The chapel stood alone on a hill of silence.
Its stonework was old, not with age, but with omission. Places where bricks should have been left blank. Windows framed nothing. The bell tower had no bell.
Even time avoided this place. The sun hesitated overhead, unsure whether to rise or fall.
Echo and Curata reached the chapel's crooked steps with caution. No glyphs marked the doors. No wards shimmered. And yet… the entire building pulsed with narrative gravity, as though a protagonist had once lived here but never finished the sentence.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and forgotten blessings.
Pews stood in neat rows, but none cast shadows. The altar bore no symbol – only a faint outline, like something had been erased. A blade? A crown? A name?
And then they saw him.
Slumped against the back wall, asleep or unconscious, was a figure draped in muted grey. Armor dulled with neglect. Bandages wrapped around his left arm, stained with something deeper than blood.
His face was peaceful. Too peaceful.
Curata approached first, kneeling beside him. "Breathing. Pulse steady."
Echo stepped closer.
The man stirred. Not all at once – like his mind was waking in pieces.
He opened his eyes.
For a moment, they were just eyes. Blue, tired, distant.
Then they flickered.
Recognition. Not of the world – but of absence.
"Who…?" the man asked.
"We're not your enemies," Echo said gently.
The man looked at his own hands.
"I was someone," he whispered. "But the memories... they come without names. I know I wielded a sword. I remember betrayal. I remember fire."
He tried to stand. His legs shook, but Curata caught him.
"You were removed," she said. "Redacted. Something ended you, but not cleanly."
He blinked at her. "Is that why I don't have a name?"
Echo nodded. "Your arc was stolen. You exist between the lines now."
The man touched his chest.
"No title. No prophecy. No lovers. But I remember fighting for something. Or… against something."
He looked at them with growing clarity.
"You're not part of the Canon."
"We're not," Echo said. "We're here to help you remember – not everything. Just enough."
The man looked around the chapel.
"This place – it was meant to be sacred. I was supposed to guard it. Or maybe fall here."
He paused.
"I hate this feeling. Like I'm someone else's margin note."
Curata met his gaze. "You are. But we can re-anchor you."
He considered this, then nodded once.
"I'll come with you. I don't know who I was. But maybe walking with people who still have direction will help."
Echo reached into his satchel and drew a tiny relic: the quill fragment he recovered from the Compiler's collapse. It shimmered faintly in the presence of the man.
He handed it over.
"You may not remember your name," Echo said, "but your story still echoes. This belongs to you."
The man took the fragment. The moment he touched it, his arm bristled with faded script. Broken glyphs lit up along his forearm, then vanished into his skin.
"I remember fire," he said quietly. "A sky that bled words. A war against someone called…"
He winced.
"Never mind."
Curata placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let it come in pieces. You've survived worse than forgetting."
"Do I get a name now?"
Echo looked at the broken altar.
"Until you remember yours," he said, "let's call you Ash."
The man – Ash – smiled faintly.
"Fitting. Ashes mean something once burned."
They helped him to his feet.
As they left the chapel, Echo glanced back one last time.
He saw, just for a heartbeat, a shimmer behind the altar.
Words.
Faint.
Like a ghost still clinging to the wall:
"He who fell before the climax shall rise between arcs."
Curata noticed too.
"We were meant to find him."
Echo nodded.
But the moment they stepped beyond the chapel grounds, the wind shifted.
Cold.
Too cold.
From the edge of the horizon, a ripple tore through the Canon.
Not a Compiler.
Not yet.
But a Scout.
A thin shadow flitted between trees, trailing ellipses behind it. Three dots. Always watching. Always pausing.
Ash reached for a sword he no longer carried.
Echo drew his glyph-blade.
Curata whispered, "They know."
"Let them," Echo said. "We've rewritten the terms."