Ashes of the Forsaken

Duke Calderon poured himself a drink with steady hands.

Kieran could tell it was a practiced motion—an act of control.

The Duke was a man who had spent his entire life in power, and even now, when seated across from the ghost of a man he had executed, he refused to let his composure crack.

But Kieran saw through it.

The slight tightness in his grip.

The way his breath had shifted ever so slightly since their conversation began.

Calderon might have played the game well, but tonight—Kieran was holding the board.

The Duke took a slow sip of his drink before finally speaking.

"You want to know about the war."

Kieran nodded.

"You're going to tell me everything."

Calderon exhaled through his nose.

"Fine."

He set his glass down.

"But you're not going to like what you hear."

Calderon leaned back in his chair, studying the candlelight flickering across the ceiling.

"Officially," he said, "there was no war."

Kieran didn't blink.

"No records. No archives. No victory or defeat. No monuments to the dead. No remnants of battle."

Calderon's gaze shifted back to him.

"Because officially, it never happened."

Kieran's grip on his chair tightened.

They had erased him.

But they had also erased an entire war.

He forced his voice to remain steady.

"Why?"

Calderon's expression darkened.

"Because we lost."

Kieran's breath slowed.

The Duke didn't speak immediately.

For the first time since this conversation began, he looked—not nervous, not afraid—but reluctant.

As if saying the words aloud made them real again.

Kieran pressed further.

"Lost to who?"

A long silence.

Then—

"The ones who do not belong."

Kieran frowned. "That's not an answer."

Calderon exhaled sharply.

"No. But it's the only one you're going to get."

Kieran's mind raced.

The city in flames.

The war that had already ended before he returned.

And now, an enemy with no name.

The ones who do not belong.

The phrase felt wrong.

Like something deliberately carved from memory, leaving only a scar behind.

"Are they still alive?" Kieran asked.

Calderon's jaw tightened.

"No."

A pause.

"Because we buried them."

Calderon poured himself another drink, but this time, he didn't sip.

He downed it in a single motion.

"The war lasted seven years," he said at last. "Seven years of losing. Seven years of retreating, rebuilding, fighting again—only to be pushed back once more."

His fingers tapped against the desk.

"We had never faced anything like them before. The way they fought—it was as if they didn't fear death at all."

Kieran stilled.

Memories—**not his own, but echoes of another life—**surged through him.

Fighting against enemies who did not break.

Who did not stop.

"We were losing, and we knew it," Calderon continued. "The noble houses began turning on each other. Desperate alliances, betrayals. The only thing worse than the war itself was the panic it created."

Kieran listened without speaking.

He had been there.

He had fought in this war.

He had seen it end.

And yet—he still didn't remember how.

Calderon exhaled.

"We had only one option left."

Kieran didn't blink. "Which was?"

Calderon's lips curled into something bitter.

"We erased it."

The words hung in the air.

"We erased the war. We erased them. We erased everything. The kingdom was rebuilt atop its ashes, and history was rewritten to make sure it would never happen again."

Kieran's pulse steadied.

"You mean you surrendered."

Calderon let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

"No, Kieran."

His gaze darkened.

"We didn't surrender. We committed the single greatest act of genocide in history."

The words hit like a hammer.

"We didn't just kill them. We made sure they never existed. Their names, their people, their culture—everything was wiped from history. We turned them into ghosts, and we buried them so deep that even time wouldn't find them."

Calderon's eyes locked onto his.

"And you were one of the ones who made sure it happened."

The room felt smaller.

Kieran sat in silence, his mind spiraling through the implications.

Not just war.

Not just loss.

But eradication.

He had fought in that war.

And if Calderon was telling the truth—then he had played a role in erasing them.

He had done something so unspeakable, so terrible, that the only way forward had been to destroy every trace of it.

And now—

Now, he had returned.

And the first thing that had greeted him upon waking…

Were the voices of the dead.

The whispers in the ruins.

The shadows watching him in silence.

They had never truly been gone.

They had just been waiting.

Kieran exhaled.

Calderon watched him, his expression unreadable.

"Tell me, Kieran."

His voice was carefully neutral.

"Now that you know, what do you plan to do?"

Kieran didn't answer immediately.

Because, for the first time since returning, he wasn't sure.

He had come here seeking revenge.

Vengeance against the ones who had erased him.

But now, he had to ask himself something else entirely.

If his enemies had erased him to bury the truth…

Then was it possible they had been right to do so?

His hands curled into fists.

It didn't matter.

Right or wrong, the past could not remain buried.

Not anymore.

The truth had been stolen from him once.

And now, he was taking it back.

Kieran exhaled, rising from his seat.

Calderon did not move.

"You think this is over?" Kieran said.

Calderon shook his head.

"No."

Silence stretched between them.

Then—

"But whatever you do next, Kieran… just remember."

His voice was quiet.

"There's a reason we tried to forget."

Kieran said nothing.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

And as he stepped into the night, the city stretched before him—filled with the ghosts of a past that refused to stay buried.

Kieran walked through the noble district in silence.

The streets were quiet, the world unchanged. The grand halls and polished courtyards remained untouched by time, gleaming under the soft glow of enchanted lanterns.

And yet, everything was different now.

Because he knew the truth.

The war that had shaped his past—the war that had shaped the entire kingdom—had been erased.

Not lost.

Not rewritten.

Erased.

And he had helped bury it.

His grip on his cloak tightened.

The whispers in the ruins. The faces in the dark. The weight in his chest that had haunted him since his return—

It had never been guilt.

It had been unfinished business.

And now, the past had finally come to collect its debt.

The streets wound through layers of history, but none of it was real.

Everything he saw—**the noble courts, the war councils, the grand libraries filled with curated knowledge—**was built on a lie.

Kieran had spent years believing the nobles played a game of power.

But the greatest trick they had ever pulled was erasing the board entirely.

And now that he had seen behind the curtain, he couldn't unsee it.

The war had been buried so completely that even he—one of its soldiers, one of its architects—had been erased with it.

But why?

If they had won, why not celebrate the victory?

Why erase it at all?

There was something more.

Something worse.

And if no one else would dig it up, then he would.

Kieran didn't return to the slums.

Not yet.

He had another stop to make.

There was one man in this city who had survived long enough to remember what no one else dared to speak of.

The Archivist.

A man who had spent a lifetime recording things meant to be forgotten.

And if there was anyone left in this cursed city who still held a record of the war…

It was him.

The Archives were built in the deepest part of the noble district, far from the bustling courts and trade centers.

A massive stone structure, filled with records that stretched back to the kingdom's first days.

Or at least—the version of history the nobles allowed to exist.

Kieran moved carefully, keeping to the shadows.

The Archives were heavily guarded—not because people wanted to break in, but because the nobles were terrified of what lay hidden inside.

Not just history.

Secrets.

Things that were never meant to see the light of day.

And tonight, Kieran would pull one from the depths.

The outer walls were lined with runic wards, meant to alert the guards to unwanted visitors.

But Kieran had studied these enchantments long before his execution.

He knew where the gaps were.

Where the protective spells had faded over time.

Where to step, where not to linger.

The security was built to keep thieves and scholars from uncovering things they shouldn't.

It was not built to stop someone like him.

He reached a side entrance—a smaller, unassuming doorway carved into the old stone.

He pressed his fingers against the edges.

Still loose.

Still weak.

He exhaled slowly.

Then, without hesitation, he slipped inside.

The air inside was thick with dust and candle smoke.

Shelves stretched as far as the eye could see, lined with scrolls and bound tomes.

The knowledge of centuries.

But Kieran wasn't interested in what was known.

He was here for what had been erased.

And only one man could help him find it.

He moved deeper into the Archives, past rows of forgotten texts, past corridors that had not been walked in years.

Then—

A faint cough.

Kieran stilled.

A small, dimly lit chamber sat at the far end of the hall.

And inside, hunched over a table covered in ancient parchment—

The Archivist.

The old man barely looked up as Kieran stepped inside.

Thin. Pale. Hands covered in ink stains from decades of writing.

Eyes too sharp for someone so frail.

"You're late."

Kieran blinked. "You knew I was coming?"

The Archivist sighed, rolling up one of the scrolls in front of him.

"I knew someone would come eventually. The truth doesn't stay buried forever. It rots. And eventually, the stink draws people like you."

His voice was tired.

Not fearful.

Just… resigned.

"I assume you're here about the war."

Kieran's chest tightened.

"You remember it?"

The Archivist snorted. "Of course I remember it. The problem is that I'm not supposed to."

Kieran stepped closer.

"You kept records."

"Naturally."

"Where?"

The old man gave him a wry smile.

"Now that's the real question, isn't it?"

The Archivist rose slowly, moving toward a locked cabinet along the wall.

With a practiced motion, he pulled a small iron key from beneath his robes and slid it into the lock.

The mechanism clicked.

And from within the cabinet, he pulled a book.

Old. Bound in dark leather. No title. No markings.

A book that was not supposed to exist.

He turned back to Kieran, holding it carefully.

"This is the last surviving record of the war."

Kieran reached for it.

The Archivist pulled it away.

"You need to understand something before you open this."

His eyes darkened.

"History is shaped by those who survive, Kieran. And the ones who buried this war… they did not do so lightly."

Kieran's breath slowed.

"The truth is not kind."

The Archivist held out the book once more.

"Are you certain you want to know it?"

Kieran took the book.

He didn't hesitate.

Because the past was no longer just a question.

It was a weight that had been waiting for him since the moment he returned.

And now—it was time to carry it.

He flipped the cover open.

And the first page read—

"The War That Never Was."