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The Last EchoThe spell was spoken in silence. Not because the mage feared interruption, but because even sound could betray the truth. Words had power - in this kingdom, more than steel - and if even a whisper of what was done here survived, the entire illusion would collapse. So he mouthed the syllables with bloodied fingers, tracing sigils in the air with trembling hands, casting memory itself into ash. One by one, their names were erased. The old king. His heirs. The council that stood beside them. Loyal knights, loyal scribes, loyal friends - all unwritten. Stone cracked and scrolls burned, but worse still, minds bent and reshaped under the weight of the spell. Whole villages forgot why their banners flew half-mast. Lovers forgot the faces of those they had sworn to die for. History, it was said, belonged to the victors. But in this kingdom, history belonged to the spellcasters.

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