Ashes of the Forsaken

Kieran moved through the mist-cloaked streets, his thoughts heavy. His name.

That was what they wanted.

Renald Marrow had been too shaken, too broken to lie. The fear in his eyes had been real—not just fear of Kieran, but fear of the forces that had erased the others.

Kieran had been searching for the truth behind his execution, for the reason why he was hunted. But the answer wasn't just in the crime itself. It was in who he was.

Or, more accurately—who he had been.

His fists clenched at his sides as he moved through the slums, past watchful eyes and hollow faces. His past was a ghost, whispering in fragments. His memories were fractured, unreliable, shifting like sand beneath his grip.

But one thing was clear: his existence itself had been considered a threat.

And if that was true, then he wasn't just a victim of the past.

He was part of the reason it happened.

The slumlord's domain was quieter than before. The fires that once burned in rusted iron barrels had dimmed, and most of the people who had gathered in the ruins earlier had disappeared into the shadows.

But not all of them.

Kieran spotted the slumlord where she always seemed to be—seated on a broken stone pillar, one leg crossed over the other, a dagger spinning idly between her fingers.

She didn't acknowledge him at first. But she had already seen him.

He stopped a few feet away, adjusting the hood of his cloak. "I need a favor."

The slumlord finally looked up, amusement flickering in her sharp eyes. "That's bold of you."

"I don't have time to be polite."

She studied him for a moment, then smirked. "Interesting. I was beginning to think you'd died somewhere already."

Kieran didn't respond.

The slumlord sighed, tilting her head. "What do you need, bastard prince?"

"Information."

Her expression shifted just slightly. "About what?"

Kieran hesitated before speaking.

"My name."

The slumlord didn't laugh.

She didn't roll her eyes or scoff, the way she had the last time Kieran had asked something vague. Instead, she went very still.

Kieran caught it.

A flicker of something beneath her guarded expression—not confusion. Not even curiosity.

Recognition.

It was gone in an instant, buried beneath her usual smirk. "I wasn't expecting that."

Kieran took a slow step forward. "You know something."

She shrugged. "I know a lot of things."

"But you knew before I even explained," Kieran pressed. "You've always known."

The slumlord twirled the dagger between her fingers. "What exactly do you expect me to tell you?"

Kieran exhaled. "Tell me why my name is a death sentence."

The slumlord leaned forward slightly, her gaze dark and unreadable. "You don't want that answer."

"I do."

She watched him for a long moment.

Then she sighed and leaned back, tilting her head toward the sky. "Names are powerful, Kieran. More than people realize. And yours… has weight."

Kieran narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"

She smiled faintly. "It means your name is older than you think."

A chill crawled down his spine.

Older?

He had expected his name to be tied to his father's lineage, his noble house, the political games of the past. But this—this was something else.

The slumlord studied him. "Tell me, Kieran. When you close your eyes, what do you see?"

Kieran didn't answer immediately.

But the memory stirred.

Fire. Smoke. A city crumbling into the abyss. A voice whispering from the dark.

"You were not meant to return."

Kieran forced the thought away. "Why does it matter?"

The slumlord exhaled through her nose. "Because some names don't just belong to men. Some names belong to stories."

She tapped the dagger against her knee. "And stories don't die."

Kieran left the slumlord's ruins with more questions than answers.

But he had one lead—a single thread to follow through the tangled mess of his past.

If his name had power—if it was tied to something older than himself—then there had to be records.

Legends. Stories.

And there was only one place in the city where such knowledge could still be found.

The Veilkeeper's Archive.

The archives were housed in an old, forgotten temple near the edge of the noble district. The building itself had long since lost its faith—the gods that once ruled these halls had been abandoned, their statues worn down by time and neglect.

But the records remained.

Kieran moved carefully through the empty corridors, his steps silent against the ancient stone. Faint candlelight flickered from deeper within, casting long shadows against the walls.

He found the keeper where he expected—seated at a great wooden desk, surrounded by endless stacks of parchment.

The man was old, his face worn by years, his robes faded but still meticulously arranged. His fingers were stained with ink, his eyes flickering toward Kieran as he approached.

"You're not supposed to be here," the keeper murmured.

Kieran ignored the warning. "I need to know about the name Valtheris."

The keeper's gaze darkened.

Kieran didn't waver.

"I need to know what it meant before I was born," he said. "Before it became just another noble house."

The keeper let out a slow breath. "Some doors should never be opened."

Kieran's lips curled slightly. "And yet, here we are."

A silence stretched between them.

Then, slowly, the keeper stood.

Without another word, he turned and moved toward the far end of the room, where the oldest records were kept.

Kieran followed.

The scroll was brittle beneath Kieran's fingers, the ink faded but still legible.

It was not a genealogy chart. Not a family history.

It was a warning.

"The Name of Valtheris is bound by the Veil. It is a mark of the forsaken, the cursed, the forgotten. Let it be lost, and let no man speak it lest the cycle begin anew."

Kieran's breath slowed.

A mark.

Not just a house name.

A burden. A tether.

Something not meant to exist.

His grip tightened on the parchment.

He had been looking for answers about his execution. About the people who had framed him, the nobles who had buried the truth.

But now, he had a different question.

Had his execution been meant to silence him?

Or had it been meant to stop him from coming back?

The words on the parchment refused to fade.

"The Name of Valtheris is bound by the Veil. It is a mark of the forsaken, the cursed, the forgotten. Let it be lost, and let no man speak it lest the cycle begin anew."

Bound by the Veil.

Forsaken.

Kieran had come here searching for answers about his past, about why his name was feared, why it had been erased. But what he had found was something older. Something buried.

He lifted his gaze to the Veilkeeper.

The old man stood in the dim candlelight, his hands folded before him, his expression carefully blank. But Kieran could see it—the same recognition, the same quiet dread that had flickered in the slumlord's eyes.

The truth was there. Right in front of him.

And yet, no one wanted to say it.

Kieran exhaled, setting the parchment down carefully. "What does this mean?"

The Veilkeeper hesitated. Then, finally, he spoke.

"It means your name should not exist."

Kieran's fingers twitched. "Explain."

The keeper sighed. He moved slowly, brushing dust from an old wooden chair before settling into it. "The house of Valtheris is young, as noble bloodlines go. Barely two centuries old. But the name? The name itself predates the records."

Kieran's heart pounded.

The old man continued. "In the oldest stories—those forgotten even by kings—the name of Valtheris was not a lineage. It was a title. A mark given to those who walked the line between worlds. The cursed ones. The ones who returned when they should not."

The weight in Kieran's chest grew heavier.

Returned.

His fingers curled into a fist. "Are you saying I was—"

"A vessel," the Veilkeeper cut in. "Not the first. Perhaps not the last." His gaze was calm, too calm. "But you carry the name. And that alone is enough to draw the eyes of those who fear it."

Kieran's breath came slow and measured.

He thought of the execution, the precision of his sentencing. The way his name had been erased, as if his existence alone was a danger.

This wasn't about noble houses.

It was about something far older. Far more dangerous.

And he had walked right back into it.

Kieran leaned back against the cold stone wall of the archive, closing his eyes briefly.

He wasn't just the victim of political maneuvering. He wasn't just a noble's bastard caught in the wrong game.

He was part of something deeper.

Something they had tried to erase.

His mind raced through the pieces:

The Council of Lords had executed him without hesitation.

His name was considered a mark of something that should not return.

Renald had whispered that the ones who arranged his death wanted his name, not just his life.

But why?

What had his past self—**his real past self, the one lost in fragments—**done to be feared this much?

He opened his eyes. "Tell me the rest."

The Veilkeeper hesitated.

Kieran's patience snapped. "You've already said too much to stay silent now."

The old man exhaled through his nose. "Very well."

He stood, moving toward another set of scrolls—these older, brittle with time. He pulled one free and unrolled it carefully.

The text was faded, but still readable.

Kieran scanned the words quickly, his breath slowing as he read.

"The bearer of the forsaken name walks between the Veil, neither bound to the living nor the dead. They return, and they return, and they return, until the cycle is broken."

Kieran's stomach twisted.

"Until the cycle is broken."

That sounded a lot like an execution.

Like a deliberate attempt to end something that should have continued.

His throat felt tight. "This says the name belongs to the ones who return."

"Yes." The Veilkeeper's gaze was steady.

Kieran exhaled. "And yet I was still executed."

The old man hesitated. "Perhaps that is why."

Kieran didn't blink. "Or perhaps," he murmured, "it was because I was about to remember why I returned in the first place."

A shiver ran down his spine.

Kieran had felt it before.

That quiet, unshakable sense of being watched. Of something waiting at the edges of his mind, just beyond reach.

It had whispered to him in his execution. It had lingered in his dreams, in the ruins of the slums, in the cold, empty spaces of the night.

And now—now he was beginning to understand.

His past wasn't just lost.

It had been taken.

"Kieran."

He glanced up sharply.

The Veilkeeper's face was lined with something he hadn't expected—pity.

"I do not know what you were before," the old man said softly. "I do not know why you have returned." He tapped the parchment. "But I do know this."

Kieran braced himself.

"There are things older than kings and empires. Things that were buried for a reason." The keeper's voice was calm. "If your name has truly returned to this world, then you are already part of something far larger than you can see."

His fingers curled against the stone table. "You think I don't already know that?"

The Veilkeeper sighed. "Perhaps. But knowledge alone does not mean you are ready."

Kieran didn't move.

The old man studied him. Then, carefully, he reached into the folds of his robe and pulled free a small metal token.

He set it on the table between them.

Kieran frowned. "What is it?"

"A key," the keeper said. "Or perhaps a warning."

The symbol carved into the metal was familiar. Too familiar.

Three slashes across a circle.

The same mark that had been on the slumlord's door.

The same mark Kieran had seen in his fractured dreams.

"You're not the first to search for your name," the keeper murmured. "And you won't be the last."

Kieran's pulse quickened. "Who else?"

The keeper didn't answer. Instead, he turned away, gathering the ancient scrolls and rolling them carefully back into place.

Kieran watched him for a moment longer, then reached forward and picked up the metal token.

It was cold to the touch.

Far too cold.

He slipped it into his belt.

"Where do I go next?" he asked quietly.

The keeper didn't turn back to him. "Follow the mark," he said. "If you truly wish to know."

Kieran exhaled slowly.

Then he turned and left the archive, stepping back into the moonlit streets of a city that had already tried to bury him once.

His grip tightened around the token.

He had his next step.

He had his name.

And now, he had a question even more dangerous than before.

What had his past self done to be erased?

And worse—what if he was meant to stay dead?