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Chapter 27: Echoes of the Forgotten

  James sat by the flickering campfire, staring into the embers as exhaustion settled deep into his bones. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been down here. There were no sunrises, no nightfalls—only the endless, shifting corridors of the dungeon. But after that last encounter, his body felt drained in a way that told him they needed to stop, at least for a while.

  "We should rest," James muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "No clue what time it is, but it’s gotta be ‘night’ by now."

  Garrick grunted, dropping his pack to the floor with a heavy thud. “No arguments here.”

  Riona stretched, rolling her shoulders. "Hell of a day. Almost getting erased from reality really takes it out of you."

  Lillian sat beside Lyra, fidgeting with the fletching on her arrows. "You think the dungeon sleeps when we do?"

  Lyra snorted. "Not a chance."

  Despite that, none of them seemed keen on pushing forward just yet. They found a small alcove off to the side of the corridor, just big enough to keep them out of immediate sight. A few makeshift torches gave the illusion of warmth, though the ever-present void energy in the dungeon made the air feel cold and hollow.

  James let out a slow breath, leaning back against the stone wall. The dim glow of the fire made the shadows dance against the cavern walls, shifting in ways that made his stomach churn. It reminded him too much of what he’d seen in the last room. Of the void.

  Of what he was.

  He clenched his fists and shut his eyes.

  Then—

  A memory surfaced.

  He was a child again, no more than six or seven, curled up in bed under a thick, woolen blanket. His father sat beside him, the dim lantern light flickering against the wooden walls of their small home.

  His father’s voice was deep, soothing, as he told the story—the same one he’d told James many times before.

  “A long time ago,” his father began, “there were people who didn’t belong to this world. Not entirely, anyway. They were something... in-between. Forgotten by time, lost to the void itself. But they weren’t dead, not really. They existed in a place beyond understanding, in the spaces between reality. And sometimes... sometimes, they whispered to those who could hear them.”

  James remembered how he’d clung to his blanket, wide-eyed. “Were they bad?”

  His father had chuckled, shaking his head. “No, son. Not bad. Just... different. People feared them because they didn’t understand them. But the Forgotten were never truly gone. Their blood still runs through the veins of those who remain.”

  He leaned in, his expression more serious. “Our family, James... we come from them.”

  James had shivered at the words, though he didn’t fully understand them at the time. He only knew that his father spoke with the kind of weight that meant it was important. That it was something he needed to remember.

  James snapped back to reality, his breath coming faster. The fire was still there. His friends were still there. But for a moment, it had felt so real—like he was truly back in that small home, listening to his father’s voice.

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  He exhaled shakily.

  What the hell was happening to him?

  The tattoos on his skin pulsed faintly. He swallowed hard, willing himself to push the memory aside. He needed rest. Actual rest.

  Shifting against the stone floor, James closed his eyes again and let sleep take him.

  This time, his dreams did not belong to him.

  He was floating. Or maybe he was falling. It was impossible to tell in the endless void stretching around him. Stars shimmered in the distance, nebulas swirling with slow, hypnotic movement. The colors were deep—blues, purples, and the cold black of something endless.

  And then—shapes. Figures forming in the darkness.

  They weren’t human.

  Not entirely.

  Their bodies were made of shadow, barely outlined against the void, yet their eyes burned like distant galaxies. They whispered, though their words were not in any language James had ever heard. Still, he understood them.

  You are of us.

  You have forgotten.

  But we remember.

  James tried to speak, but his voice didn’t carry in the void.

  The figures shifted. Some seemed familiar, like faded memories he couldn’t grasp. Others were nothing more than silhouettes, specters of something long lost.

  Then, out of the darkness, another figure emerged.

  Unlike the others, this one had form—a towering, ancient man, draped in flowing robes that seemed woven from the very fabric of the void itself. His face was hidden beneath a deep hood, but when he spoke, it was directly into James’s mind.

  You are not ready to remember.

  James felt a chill crawl down his spine. “Remember what?”

  The void-man lifted a hand, and suddenly, James’s tattoos burned with an intense, searing light. The glow spread across his body, illuminating the darkness around him.

  It is not time.

  James gritted his teeth. “Who are you?”

  The figure took a step closer, void energy rippling in his wake.

  I am the last of what was forgotten.

  The words echoed in his mind, carrying weight beyond their meaning.

  James’s vision blurred. The dream was slipping—fading, pulling away from him like a receding tide.

  The last thing he heard before everything went black was the void-man’s final whisper:

  You will find us again.

  Then—

  Silence.

  And James woke up.

  His breath came fast, his body slick with sweat. The fire had burned lower, casting faint shadows against the cavern walls. His heart pounded in his chest as he sat up, trying to shake the lingering presence of the dream.

  But he couldn’t.

  Because his tattoos were still glowing.

  And as he stared at the markings, another memory surfaced—this time, one even older.

  He was a child again.

  The air smelled of old books and candle wax, the dim glow of his bedside lamp casting long shadows along the walls. He lay beneath thick blankets, staring up at his father—a man with sharp eyes and a tired smile—who sat at the edge of the bed, telling him a story.

  Not just any story. The story.

  The one he had asked for over and over again. The one about the people who were forgotten.

  “Long ago, before the world was set in stone, there was a place beyond the stars,” his father murmured. “A realm that was not darkness, but something deeper. A place where the First People lived.”

  James remembered how he had curled into his blankets, wide-eyed. “The First People?”

  His father nodded.

  “They were not gods, not in the way we think of them. They were wanderers, dreamers. They walked between the stars, leaving footprints in the void. But they were forgotten. Their names were lost, their history erased—not by war, not by time, but by something worse.”

  James swallowed. “What?”

  His father leaned in slightly, voice barely a whisper.

  “They forgot themselves.”

  A shiver had run down James’s spine, just as it did now in the dungeon, as the memory played out in perfect detail.

  “Without memory, they faded. Not dead, not gone, but… misplaced. Lost between the cracks of reality. And only one thing can bring them back.”

  James gripped his blankets. “What?”

  His father had smiled then—just slightly, but there was something sad behind it.

  “Blood.”

  James had blinked, confused. “Like… like a sacrifice?”

  His father chuckled. “No, James. A connection. A thread.” He reached out, tapping a finger against James’s forehead. “A memory strong enough to anchor them. Someone to remember them.”

  James furrowed his brows. “But if they’re forgotten, then who remembers?”

  His father’s smile didn’t fade, but the sadness in his eyes deepened.

  “We do.”

  James sat up in bed. “Who’s ‘we’?”

  His father hesitated. Just for a second. And then he spoke, his voice softer than before.

  “You’ll understand one day.”

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