The air in the forgotten alley tasted like dust and faded memories. Kael stood cloaked in shadows deeper than the twilight, his breath a silent puff in the chilled evening. This was where he came, night after night, for the grim work no one else could, or would, do. A young man, barely older than Kael himself, lay huddled against a rain-slicked wall, eyes wide with terror, mumbling about a forgotten debt, a whispered secret. The details didn't matter. What mattered was the desperation in the eyes of the person who'd paid Kael's fee, and the plea to erase what had been seen, what had been heard.
Kael lifted his hand, palm open. His fingers, long and slender, shimmered faintly with the pale, ephemeral light of his magic. It wasn't the vibrant, roaring fire of elemental sorcery, nor the sharp, crystalline glow of ward-weaving. His magic was a whisper, a gentle fog that seeped into the mind, softening the edges of memory, then dissolving them entirely. It felt like nothing, and everything, at once.
He pressed his thumb gently against the young man's temple. A shiver ran through the stranger, not of pain, but of a profound, disorienting peace. Kael focused, calling upon the cursed spell that was his birthright and his burden. He saw the threads of recent memory, vivid and fragile—a stolen glance, a hushed conversation, the glint of a blade under moonlight. With a sigh that only he could hear, Kael pulled. The threads unwound, faded, then snapped, leaving behind a smooth, blank expanse.
When Kael withdrew his hand, the young man blinked, his terror replaced by a blank confusion, then a weary resignation. He pushed himself up, rubbing his head, a vague sense of unease his only companion. "What… what was I doing here?" he muttered, looking around with bewildered eyes. He didn't remember the debt, the secret, or the sorcerer who had just altered his reality. He didn't remember Kael at all.
Kael watched him stumble away, an invisible echo in the deepening gloom. This was his existence. To touch lives, alter destinies, yet remain forgotten. His name, his face, his very presence—all were erased from the minds of those he helped, those he harmed, and those who simply witnessed his work. He was a ghost in a world of vibrant, remembering souls. He was halfblood, a curse, a power that made him disappear even as he wielded it. And tonight, like every night, the only memory he couldn't erase was his own. The ache of it settled deep in his bones, a constant reminder of every face he'd seen, every secret he'd buried, and the crushing solitude that was his eternal companion.
The damp chill of the alley clung to Kael's clothes, a familiar embrace. He pulled his hood lower, even though he knew no one would truly see him. It was a habit, a reflex born of years spent fading into the background. He moved through the labyrinthine streets of Veridia, a city that pulsed with life and magic, yet offered him no warmth, no recognition. The market stalls were beginning to pack up, their vibrant colors dimming as dusk deepened. Laughter drifted from taverns, the clinking of coins, the sweet scent of spiced wine—sounds and smells that were part of a world he merely observed, never truly participated in.
His walk took him past the shimmering, crystalline spires of the Royal Palace, a stark reminder of the kingdom's power and the sorcerers who wielded it openly, celebrated for their gifts. Kael's own magic was a secret, a curse. He wasn't a guardian, nor a healer, nor a mender of enchantments. He was the one who cleaned up the messy bits, the inconvenient truths, the memories that threatened the fragile peace of the kingdom. He was a broom, sweeping away what others wanted gone, and then, inevitably, being swept away himself.
A sudden, sharp clang shattered the routine quiet of his journey. It came from a narrow passage between two tall, unadorned buildings, far from the palace guards' usual patrol. It was a sound of metal on stone, followed by a faint, pained gasp. Kael, despite his ingrained desire for anonymity, found his feet moving towards the sound. It wasn't his nature to seek out trouble, but a flicker of curiosity, perhaps even a subconscious need for connection, drew him in.
He peered into the darkness of the passage. A faint, almost imperceptible glow pulsed in the shadows, accompanied by the metallic tang of fresh blood. Lying slumped against the rough stone wall was a figure, cloaked and still. As Kael drew closer, the glow intensified, revealing intricate, shimmering runes woven into the fabric of the figure's garments – runes that pulsed with an ancient, raw magic unlike anything Kael had ever encountered. This wasn't the refined magic of Veridia. This was something wild, dangerous, and very, very old.
He knelt, his hand hovering. The figure was a girl, her face obscured by a mess of dark, tangled hair. One hand was pressed to her side, where a dark stain bloomed on her cloak. Even in her stillness, there was a fierce, almost untamed energy about her. As Kael reached out, a flicker of movement. Her eyes, wide and startled, snapped open, locking onto his. They weren't just wild; they held a depth of ancient fear and a spark of defiant fire. And from her lips, barely a whisper, came words that chilled Kael to his very core, words that resonated with the forgotten magic he had just sensed: "They will forget. Everyone. But you... you can't."