. "I deserve to know."

A faint smile ghosted over the man's lips. "Then listen."

The room seemed to grow smaller, the air denser as the man spoke.

"This place," he gestured vaguely, "is not the first sanctuary you've sought. Nor the second. Nor the tenth. You have run to the edges of this world and beyond, searching for answers that you refuse to accept." He exhaled, his voice lower now. "And every time, you end up back here."

Aedric's throat tightened. "Why?"

The man's expression did not change. "Because you are the one who broke it."

The words settled into the silence like a stone dropped into a still lake, rippling outward, sinking deep. Aedric's breath hitched.

"What?"

Elias stiffened beside him, his fingers digging into his knees, but he said nothing.

The man continued. "You shattered the veil that kept this world intact. You were the first to see through the illusion, to realize what lay beyond. And for that, the cycle remade itself around you. Again. And again. And again."

Aedric's pulse roared in his ears. His hands trembled slightly, but he willed them still. "That's not possible. I—I don't even remember—"

"That's the point," the man interrupted. "You are made to forget. Every time. Because if you remembered everything, you would try to undo it again. And they can't allow that."

Aedric swallowed hard, his mind racing to keep up. "Who are they?"

The man's gaze darkened. "The ones who keep the cycle turning. The ones who whisper in the dark. The ones who make sure that The Living Never Remember."

A sharp pain lanced through Aedric's skull. Images flashed—too fast, too fragmented.

A city crumbling beneath fire and shadow.A door that should never have been opened.

A name—his name—etched into stone, over and over again.

He gasped, gripping the edge of the table as his vision blurred. His head felt like it was splitting apart.

Elias was beside him in an instant, gripping his shoulder. "Breathe, Aedric."

The pain receded, but the weight of the truth did not. He forced himself upright, swallowing against the nausea clawing at his throat.

"If I broke it once…" His voice was hoarse. "I can do it again."

The man sighed. "You always say that."

Aedric's blood turned to ice.

Elias was silent, his grip on Aedric's shoulder tightening slightly.

The man looked at him, something almost like pity in his eyes.

"And every time, they stop you."

A heavy stillness settled in the room. Aedric's heart pounded against his ribs. His mind screamed at him to make sense of it, to fight against the implications.

The cycle was still turning. And he was at its center.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The lantern flickered.

Somewhere in the distance, the whispers returned.