The Child with No Name
Darkness enveloped them like a drowning tide.
One moment, they stood in the Archive Vault, the strange child whispering impossible words. The next, the world vanished.
When the light returned, it was not light they knew. It shimmered blue and silver, like moonlight on still water, but it cast no shadow and gave no warmth. They stood in a space that was not a room, yet held the echo of one—walls woven from strands of starlight, a ceiling of drifting memories. This was not the Between. This was deeper. A memory of the world, half-erased.
The child stood at the center.
Their cloak billowed without wind, and their skin glowed faintly from within. Mira felt a pressure in her mind, not painful, but intrusive, like a memory she'd forgotten was being stirred back into awareness.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I am the Door," the child said, voice layered with countless echoes—male, female, ancient, young. "I was left behind when the world was sealed. My name was taken so that others could forget."
Bram stepped forward cautiously. "The Nameless Flame?"
The child nodded. "I am its vessel. Not its master. Not anymore."
The room pulsed. Images drifted past them—visions of a time before the Tree, before the Balance. Creatures vast and unknowable. Rivers of magic so thick they carved canyons. A sky filled not with stars, but eyes.
"These things were forgotten for a reason," Lena whispered.
"But forgetting did not erase them," the child replied. "Only locked them behind the veil of memory. Now, the lock is breaking."
Elric's hand rested on the hilt of his blade. "What do you want from us?"
The child stepped forward, and for a moment, they looked truly young—scared, fragile.
"I want to remember who I was. And to do that... we must go to the Vault of Names."
Mira exchanged glances with her companions.
She remembered the Vault only from old texts. A place hidden at the world's edge, where all names were written—those known, those erased, and those never spoken aloud. A place where memory and truth became indistinguishable.
The child extended their hand. "Come with me. The Flame stirs. If I fall into it... it will consume everything."
They had no choice. Together, they took the child's hand.
---
The world twisted.
They emerged in a forest unlike any Mira had seen. The trees were crystalline, humming with vibrations. The sky above was a mirror, reflecting not their bodies but their souls—shimmering patterns of light and shadow.
A path wound ahead, lined with silver leaves that did not rustle, even as wind touched them.
The child walked steadily, eyes never blinking.
"Why were you chosen as the vessel?" Bram asked.
"I was born in a time before choosing," they said. "I was... made. When the world still dreamed in fire."
They walked for hours. Time bent. Days passed like breaths, and yet they did not tire. At the path's end stood a gate formed of living runes, each shifting shape and tone as if protesting their approach.
The child placed their palm upon it. The gate screamed—but opened.
Beyond lay a field of thrones.
Thousands of them. Empty. Waiting.
And at the farthest edge, a single throne burned with a cold fire—blue and gold, flickering with forgotten truths.
"This is the Vault of Names," the child whispered.
Mira stepped forward. "What happens now?"
"You must help me remember," the child said. "But beware. The Flame does not only burn the forgotten. It tempts the living to forget themselves."
As they stepped into the field, the air around them crackled.
And the thrones began to whisper.