Legend of the Unrecorded

The Name That Should Not Be Remembered. There are tales, as old as the stars themselves, passed from breath to breath, inked in gold upon silk-bound scrolls—fables beloved, retold, and polished by time. This is not one of them. This is the tale of one long buried—so thoroughly erased that even the dust dares not whisper his name. No bard recalls his sorrow. No historian charts his path. The winds have forgotten his voice, and even the stars, eternal in their watchfulness, have turned away. Where his legacy might have stood—a monument of glory or ruin—there is nothing. No ruin, no ash. Only silence. A silence so complete, so absolute, that the world itself recoils from its shape. They say that some truths are too heavy for the world to carry. That some memories are not lost but sealed. Bound in silence by gods and mortals alike. You, reader, may already feel it: that prickling behind your eyes, the quiet tightening in your chest. That is your soul remembering what your mind does not. That is the echo of a story older than memory, trying to claw its way free. You may still turn back. There is wisdom in forgetting, and mercy in ignorance. This tale is not kind. It does not comfort. It does not end in triumph. But if you must—if your heart compels you onward—then tread carefully. For once the veil is lifted, it may never fall again. Some knowledge cannot be unlearned. Some stories, once heard, return unbidden in the quiet watches of the night. So read, if you will. But do not pretend you were not warned.