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Chapter 17 - Chapter 17 – No Name Left Behind

Night fell like a blade.

Cold, fast, and without warning.

The wind howled through the ravines beyond the Broken Choir's camp, carrying more than just dust and ash.

It carried whispers — prayers not meant for gods.

Raen stood at the edge of the makeshift war tent, fingers tracing the worn map Caela had spread across a cracked stone table.

Villages. Trails. Crossed-out names.

Each one, a place where the Pale Choir had passed.Each one, a silence that couldn't be undone.

"They hit Faylen Hollow three nights ago," Caela said, voice sharp. "Burned the chapel. Took everyone who still remembered what year it was."

"One survived," Jollen added, eyes narrowed. "A boy. Barely twelve. Name's Oren."

"He's Unwritten?"

"Not yet. But he's… remembering. His mother told him stories of the Hero Era. That was enough."

Raen looked at the path leading toward Faylen Hollow.

"Then we go."

They moved fast.

Raen. Dareth. Caela. Two scouts. No banners. No noise.

The Pale Choir moved in silence — and so would they.

The path was treacherous, wrapped in fog and shadow.

Dareth muttered under his breath the entire way.

"Saving one kid in a place already torched? Feels like bait."

"That's because it is," Raen said calmly.

Caela raised a brow. "Then why walk into it?"

Raen didn't turn back.

"Because if we don't pull him out… no one will."

"And if we don't show the world we protect those who remember…"

"Then we're no different than the ones who erased us."

Faylen Hollow was a corpse.

The once-charming village square was now cracked stone and blackened timber. The statue of some forgotten priest lay broken in half, face shattered.

A strange hush clung to the place — not the silence of peace.

The silence of preparation.

"Scouts said they took the boy to the old bell tower," Caela whispered."It's the highest point. Ritual ground."

"For memory-breaking," Dareth added grimly.

They split into pairs — Raen and Caela approached from below, scaling the collapsed garden path. Dareth and the scouts circled around the rear.

Each step closer to the tower made Raen's blade thrum.

Not in warning.

In rage.

The Pale Choir were here.

They reached the base of the tower. A pulsing hum echoed from within.

Then they heard it:

A voice, low and chanting, not quite human.

"Let the name be gone. Let the page go blank. Let Oren become unmade."

Raen moved without waiting.

He kicked the door open.

The room was lit in white flame — not fire, but essence.At its center, a boy knelt inside a ritual circle, chains of glowing scripture wrapped around him like thorns.

Three Pale Choir priests turned as Raen entered — their masks expressionless, their eyes blank.

One raised a hand.

"You do not belong."

Raen didn't answer.

He raised his blade.

"That boy remembers me."

"And that makes him worth saving."

The priests cast simultaneously — waves of forgetting slashing across the air.

Caela blocked the first with her gauntlet, wincing as memory peeled from her skin. She stumbled, nearly forgetting who she was.

Raen didn't stumble.

He charged.

The sword in his hand exploded with memoryfire — and he carved a clean line through the first caster's shoulder.

No blood.

Just disappearance.

The second priest lunged with a chain of words — scripture wrapped like a whip, seeking Raen's throat.

Caela intercepted, blades ringing out like a broken bell.

Dareth and the scouts crashed through the window above — lightning slamming into the final priest before he could complete the last line of the ritual.

The chains around the boy flickered.

But they held.

"They've anchored it," Jollen hissed from the door. "They wrote the boy's name into the Law of Loss."

Raen stepped forward.

He knelt beside the boy, hand trembling.

Oren looked up, dazed. Eyes glowing faintly with overwritten words.

"Who…" the boy whispered. "Who am I supposed to be?"

Raen placed his hand on Oren's chest.

Closed his eyes.

And whispered:

"You're someone who lived."

"That's enough."

He raised the sword high.

One swing.

He cut the air, the words, the Law itself.

The chains shattered.

Oren screamed — but not in pain.

In return.

His name burned in the air like a spark before fading into silence.

The ritual was broken.

Behind them, the Pale Choir began to retreat — not in panic, but in precision.

One priest looked back.

"This war will not end in memory."

"It will end in emptiness."

Raen didn't chase them.

He carried the boy out, bloodied, burned, breathing.

Alive.

That night, around the fire, Oren spoke.

He remembered a lullaby his mother used to sing — one with the names of heroes long erased.

Raen listened.

And then he added a new name to the end of the song:

"Oren Faylen, the boy who remembered."

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