The morning sun climbed lazily over the horizon, but in the imperial palace, its golden rays met a boy already awake.
Hector sat at the edge of his bed, unmoving. His white hair fell in soft waves over his shoulders, catching the light like silk spun from starlight. His ember eyes were dulled—not from sleep, but from the weight of what had been carried through the night.
He had dreamed of twenty-four lives.
And not all of them were kind.
Not all of them were innocent.
Some had been monsters.
Some had suffered.
Some had caused suffering.
And all of them, in the end, had died.
He exhaled slowly, bringing his hands to his face. They trembled slightly, not from fear, but from too much understanding. The breakthrough of his core had elevated him beyond his previous limits. His body, still small, still eleven, pulsed with twice the magic it once held. The Imprints bestowed by gods now burned brighter—and darker.
The Whispering Spiral whispered louder.
The Moon-Eater's lullabies were now a dissonant choir of memory and sorrow.
And each gift felt more like a curse.
He had wondered, in the fragile moments between waking and rest, why him?
Why had he been chosen to remember?
Why had the gods, in all their silence, decided that he should be the one to carry the forgotten?
Was this mercy?
Or punishment?
The dreams had shifted.
They no longer gave him strength—they tested his will.
He had dreamed he was a slave trader last night. A man who took pleasure in cruelty. In control. In suffering. He had dreamed of how it felt to look at another human being and see only property.
And then he had dreamed of being the slave.
The pain. The fear. The hopelessness. It was as if the very soul had been broken and reshaped into something that no longer resembled a person.
He had lived both lives.
He had been both people.
And when he awoke, he felt as though he was looking at the world through fractured glass.
"What am I becoming?" he whispered to himself.
There was no answer.
Only the echo of his own question, returned from the corners of the grand guest room.
The truth was terrifying.
He was beginning to understand the purpose of his magic—his curse.
Everything forgotten became him.
The spiral of emotion, the echo-sense, the soulweave—none of it was random.
He was a vessel.
A final vault.
A living archive.
So that when the world one day turned to ash, and all the gods were dead or silent, and time no longer moved forward—he would remain.
He would remember.
His skin crawled with the thought.
His Imprints, once a source of wonder, now pulsed like burdens waiting to be claimed. Their power had doubled, but so had their demands.
Was that the point?
Had the gods given him this path so that, in the event he and Victoria failed, something—someone—would still carry the truth?
Would he be the last thing in existence, cradling the memories of a world long since gone?
His heart raced.
"No," he said aloud.
But even he didn't sound convinced.
---
Later that morning, he stood at the window, watching the imperial gardens bathe in sunlight. The soft hum of life—birds, servants, distant voices—felt muffled against the weight of his thoughts.
He touched the Grimoire on the table beside him. Its pages trembled faintly, reacting to the surge in his magic.
He opened it.
Many names still filled the entries. Some clear. Others faded. And now, with the power surge, he could feel even more pages awaiting future names. Future lives.
It felt endless.
Like it would never be full.
He wondered… if he kept dreaming like this, how long would it take to lose himself?
How many more lives could he hold before there was no Hector left?
He pressed a hand to his chest.
The Whispering Spiral flared. It didn't speak in words. Only feeling.
Yearning.
A thought echoed through him—not from the gods, but from within:
To remember is to sacrifice self.
Was this his destiny? Not to save the world. Not to conquer. Not to love or lead.
But to carry.
Forever.
A knock came at the door.
"Hector?"
It was Victoria.
Her voice, even muffled by the door, felt like light through storm clouds.
He opened it.
She looked rested, if a bit cautious.
"You look like you haven't slept."
"I slept," he said. "Too much, maybe."
She tilted her head.
"Dreams?"
He nodded. "Twenty-four."
Her eyes widened. "Gods."
"I… I don't think this is magic anymore, Victoria. I think this is something older. Deeper."
She walked past him, closing the door.
"Tell me."
And he did.
Everything.
About the dreams. The lives. The growing storm in his chest.
She listened, never once interrupting.
When he was done, he leaned against the wall, staring into the distance.
"What if the gods didn't make me to help this world?" he asked. "What if I'm… just here to be what's left when it all ends?"
Victoria stepped forward.
She cupped his face gently.
"Then I'll make sure the world doesn't end."
He blinked.
"Victoria—"
"No," she said. "If you're the vault… then I'll be the shield. I'll be the sword. I'll be everything needed to make sure you don't have to carry that alone."
He stared at her.
And for a moment, the crushing weight lifted.
Just a little.
"I'm scared," he admitted.
She smiled. "So am I."
He took her hand again.
Not as a boy who loved a girl.
But as a soul who had found the only person who understood.
And in that moment, something inside the Grimoire turned.
Not a new name.
But a memory, not from another life—but from this one.
A memory worth keeping.
Of two people… who refused to forget each other.