The City of Faith
The Holy Kingdom stretched beneath the veil of night, its pristine white towers illuminated by the glow of thousands of floating lanterns. The capital was a sanctuary, its streets quiet save for the faint hum of prayers drifting from the grand cathedral. The stillness seemed eternal, yet Atlas felt a storm brewing within.
Standing on the balcony of the royal guest quarters, Atlas gripped the stone railing. The cold wind tousled his dark hair as his thoughts churned. A faint whisper of a name lingered on the edge of his mind—a name he couldn't place but which haunted him with every passing moment.
"Leon..." The word slipped past his lips, carried off by the breeze. His chest tightened, frustration coiling within him. Why did that name feel like a lifeline and a burden all at once?
The chiming of bells shattered the quiet, their sound echoing across the city like a summons he couldn't ignore.
---
The Fractured Council
The council chamber was a stark contrast to the serene streets outside. Priests and nobles sat around a crescent table, their faces etched with tension. At the center of it all stood Cardinal Isolde, her silver hair gleaming in the torchlight. Her piercing gaze locked onto Atlas as he entered.
"You've kept us waiting, Duke De Luna," she said, her voice calm but cutting.
Atlas inclined his head, his posture stiff. "I had matters to attend to."
A murmur rippled through the room, priests whispering behind their hands. Isolde's expression didn't waver. "Matters more pressing than the impending war with Fleur? Your allies grow restless, and your absence fuels their distrust."
Atlas's fingers curled into fists at his sides. He knew the alliance was precarious, fragile as glass under the weight of Fleur's advances. Leon's name flickered in his mind again, accompanied by a pang of guilt. Yet something rooted him to the Holy Kingdom, a sense that the answers he sought lay hidden here.
"I am here now," Atlas replied, his voice steady but strained. "What do you require of me?"
Isolde gestured to a map spread across the table. "Intelligence from Fleur suggests their forces are advancing toward the Eastern borders. Worse still, they may have uncovered the location of the Relic of Ashen Light."
A ripple of unease passed through the room. The relic was more than a simple artifact; it was a key to power, capable of amplifying a Guide's abilities beyond comprehension—or destruction.
Atlas's jaw tightened. "And the Holy Kingdom's stance?"
Isolde's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. "Protection, of course. The relic cannot fall into the hands of Fleur—or anyone else."
The words hung heavy in the air. It was clear the Holy Kingdom had no intention of sharing the relic, even with their supposed allies. Atlas bit back his retort, knowing diplomacy was the only path forward.
---
Whispers in the Archives
Later that night, Atlas found himself drawn to the shadowed halls of the Holy Kingdom's archives. The air grew colder as he descended the spiral staircase, faint runes along the walls glowing with ethereal light. Ancient tomes lined the shelves, their spines etched with symbols of forgotten languages.
A faint hum vibrated through the air, resonating with the ache in Atlas's chest. He followed it, each step carrying him deeper into the shadows.
In a secluded alcove, a figure waited. Cloaked in shadow, they radiated an unsettling calm.
"You've taken your time," the figure said, their voice smooth and mocking. They stepped into the light, revealing angular features and glowing, unnatural eyes. A smirk tugged at their lips.
Atlas's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his blade. "Who are you?"
The figure chuckled. "Names are irrelevant. What matters is what I took from you."
Atlas's breath hitched, his grip tightening. "My memories. You're the one who—"
"—freed you," the figure interrupted, their tone laced with mockery. "You were weak, Duke De Luna. A slave to your emotions, blinded by attachment. I simply... removed the distraction."
Rage surged through Atlas as he lunged, his blade slicing through the air—but the figure dissolved into shadow, their laughter echoing through the chamber.
---
The Shard of Truth
Atlas's breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. He turned, scanning the alcove for any trace of the intruder. His gaze fell on an object left behind on the pedestal where the figure had stood: a shard of obsidian etched with glowing runes. It pulsed faintly in the dark.
He approached it cautiously, his fingers brushing the cold surface. A rush of fragmented images surged through his mind—flashes of a warm smile, a child's laughter, and a name: Leon.
The memories slammed into him with the force of a tidal wave. Atlas stumbled back, his chest heaving as his mind reeled. He didn't remember everything, but he knew enough. Leon was the missing piece, the tether to a part of himself he thought lost.
A voice whispered in his mind, low and mocking. "You'll find the answers you seek, but you may not like them."
Atlas clenched the shard in his hand, the edges biting into his palm. Whoever had taken his memories had underestimated him. He would reclaim what was his—his memories, his family, and the man whose name now burned in his heart.
As he ascended the staircase, determination replaced doubt. The war with Fleur was no longer just a battle for power. It was personal.