The whispers did not fade. They lingered, thin as breath, curling and twisting at the edges of the firelight, elusive and intangible. They were not words—not yet, at least—but a presence, the weight of something intangible waiting to be spoken, as if the air itself was holding its breath. The knights around the fire pretended not to hear, though their eyes darted restlessly in the darkness. No one acknowledged the whispers directly, but their effect was undeniable—an invisible thread, stretching taut between them all, binding them in shared uncertainty.
As the fire burned low and the night deepened, the knights settled into uneasy rest. Sleep, however, eluded them. Their bodies lay still, but their minds were awake, caught in the web of something ancient and unknowable. When morning finally came, it was with a strange, suffocating weight. The sun rose as it always did, casting pale light over the camp. The camp stirred, its daily routine unfolding as it always had—but the air had shifted. The very atmosphere felt different, like a breath held too long, pregnant with something unspoken. There was a subtle absence that clung to them all, a half-formed idea that lingered in the corners of their thoughts, a feeling that something had changed—though none could say what, exactly.
The knights moved stiffly, their eyes flickering nervously to the dark expanse of the tree line. Their hands hovered near their weapons, a reflex born of a sudden, nameless fear. No one spoke of what had happened in the night; the silence that surrounded them was heavy with the unspoken truth. But they all carried it—each one of them bearing the same invisible weight. The weight of that figure, seen only at the edge of the firelight, and the whispers that had come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. "Not yet."
Erasmus sat near the embers, his hands resting lightly on his knees. His gaze was distant, unfocused, as though he were seeing something far beyond the flames. His mind was busy, not with the entity itself, but with what it had left behind—a mark, an impression, a subtle shift in the fabric of their reality. Something had already changed, something beneath the surface, and Erasmus could feel it. A suggestion. A whisper that this moment—this world—was not as it had been before.
And then, as if summoned by the weight of his thoughts, a voice cut through the quiet. "You knew."
Erasmus turned, his gaze settling on Jory. The knight stood with his shoulders tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The accusation in his tone was clear, though his expression held no outright fury—at least, not yet. Erasmus met his gaze evenly, his lips curving into a thin smile. "I suspected," he replied smoothly. "There's a difference."
Jory's jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath his skin. "You weren't surprised."
Erasmus did not deny it. He let the silence stretch between them, watching as the other knights began to stir, their rest disturbed by the tension that now hummed in the air. The camp was coming to life, but it felt wrong. They moved like ghosts, their motions stiff and uneasy. The fear that had settled in their bones was palpable. They had felt it, too—the presence of something beyond their understanding.
And then, as though to break the tension, a voice rang out from the camp. "Riven," someone said, their voice sharp with an edge of panic. "Say it again."
Erasmus turned slightly, his gaze falling on a squire—a younger one—who stared at Riven with wide, confused eyes. Riven stood stoically, his expression unreadable. "Say what?" he asked, brow furrowing in confusion.
"What you said last night," the squire pressed, voice rising slightly in his distress. "About Erasmus."
Silence fell over the camp, thick and heavy. The other knights turned their attention to Riven, waiting for him to speak. Riven's expression remained unchanged, but a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes. "I said," he began slowly, "he came, and people started dying."
The squire shook his head violently, a flash of panic crossing his face. "No. That's not— That's not what you said."
The air thickened, charged with an unspoken dread. The others exchanged uneasy glances, the tension mounting with each passing second. Riven's gaze narrowed, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. "Then what did I say?" he demanded.
The squire's mouth opened, but no words came. His face twisted in frustration, straining to remember. Erasmus watched, his interest piqued, sensing the unraveling of something far deeper than they could yet comprehend.
The squire stepped back, his face pale with confusion. "I don't—I don't know," he stammered, shaking his head as though trying to dislodge the memory. "But it was different. I swear it was different."
A knight swore under his breath, rubbing at his temple as though trying to ward off an invisible pressure. "My head feels—" he winced, his voice faltering. "Like something's pushing inside it."
And then—
"Enough."
Riven's voice cut through the murmur of confusion, the sharpness of it leaving no room for argument. The others fell silent, their eyes turning toward him. But Erasmus remained still, his attention fixed not on the knights, but on the subtle shifts in their behavior. The words had changed, that much was clear. And if the words were changing, then so too was the past itself. Little by little, reality was being rewritten, its foundation cracked and reformed under their very feet.
The silence stretched again, suffocating, before it was shattered by a gasp from one of the knights. His mouth opened to speak, but no sound came out. He struggled, his face contorting in frustration, but still—nothing. The camp fell into an uneasy stillness. The fire crackled softly, but its warmth seemed distant, as though it came from another world, another time.
—
For a long moment, no one spoke. The knight who had tried to speak remained frozen, his sword half-raised, his eyes wide with confusion. The weight of the knights' gazes pressed down on him, but his expression was not one of defensiveness. No, it was something far more primal: it was lost.
"I don't—" the knight gasped, his voice catching on something unspoken. He gripped the hilt of his weapon tighter, as though trying to steady himself. "This isn't—"
His words faltered, twisting like something unformed, as though they had no place in the world they had just stepped into. Someone swallowed hard, their voice barely a whisper. "What are you trying to say?"
The knight opened his mouth, but no words came. His lips parted, but they closed again, his fingers flexing uselessly at his sides. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper: "…Who are you?"
The question hung in the air, its weight suffocating, as though it had been plucked from the very fabric of reality itself. It was a question that dug deep into their bones, pulling them toward something darker. And as the silence stretched, it became a second death, a quiet, chilling inevitability that pressed them into the earth beneath their feet.
Erasmus watched with an unreadable expression, his gaze steady as ever. It had already begun. The world was shifting, slipping away from them in ways they could not yet grasp. The knight's hand trembled, his breath ragged and uneven. He turned to Jory first, seeking recognition. Then to Rei. Then to the squire beside him.
But the faces of his comrades were strangers to him. His own men. His own brothers-in-arms. And yet—
"I don't know any of you."
The words echoed through the camp, sending a ripple of disbelief and fear through the group. A chair scraped against the dirt, a loud, harsh sound, as someone lurched to their feet. "This isn't funny," they muttered, their voice trembling with unease.
The knight turned to them, his face stricken. "I swear to you—I don't know you."
A sharp inhale. The clench of a jaw. The beginning of something ugly—something primal and terrifying. Riven, always the stalwart, was the one to break the tension, his voice firm. "Enough," he said, but there was an edge to his tone, a sharpness that had not been there before. "We need to—"
But he stopped. His gaze flicked across the camp, scanning the faces of the knights, the bedrolls, the scattered equipment. His brow furrowed in sudden realization. "...Where's Drevan?"
A ripple of unease spread through the camp. Murmurs rippled through the knights, but no one answered. No one spoke.
Riven's voice grew more insistent. "Drevan. He was sitting right there." He pointed to an empty patch of earth by the fire, where the imprint of a body had been. The space was empty now, save for the faint disturbance in the dirt.
The others looked around, confusion spreading like a virus. No one moved. No one spoke.
The younger squire—the same one who had felt uneasy earlier—looked up, his face suddenly pale. "...Who's Drevan?"
A cold, creeping horror settled in Erasmus' chest. There it was—the crack in the world.
Someone swore under their breath. Another knight backed away, shaking his head, his face pale. "No—wait—he was just—"
But the words failed. They faltered and died on their tongues, because no matter how hard they searched their memories—
He wasn't there.
The weight of the moment settled over them, suffocating, silent, and crushing. Erasmus turned his head, his gaze flicking to the spot where Drevan had been. The imprint in the dirt was still there, faint but undeniable. But Drevan himself? No body. No struggle. Just a hollowing—a subtle, absolute absence that stretched out into the nothingness of their world.
Something had reached into their reality and plucked a single thread from its weave.
Erasmus' fingers curled against his palm, his mind racing. For the first time, he wondered. How many times had this happened before? How many names had already been taken from them? Had his own past ever been altered, had there once been a path he no longer remembered? Had there ever been an Erasmus Obscura who did not reach this moment, whose existence had been gently erased?
The thought sent a cold shiver through him.
But then, despite everything, he smiled.
Because this was fascinating.
The others were still struggling with the weight of what had just happened. Jory's hands were clenched into fists, his muscles coiled in tension. Riven's jaw was tight, his mind likely working through every rational explanation, though none existed. But Erasmus?
Erasmus had seen enough.
Something was testing them, probing at the edges of their perception. This was no accident. It was deliberate.
And it was only the beginning.
Erasmus exhaled slowly, the firelight flickering across his face. He knew something the others did not. Fear only mattered if it could be remembered.
And by morning, there would be nothing left to fear.