Cities survived by forgetting.
They forgot faces, names, and pasts with ruthless efficiency. People passed through in waves—merchants, soldiers, fugitives, pilgrims—and the city absorbed them all, stripping identity down to function. That was how order was maintained. That was how chaos was diluted.
Kael needed that kind of indifference.
They reached the city by late afternoon, descending from the hills as stone roads widened and traffic thickened. High walls rose ahead—patched, reinforced, rebuilt so many times that no single architectural style remained intact. Banners fluttered above the gates, faded by sun and soot, bearing the sigil of a minor imperial district.
No one looked twice at them.
That alone was telling.
Rowan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "It worked."
"For now," Darian replied. "Cities forget quickly—but they remember patterns."
Kael kept his hood down as they joined the flow of travelers. His senses brushed the edges of the city cautiously. The density of people muted perception; heat signatures blurred together, sounds overlapped until meaning dissolved into noise.
The oath compressed instinctively.
Good.
Inside the walls, the city unfolded in layers. Outer markets buzzed with trade and noise. Inner districts tightened into narrow streets and stacked dwellings. Watch posts dotted intersections, manned by guards who looked bored rather than alert.
This was not a city preparing for war.
It was a city preparing for dinner.
Kael felt the difference immediately.
They split up.
Not far—just enough to avoid moving as a unit. Rowan headed toward the outer markets to find food and information. Darian sought records, postings, anything official that might hint at shifting priorities.
Kael moved inward.
He did not know exactly what he was looking for. Only that the city's forgetting would not be uniform. Some places remembered better than others.
He found it near the center.
A square that should have been loud—but wasn't.
Stone statues ringed the open space, weathered beyond recognition. Their faces had been worn smooth by time and neglect, names long since eroded from their bases. No vendors lingered here. Foot traffic skirted the edges without crossing the center.
Kael slowed.
The air felt… thin.
Not empty—suppressed.
Old wards, barely functional, clung to the space like dying embers. This square had once been important. Dangerous enough to require containment.
Kael knelt briefly, pressing his palm to the stone.
The oath stirred.
Not eagerly.
Cautiously.
"You feel it too," Kael murmured.
The abyss did not answer—but it did not retreat.
A presence lingered here, faint but persistent. Not the abyss. Not imperial authority.
Something else.
"Looking for answers?"
Kael rose smoothly, turning without surprise.
A woman stood at the edge of the square, leaning against a pillar as if she had always been there. She wore simple clothing, unremarkable in cut and color, yet Kael's senses slid over her without finding purchase.
That was not normal.
"I'm passing through," Kael said evenly.
She smiled faintly. "Everyone says that."
Kael studied her. No insignia. No obvious weapon. Her posture was relaxed, but balanced—ready to move in any direction.
"What is this place?" Kael asked.
"A memory," she replied. "One the city decided was inconvenient."
Kael's gaze flicked to the statues. "And you?"
"I make a living off what cities pretend not to see."
Kael felt the oath tighten—not in warning, but in recognition.
A watcher.
Not imperial.
Not abyssal.
"Should I be concerned?" Kael asked.
"That depends," she said lightly. "Do you intend to make the city remember you?"
Kael held her gaze. "Not today."
She nodded. "Then we're aligned."
Silence stretched between them, measured.
"Names matter here," she continued. "Less than elsewhere, but not never."
Kael considered. "Call me Ash."
Her eyes flickered—not in surprise, but interest.
"Careful," she said. "Ashes are hard to sweep away once they settle."
Kael allowed himself a faint smile. "That's the idea."
She pushed off the pillar. "Then a free piece of advice, Ash."
Kael waited.
"This city forgets crimes quickly," she said. "But it never forgets disruptions to trade."
Kael inclined his head. "Noted."
She turned to leave, then paused. "And one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Your shadow doesn't belong to you alone anymore."
With that, she disappeared into the crowd—not through speed or trickery, but by becoming unremarkable.
Kael did not move for several breaths.
Crowds flowed around him, filling the space the woman had occupied as if she had never been there. Laughter rose from a nearby street. Somewhere, metal rang against stone. The city resumed its rhythm without hesitation.
Yet the square felt altered.
Kael stepped forward cautiously, crossing the invisible boundary that most people avoided without knowing why. The air thickened slightly, pressing against his skin with a dull resistance. Old wards stirred weakly, responding not to threat, but to presence.
He felt watched.
Not openly. Not aggressively.
Measured.
Kael knelt again, palm resting against the cold stone at the center of the square. This time, he let his senses sink deeper—not into the abyss, but sideways, feeling for impressions left behind rather than power.
Fragments surfaced.
A public execution, long past.
A failed uprising smothered before it ignited.
Names erased from records, statues left to weather until memory followed.
The city had not forgotten these things by accident.
It had practiced.
Kael withdrew his hand.
"This place teaches people how to look away," he murmured.
The oath stirred faintly, uneasy. It did not like places where power was muted without being destroyed.
Kael rose and circled the square slowly. As he did, he noticed the watchers—not guards, not spies in the traditional sense, but adjustments in the crowd. A vendor who closed shop a little too quickly. A child redirected by a parent's sudden grip. A beggar who met Kael's eyes for half a second too long, then looked away.
Observation without confrontation.
The most dangerous kind.
Kael exited the square and blended into a narrower street lined with stacked housing and hanging laundry. He adjusted his pace, posture, presence—compressing himself inward the way the city demanded.
So this is how you survive here, he thought.
By being less than you are.
He did not like it.
Darian found him an hour later near a public fountain fed by an ancient aqueduct. The man's expression was tight, controlled.
"This city's playing a long game," Darian said quietly. "Trade's steady, but resources are shifting. Grain stockpiles moved inward. Guard rotations changed, but not increased."
Kael nodded. "Containment without panic."
"Yes," Darian agreed. "Someone expects trouble—but doesn't want anyone else to notice."
Rowan joined them moments later, carrying wrapped food. His voice dropped as he spoke. "People stop talking when certain topics come up. Like there's an unspoken line."
Kael met his gaze. "That line runs through the square."
Rowan frowned. "You found something there."
"I was found," Kael corrected.
They moved again, this time toward the inner districts where buildings rose higher and streets narrowed further. Kael felt the city close around him—not hostile, but selective. Every step inward traded freedom for anonymity.
As dusk approached, lamps were lit one by one, bathing the streets in warm, uneven light. Shadows pooled in doorways and alley corners, stretching longer than they should have.
Kael slowed.
The oath stirred—not sharply, but alert.
Someone followed them.
Not closely.
Patiently.
Kael altered course twice, weaving through side streets and stairways that climbed between buildings. The presence adjusted each time, never losing distance, never closing it.
He stopped abruptly near a dead-end courtyard.
The presence stopped too.
Kael turned.
No one stood there.
Yet the pressure remained.
"Not an attack," Kael said softly. "A test."
The oath agreed.
He waited.
After a long moment, the pressure eased.
Whoever watched them had learned what they needed.
Rowan swallowed. "I don't like that."
Kael nodded. "Good instincts."
They secured a place to stay for the night in a communal lodging where names were not asked and faces were forgotten by morning. Kael lay awake long after the others slept, staring at the low ceiling as the city murmured around him.
The woman's words echoed in his mind.
Your shadow doesn't belong to you alone anymore.
He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the quiet ache left by the abyss.
"I know," he whispered.
Outside, the city continued to forget.
Inside, Kael learned exactly what that forgetting cost.
Kael remained still.
The oath stirred faintly, uneasy.
Darian found him later, expression grim. "Postings are changing. Quietly. Resource movement. Additional observers."
Rowan returned soon after. "People are talking—but carefully."
Kael looked back toward the empty square.
"So am I," he said.
The city continued its routines—buying, selling, forgetting.
But beneath the stone and noise, lines were being drawn.
And Kael Vireon—called Ash, called worse—had just stepped into a place that remembered too much, even as it pretended otherwise.