Roman staggered as the battlefield memory tightened around him.
The phantom plain stretched wide—spears driven into mud, banners torn by storm winds, bodies strewn like discarded husks. But there was no Roman. His footprints had been smoothed over, his axe absent from the pile of broken weapons.
The Archivist's decree whispered:
"Unwritten."
Roman's veins bulged. His fists clenched so hard blood ran from his palms. "No!" His voice thundered across the false battlefield, shaking the phantom banners. "I was there! I held the line when no one else would!"
The scene resisted. It twisted, tried to swallow him, to smooth over his existence like a hand erasing ink from parchment. The blurred soldiers marched forward without him, the war continued as though he had never stood there at all.
Roman's knees buckled. His outline flickered, pale threads peeling from his form like he was being rewritten into nothingness.
