The crimson moon hung low on the horizon, its light neither gentle nor cruel, but watchful.
It followed Lysander as he made his way north through the forgotten lands, the river at his side winding like a serpent that knew its destination far better than he.
He had stopped trying to explain the strange pull in his chest.
The book was gone, yet its words lingered in his mind—each one alive, each one whispering.
Follow the river until it forgets your name.
The landscape shifted as he traveled.
Forests gave way to stone plains, where ancient ruins rose like ribs from the earth. Birds no longer sang here; the only sound was the river's voice—a low, resonant hum that seemed to speak.
At night, when Lysander camped by its banks, he heard echoes in the water: fragments of laughter, distant prayers, the softest trace of a woman's voice.
Do not fear the silence. It is only memory learning to breathe again.
He didn't know if he was dreaming, or if the world itself had begun to remember.
By the fifth night, the air shimmered faintly. The moon's reflection in the river grew brighter, until it no longer mirrored the world above—it glowed from within.
When Lysander reached the northern cliffs, the river vanished into a sheer drop. Mist rose from below, carrying the faint scent of rain and silver.
And through that mist, he saw it—
what remained of the city of Elarion.
The towers lay in ruin, their marble cracked and overgrown, yet the place still breathed a strange grace. Light moved differently there—slower, heavier, as though each beam of moonlight carried centuries of memory within it.
He descended carefully. The stones beneath his boots hummed faintly, resonating to his heartbeat.
The moment he stepped into the city, he knew.
He had been here before. Not in body—but in dream.
Every street, every echo felt familiar.
And in the air hung a song—soft, endless, wordless.
She loved the world enough to let it go.
He found his way to the center of the ruins, where a wide courtyard opened beneath the moon. At its center stood a mirror-lake, still and perfect, reflecting only the sky.
As he approached, the water rippled.
Lysander stopped. His reflection did not move.
It smiled.
And then it spoke.
"You found me."
The voice was calm, ageless. Not frightening—but inevitable.
Lysander's breath caught. "Arenne?"
The reflection tilted its head, a faint smile ghosting across its lips. "Once, perhaps. But not as you imagine. I am what remains of her memory—the part that refused to die."
He knelt by the water. "Why call me here?"
"Because remembrance has chosen you," the reflection whispered. "You read what was meant to be forgotten. You spoke her name beneath the red moon. That was enough."
"Enough for what?"
The water rippled again—and for an instant, another form appeared beside the reflection of the queen. A woman of light, her presence soft, steady, and deeply familiar.
"To awaken what was left of love."
Lysander felt his heart stutter. He knew that face. Not from the manuscript—but from dreams that had haunted him since childhood.
The reflection of Seraphyne smiled. "You carry a piece of her—just as she carried a piece of me. That is how eternity remembers."
The air around the lake thickened with moonlight.
Shadows stirred in the ruins, gathering near the water's edge—shapes of people long gone, their outlines faint as breath.
Arenne's reflection turned her gaze to them. "The world remembers again. But memory is a living thing—it grows hungry when fed."
The spirits began to murmur, their voices rising like wind through hollow stone.
Queen…
Mother of Silence…
Do we live again?
Lysander's voice broke. "What's happening?"
Arenne looked at him—her eyes now pure silver. "The same choice returns. To remember everything is to lose the present. To forget is to lose love. The balance must be chosen again."
She stepped forward, her reflection rising from the water—no longer a shadow, but a figure of soft radiance and sorrow.
"Will you help me decide?" she asked.
Lysander's throat tightened. "Why me?"
"Because you are both mortal and dream. Because you listened."
The spirits circled them now, their light brushing against his skin like cool breath.
In that moment, Lysander saw flashes—memories not his own: a moonlit balcony, a crown of silver fire, two hands entwined.
He whispered, trembling, "If I choose to remember… will it bring her back?"
Arenne's voice was a whisper of grief. "No. But it may bring the world closer to what she was."
"And if I choose to forget?"
"Then peace will return. The moon will fade. And I will finally sleep."
Lysander's hands shook. "I don't know what's right."
She stepped closer, her touch light as starlight. "Neither did I. That's why eternity is cruel—it demands answers to questions that only hearts can ask."
The red moon rose higher, filling the ruins with its light.
The air trembled.
The water began to climb upward, forming columns of liquid silver around them.
The decision hung between breath and silence.
And in that moment, Lysander looked into her eyes—the same eyes that had watched centuries of love and loss—and said softly:
"I'll remember. Not everything. Just enough to keep love alive."
Arenne smiled. "Then you have chosen the world."
The light burst outward, flooding the ruins. The spirits lifted their heads, their faces serene as they faded once more into peace.
When the glow dimmed, Lysander stood alone.
The lake was still.
The red moon was gone.
And in the water's reflection, where his own face should have been, two silhouettes held each other beneath the light of a silver dawn.
He whispered into the silence,
"Sleep well, my queen."
The reflection smiled faintly, then vanished.