Chapter Twelve:

  “Vale of Unmaking”

  The light behind them faded.

  There was no gate this time. No closing door. Just a slow dimming.

  Ahead stretched nothing.

  Not blackness. Not fog. Not shadow.

  Nothing.

  A blank expanse of white-gray stretched in all directions, lit by no sun, cast by no shadows. The floor wasn’t floor. It had no texture, no resistance, no weight. It simply existed beneath their boots.

  They walked.

  And the silence walked with them.

  No one spoke.

  Their footsteps made no sound.

  John stopped first.

  He turned, slowly. “Does this place have a name?”

  “Vale of Unmaking,” RW said, tail low. Her voice sounded far away, even to herself.

  Rai’s brow furrowed.

  "Unmaking of what?" Dorian asked.

  “Ourselves,” Helen murmured. Like it was something she’d known all along.

  They kept walking.

  Landmarks began to appear—but only fragments. A floating steeple. A piece of a coliseum. A hallway from the Bastion, hovering at a tilt. A vending machine from somewhere none of them could place.

  Helen glanced behind them. The path was gone.

  Dorian kicked at the ground. “This place feels like a bad memory trying to erase itself.”

  RW narrowed her eyes. “Exactly.”

  They kept moving.

  Somewhere behind them, a name tried to rise.

  And didn’t.

  It started small.

  A pause in the conversation. A name left unsaid.

  John turned to say something to Rai—and stopped.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He frowned. “I was going to say your name.”

  “You just did.”

  “No. I was... I don’t know.”

  They kept walking.

  A few paces later, Helen reached for her sword.

  It wasn’t there.

  She looked down. The sheath was still strapped to her back. But it felt too light.

  Dorian’s jacket had lost its color—its red trim faded to gray. He didn’t notice at first. When he did, he tugged the sleeve.

  “Was this always this dull?”

  RW stared at a warped shard of mirror floating to their left. She didn’t blink.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  John asked, “What do you see?”

  She didn’t look away. “A room I know. But I can’t remember where it is.”

  RW’s reflection turned in the mirror, then vanished.

  Silence fell again.

  Names came slower. Faces felt looser. They began to watch each other like strangers on a shared path, familiar only by shape.

  John slowed. “We’re being unwritten.”

  Rai stopped beside him. “We need to anchor.”

  Dorian blinked. “Anchor to what?”

  Rai didn’t know what she meant yet—but she knew they couldn’t keep walking blind.

  No one had an answer.

  The ground flickered.

  For a second—just one—they all saw something else.

  John blinked and stood on a beach he didn’t remember. Rai’s war fan was in her hand again, but it was made of parchment and burning. Helen held a child’s hand. She didn’t know whose. Dorian’s voice came out of someone else’s mouth. RW stared at a second RW, identical and motionless, whispering something in reverse.

  Then it was gone.

  They were back on the white plain.

  No one spoke.

  John wiped at his eyes, even though he hadn’t cried.

  “We need to keep moving,” Rai said. But she looked at her hands like they might not be hers.

  They found the circle without meaning to.

  One moment, the blankness stretched on. The next, they were standing before six stone pillars, worn by time and weather, arranged in a perfect ring. Each bore a name—but the names had been scraped away.

  The air around the pillars buzzed, like the whole place had a secret and it was trying not to laugh while telling it.

  Each pillar pulsed once when the group stepped close.

  RW stopped first. Her fur bristled.

  John stepped toward one. “I think they’re waiting.”

  “For what?” Dorian asked.

  Rai answered. “For us. To remember.”

  A low hum began—quiet, persistent, like a hospital monitor in a dream you can't quite wake up from.

  One by one, they approached.

  The first to speak was Helen.

  She placed her hand on the stone.

  “I am Helen Athenidis,” she said. “And I will not forget that strength means standing up, even when the world wants you down.”

  Her pillar lit with a pale gold light.

  Next was Dorian.

  “I am Dorian.” He paused. “Last name’s... probably a lie.”

  That got a weak smile from RW.

  “But I won’t forget I lived because someone else didn’t. And I won’t waste that.”

  His pillar flared with amber.

  Rai went next.

  “I am Rai of Chiba,” she said. “And I will not forget the friends who bled beside me.”

  Her stone glowed pale blue.

  RW padded forward. She said nothing for a long time.

  Then:

  “I am RW. I’ve had other names. This one’s mine.”

  She blinked slowly. “I won’t forget who gave it to me.”

  Soft green light shimmered across the stone.

  John went last.

  He didn’t touch the pillar at first.

  Then he whispered:

  “I am John Graves.”

  A pause.

  “And I will not forget that I came here to save someone. And that someone wasn’t just me.”

  His stone flared brightest of all.

  The light spread, not gently but like it was cracking a shell around the world to see what was inside.

  And the white began to break.

  The light from the Pillars of Self hadn’t faded.

  But the ground around them cracked.

  Not like stone breaking. Like something beneath it wanted out.

  A sound followed—a low, warbling hiss, full of teeth and grief. Then came the scream. Not one voice. Many. All too human.

  Six shadows erupted from the fractures. Not shadows cast by light. Shadows that made light recoil.

  Tall. Winged. Clawed.

  Each Keres stood gaunt and towering, with wings like torn sails and skin stretched tight over sinew. Their claws dripped smoke. Their breath stank of old blood and broken promises.

  Their eyes were hollow. Their mouths were too wide.

  And they came for them.

  Helen met the first with a full-bodied swing. Her sword rang out—clean, clear, real. The Keres shrieked as if struck by fire.

  “They’re feeding,” Rai shouted. “On what we just claimed!”

  A Keres dove for RW.

  She froze—eyes wide. Her ears dropped. Her name was slipping.

  “RW!” Rai shouted. “Your name is RW!”

  The sound hit like a jolt. RW twisted midair, claws flashing. She landed on the Keres’ back and raked it open. No blood—just memory, spilling in silver vapor.

  Dorian was laughing. Bleeding from his shoulder. “You freaks picked the wrong guilt pile today!”

  A Keres whispered in his ear—“You left her. You always do.”

  His axe didn’t waver. “Yeah,” he said. “And now I swing for both of us.”

  He crushed the Keres into the floor.

  Another lunged for John.

  He crossed his blades, blocking the strike. “Not this time,” he whispered.

  They were losing ground. Too many. Too fast.

  Until Rai called out—loud, clear:

  “I am Rai of Chiba! And I remember!”

  The Keres flinched.

  John’s eyes lit with recognition.

  “Speak your truths!” he shouted. “Say them! Out loud!”

  Helen raised her blade. “I am Helen Athenidis!"

  RW snarled. “I am RW—and this name is mine!”

  Dorian swung wide. “I’m Dorian. And I remember why I live!”

  Each declaration hit like a blade. Each Keres faltered.

  John faced the last one. It wasn’t charging. It was drifting—toward a figure in the mist, still kneeling, still flickering. For a heartbeat, John thought it was himself. The shape was too familiar. Too close. He’d never met Roland, never seen him—and yet there he was. Or wasn’t. The doubt made him freeze.

  “No,” John growled.

  He charged.

  Both blades forward.

  “I remember all of you. And I am not letting go again.”

  He struck.

  The Keres shattered—into mist, into light, into silence.

  The battlefield fell still.

  Roland stirred.

  He blinked.

  Then spoke.

  “Do I know you?”

  A stairway appeared beyond the mist. Carved into black stone.

  It led down.

  And the group followed.