The book remained a weight in my hand, and I knew it was only the beginning. The city had felt vast and endless, but now it felt different—closed off, like a labyrinth hiding a treasure it didn't want me to find. I realized with a creeping certainty that something, or someone, was aware of me, tracking each step I took.
As I walked through the shifting streets, an uncanny presence followed. It was subtle, like a shadow just out of sight, but every so often, I caught a glimpse—a figure cloaked in shadow, just at the edge of my vision. It moved with an inhuman grace, disappearing the moment I turned to face it.
And then, it spoke, its voice low and rippling, carrying an edge that felt like knives scraping across stone. "You tread where only the forgotten may walk, memory-bearer."
I froze. My pulse raced, but I forced myself to keep calm. "Who are you?"
The figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in darkness that seemed to bleed into the air around it. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but I could see the faint glow of eyes that shimmered with an unnatural light. "We are the Weavers, the keepers of what is forgotten. We protect the threads of reality from those who would tear them."
I clenched the book tighter. "Why erase these memories? Why bury these stories?"
"Because they are dangerous," the Weaver hissed, a sharpness cutting through its voice. "Each forgotten memory, each erased story—each one is a ripple, a distortion in the fabric of existence. Some things were meant to fade. Not all stories were meant to be told."
I felt a surge of defiance, a fire ignited by the weight of those lost memories. "But someone needs to remember. These stories—they're pieces of something greater, fragments of lives that mattered."
The Weaver took a step closer, the air thickening with its presence. "Every time you remember, you are pulling the world closer to ruin. The memories may seem harmless, but they are the foundations of forgotten wars, of broken kingdoms and forsaken gods. If you continue, if you defy us… you risk waking powers that should never see the light of day."
I held my ground, meeting the Weaver's gaze, even though every instinct screamed at me to turn away. "Then why let me find the memories in the first place? Why not destroy them?"
A flicker of something—an emotion I couldn't read—passed over the Weaver's shrouded face. "Because the world is built on the fragile balance between memory and oblivion. Someone must hold the stories, must bear the weight of what was lost. You are the memory-bearer. But know this—you are one of many, and you are not the first. Nor will you be the last."
The Weaver's form began to fade, dissolving into the shadows, but its final words lingered in the air.
"Choose wisely, memory-bearer. For every memory you reclaim, another thread unravels. And if you are not careful… the world itself may collapse into the stories it sought to forget."