The sky above Solmaria was wrong.

  Not dark. Not storming. Not filled with fire or ash.

  Just... wrong.

  The Holy City stood as it always had—immacute towers of marble, golden spires reaching toward the heavens, banners of the Radiant Order fluttering in the wind. The people moved through the streets as they always had—priests blessing the faithful, knights patrolling the avenues, merchants haggling over coin.

  Nothing had changed.

  And yet, everything had changed.

  The sun had risen that morning. But no one remembered seeing it.

  The temple bells had rung at dawn. But no one remembered hearing them.

  The citizens of Solmaria carried on with their daily lives, oblivious to the fact that they were already standing in the ruins of a world that had ceased to exist.

  And then, the first anomaly was noticed.

  A scribe from the Grand Academy of Fate rushed through the streets, robes flowing behind him, eyes wide with unspoken terror. He pushed through the pace gates, past the divine guards, up the great marble steps, and into the chambers of the Holy Emperor himself.

  The throne room was vast, adorned with golden chandeliers and sacred relics said to be gifts from the gods themselves.

  Emperor Vaelus III sat upon his throne, regal and unshaken, as the scribe fell to his knees before him.

  "Your Holiness," the scribe gasped. "We—We cannot find His Grace, Sorion."

  The words were met with silence.

  The noblemen in the chamber exchanged confused gnces.

  The High Bishop of the Radiant Order furrowed his brows. "Sorion?"

  The scribe nodded frantically. "Yes, Your Grace! The Supreme God of Light—His Holiness, His Eternal Radiance—"

  The bishop's expression did not change.

  The noblemen continued their whispered conversations.

  The Emperor simply stared.

  And then, he said, "Who?"

  The scribe paled.

  The words had been spoken so simply, so naturally, as if the name had never meant anything.

  His hands trembled as he reached into his satchel, pulling forth an ancient manuscript—The Holy Scripture of Sorion, written over ten thousand years ago. He opened it to the first page, pointing desperately at the passages that had been inscribed since time immemorial.

  The page was bnk. The ink had not faded. It had not been smudged or torn away. It had simply never been there.

  The scribe gasped, flipping through the pages, one after another, his breaths coming in ragged panic. Every scripture, every prayer, every record of the Supreme God of Light—gone.

  The Emperor watched in silence. The High Bishop took the book from the scribe's trembling hands and inspected it himself. He turned to the gathered nobles, shaking his head. "This man," the bishop decred, "has gone mad." The scribe fell back, shaking.

  No.

  No, this wasn't madness. Something was wrong. Something was missing. And he was the only one who could feel it.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Darius Vaelthorne, Captain of the Imperial Knights, leaned against a balcony overlooking the city, his gaze fixed on the sky.

  He had woken that morning with a headache.

  A dull, persistent throb that made his vision blur if he tried too hard to think. It had been bothering him all day. Something... was off. He just couldn't pce what. The city was as it should be. His men were patrolling the streets. The citizens were content. There was no war. No invasion. And yet, deep inside, something gnawed at him. It was like standing in the ruins of a battlefield and not realizing the battle had already ended.

  A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. One of his men, a young knight, bowed before him. "Captain," the knight said. "We have a situation." Darius exhaled, pushing off the balcony. "What is it?""There's a disturbance at the pace. The Grand Academy sent an urgent messenger. Some kind of... disappearance." Darius frowned. "A disappearance?"

  "Yes, sir. A god is missing."

  Darius stopped.

  The knight shifted uneasily. "Well. That's what the messenger said. I—I don't really understand it." Darius narrowed his eyes. "Which god?" The knight hesitated. His lips parted.

  Then, for several long seconds, he said nothing.

  A flicker of confusion passed over his face, like a man who had just forgotten his own name.

  Then he shook his head. "I... don't know, sir. The messenger didn't say."

  Darius' headache sharpened.

  Something deep inside his mind shuddered, as if trying to hold onto something that was already slipping away.

  A missing god.

  A name forgotten.

  A war that felt like it had already been lost.

  Darius turned his gaze to the sky once more.

  The world was still standing.

  But for the first time in his life, he felt like he was living in a city of ghosts.

  And somewhere, in the distance, a whisper touched the edges of his mind.

  It has already begun.