In the beginning, there was silence. Then came Arlishmane.
The god of names. The architect of forgetting.
He carved the skies with his voice and shattered truth with a whisper.
He gave the world language, then cursed it with silence.
He gave it power, then buried it in time.
And above all else, he gave the realm its most sacred law:
At the age of thirteen, you forget.
Every day. Every night. Every moment.
Wiped clean.
No memories remain. No friendships endure. No history survives.
Only the present, and the ache of something you *should have remembered.
The realm was once called by many names.
Now, it answers to only one—an ancient word pieced together from lost tongues:
> Crova— Luck
> Va — Hope
> Lferd—Land
Together: Crovaa'lferd.
The land where even hope is forgotten.
No one carries a name here.
To give someone your name is to offer them power,ten percent of your essence, your mana, your will.
A name is sacred. Dangerous. Divine.
And so, they live nameless.
All except one.
He was born in the city of Serifvloum, where power is worshipped and names are feared.
A city built on ancient ruins and crowned with twenty-five moons.
He laughed louder than thunder, ran faster than the wind.
He believed life was a game. And memory? A joke.
Until the day he turned thirteen.
That was the day he saw an old man struck by a speeding truck.
The boy didn't care—until he realized...
That man was his father. And by morning, he would no longer remember.
Now, somewhere in a drawer, hidden beneath scraps of clothing and dust-covered carvings,
sits a journal.
Inside that journal: truths that cannot be remembered.
Feelings that cannot be erased.
A single name, written in trembling ink—over and over again.