They do not remember the city that once stood here.
Not its towers, nor its name.
Not the way the bell tolled at dusk, or the color of the banners that fluttered over its gates.
Only the marked remember.
And they are dying.
On the edge of the Erased Lands, where grey dust chokes the air and even the stars seem hesitant to shine, an old man draws sigils into the soil with shaking fingers. His eyes are cloudy, but he sees more than most. His breath is thin, but every word he speaks carries weight.
"They are coming," he whispers, to no one in particular. "They who unmake."
He finishes the mark — a spiral burning with faint gold — and exhales one last time.
Miles away, in the kingdom of Varikar, a girl wakes screaming. The same sigil burns beneath her skin, glowing like fire through flesh.
She remembers a city no one else recalls.
She remembers its name.
And that is a curse.