The Forgotten

The air inside the palace was warm—too warm. It pressed against Ophelia's skin like damp cloth, making it hard to breathe.

She pressed her back against the heavy doors, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The whispering was gone. The shadow was gone. But the weight of its presence still clung to her like an unseen hand curled around her throat.

Slowly, her trembling fingers unclenched from the fabric of her cloak. The two guards who had let her in were watching her now, their hands hovering near their weapons, unsure if she was being pursued.

One of them finally spoke. "Lady Ophelia, are you—?"

She pushed off the door before he could finish. "I need to see Thorne. Now."

The urgency in her voice made the guard flinch. He exchanged a glance with his companion before nodding sharply. "I'll take you to him."

Ophelia followed him through the dimly lit halls of the Ivory Palace, her mind still reeling.

What she had seen—what had spoken to her—was not human. She was certain of it.

It had moved like mist but stood like a man. It had no eyes, no mouth, but its voice had slithered through her mind as though it belonged there. And it had told her to forget Zoriel.

The name alone had made the stars shudder.

She clenched her jaw, pushing away the tremor of fear coiling in her ribs. No. She would not forget. She would not let fear steal her answers.

They reached the West Wing Library sooner than she expected. The guard knocked once before pushing open the heavy doors.

Inside, the air smelled of old parchment, candle wax, and dust—a comforting scent, normally. But tonight, even the library felt restless.

Thorne stood at the far end of the chamber, flipping through a massive tome. His tall frame was hunched slightly over the pages, his silver-threaded robes pooling around him like shadows. At the sound of footsteps, he glanced up—and the moment his eyes met Ophelia's, his face darkened.

He already knew.

She barely waited for the door to close before striding toward him. "It spoke to me," she said, voice tight. "I saw it."

Thorne's grip on the book tightened. "Describe it," he said.

Ophelia exhaled, trying to steady herself. "Tall. Unnatural. It moved like a shadow, but it wasn't just darkness—it was something else. Something…" she swallowed. "Wrong."

Thorne said nothing for a moment.

Then, he slowly shut the book.

"You are certain it spoke?"

Ophelia nodded. "It whispered. Over and over. It told me to forget Zoriel. And when it said his name, the stars reacted."

The old astronomer exhaled sharply. He turned away from her, his hand dragging through his graying hair. "Damn it," he muttered.

Ophelia's pulse quickened. "You know what it was."

Thorne turned back to her, his expression unreadable.

"I know enough."

"That's not an answer."

Thorne hesitated. Then, finally, he reached for a book near his desk, flipping through its brittle pages before placing it in front of her.

Ophelia's stomach twisted at the sight of it. The Starborn text. The same book he had given her before.

Her gaze snapped to his. "I already read this."

"No," Thorne said. "You read what it allowed you to see."

He flipped to a page near the middle, where the ink was faded but still legible. The passage was written in the celestial script, but Ophelia had studied the language long enough to decipher it.

Her eyes darted over the words—and the blood in her veins turned to ice.

"When the sky darkens and the stars scream, beware the ones who walk without form. The Forgotten seek the Unwritten, and the Unwritten is not meant to be found."

Ophelia's throat felt tight. "What does it mean?"

Thorne's gaze was heavy. "It means what you saw tonight was not the first. And it will not be the last."

A chill spread down her spine.

"The Forgotten," she murmured. "That's what they are?"

Thorne nodded. "If Zoriel's name has returned to the sky, then they will come for it. They do not suffer memories of the past to exist."

Something about those words made her shiver. The thing she had seen in the woods—it hadn't attacked her. It had simply whispered. Warned.

It wasn't trying to kill her.

It was trying to make her forget.

A new kind of fear settled in her chest. "You're saying these… things erase knowledge?"

Thorne's expression was grim. "Knowledge is dangerous. You, of all people, should know that."

Ophelia's hands tightened into fists. She refused to be afraid of the truth.

"What happened in Vordane?" she demanded. "Why are they trying so hard to erase it?"

Thorne sighed. He walked toward a large wooden cabinet against the wall, unlocking it with a key he kept hidden in the folds of his robes.

Inside was a single scroll.

He pulled it free and unrolled it on the table between them.

It was an old map.

Not of Seraphis. Not of any land she recognized.

But at the center of the faded parchment, written in jagged, ancient script—

VORDANE.

Ophelia's breath caught.

"This is the last remaining record," Thorne said. "Every other trace of this kingdom was wiped out. Not just from books, but from the memory of the world itself."

Ophelia reached out, tracing the name with careful fingers. The ink felt cold beneath her touch.

Something terrible had happened here. Something so great that it had been erased from history itself.

A slow, uneasy realization settled in her chest.

"They're not trying to erase a name," she murmured. "They're trying to erase a person."

Silence.

Thorne's face was unreadable. "Perhaps."

Ophelia swallowed, lifting her gaze to meet his. "And you knew this?"

Thorne hesitated. Then, softly—"I suspected."

She let out a slow breath. He had been protecting her.

But now, it was too late.

The stars had already spoken. The Forgotten had already come.

She had already remembered.

And something told her… they would not let her go so easily.

Outside, the sky was still dark. The black moon had not yet returned.

And deep in her bones, Ophelia knew—

It never would.