Darius did not sleep that night.

  He sat in his quarters, armor still strapped to his body, staring at the single candle on his desk.

  The fme flickered gently. It should have been comforting.

  But the light unsettled him.

  Because deep inside, he could not shake the feeling that it should not exist.

  He had spoken with the Emperor again. He had listened to the frantic scribes, the desperate priests, the confused nobles. None of them remembered. None of them could expin what was missing. And the ones who almost understood—the ones who tried too hard to grasp the absence—broke.

  The High Bishop colpsed in the throne room earlier that evening. His voice had shaken as he tried to recall the old prayers. He repeated a name that no longer existed. He repeated it again. And again. Then he began screaming. Not in pain. Not in terror. In loss.

  Like a man suddenly realizing his own family had never been born.

  He was dragged away, frothing at the mouth. He had not spoken since.

  And now, Darius sat in his chamber, the weight of the unknown pressing against him.

  His hand clenched into a fist. What was happening to the world?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sound.

  A single, bloodcurdling scream. Darius was on his feet instantly, sword in hand. The scream did not stop. It stretched into the night—inhuman, endless, a sound that should not exist. Darius rushed to the window, scanning the city below. At first, nothing seemed wrong. Then he saw them. People standing in the streets.

  Still. Silent. Staring at nothing.

  The scream still rang through the air, but none of them moved. And then—one by one—they colpsed. Not dead. Not unconscious. They simply fell, shaking violently, as if their minds had shattered. Darius' grip on his sword tightened. He turned and sprinted down the halls, past the guards who were also frozen in pce, toward the great doors of the pace.

  By the time he reached the courtyard, the screaming had stopped.

  Now, only silence remained.

  And that was worse.

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  Across the city, hundreds of people y on the ground, their bodies twitching.

  Knights moved through the streets, shaking the fallen, calling out to them.

  Darius approached the nearest body—a woman in merchant's robes.

  Her eyes were open. But they were bnk. Lifeless. No, not lifeless. Empty. Like a house with the doors flung open, nothing left inside. Darius' pulse pounded. "Get the healers!" The knights rushed to obey.

  Minutes passed.

  Then, the first healer arrived—one of the High Clerics of the Radiant Order. He knelt beside the woman, pcing glowing hands over her chest. He murmured a blessing. His lips parted. He hesitated. Then his hands began shaking. The glow around them flickered, as if something was swallowing the light.

  "No," the cleric whispered. "No, no, no—"

  Darius grabbed his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

  The cleric's breath hitched. He looked up at Darius, and for the first time in his life, Darius saw true, absolute terror in the eyes of a man of faith. "She's still alive," the cleric whispered. Darius stiffened. "Then why won't she wake up?" The cleric's fingers curled into his own robes.

  "There's... nothing left inside." Darius stared. "What do you mean?" The cleric's hands trembled. "The soul," he whispered. "It's gone." Darius' stomach turned to ice. That wasn't possible.

  Even in death, the soul passed on. Even in damnation, it was taken elsewhere.

  The soul never simply vanished. And yet, he could feel it. These people were not dead. They were unfinished. Like the artist had stopped painting before the image was complete. Darius straightened, forcing his mind to focus. "How many?" The cleric swallowed. "Hundreds. Maybe thousands."

  Darius turned, scanning the city. The bodies y motionless, scattered across the streets, their minds erased from existence. His fingers curled around his sword hilt. This was no sickness. No pgue. No curse. This was something else. Something far worse. Something that had only just begun.

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  At the highest tower of the Grand Academy of Fate, the Archprophet Lethrian stood before a massive stone sb, his hands trembling.

  It was The Eternal Cycle—the sacred timeline of Celestara, carved into the rock since the dawn of history. It held every war, every kingdom, every prophecy. It could not be changed. And yet, before his very eyes, the carvings were shifting. Words were vanishing. Events were disappearing. Entire centuries were being erased.

  Lethrian's breathing grew ragged. He could see it happening.

  But his assistants, the other schors— They did not notice. Because to them, it had always been this way. The past was changing, and only he could remember what was lost. And deep within his mind, something whispered— "The story is being rewritten."