The city of Gulmund was quieter the day after the Feast of Light, but not silent. The celebration had left behind colorful banners fluttering in the breeze, confetti littering the marble streets, and a strange sense of unease beneath the surface. Despite the laughter, the wine, and the toasts to peace and prosperity, Frankie couldn't shake the chill that had crept into his bones since the moment he saw the symbols stitched into the governor's robe.
He walked briskly through the older district of the city, his scholar's robe pulled tight around his shoulders. Elian trailed behind, munching on a piece of dried fruit. "You really think it's worth chasing old rumors?" Elian asked through a mouthful.
Frankie didn't slow down. "I saw those runes, Elian. The ones on the governor's tablecloths. On the musicians' robes. I've only seen them once before—in forbidden books buried in the university's restricted vault."
Elian swallowed hard. "You think this city's using ritual magic? Real ritual magic?"
"I think we need answers."
They turned down a narrow alley that opened into a quiet courtyard shadowed by ivy-covered towers. At its center stood a small domed building with arched glass windows—the City Archive.
Frankie pushed open the heavy doors. Inside, cool air greeted them, carrying the scent of parchment, wax, and old secrets. Shelves loomed like stone pillars, each groaning under the weight of dusty tomes.
A thin man in deep green robes sat behind a marble desk, scribbling notes onto a scroll with a feather pen that seemed to tremble under the weight of its own ink.
"Archivist Halvor," Frankie said, voice low.
The man looked up. Thin spectacles glinted. "Franklin Merrow," he said, adjusting them. "I hoped I'd never see you again."
"I'm honored," Frankie muttered. "I need access to the Festival Records. Specifically, years seventy-five through one-twelve."
Halvor raised an eyebrow. "Those are sealed."
"And yet, here I am," Frankie replied. "With a royal seal."
He placed a small golden medallion on the desk—a token Serene had once given him, when they'd worked together to translate ancient glyphs. The archivist's eyes widened slightly.
He didn't argue.
Deep in the lower vaults, beneath a trapdoor locked with five separate enchantments, Frankie and Elian stood surrounded by candles, dust, and silence. Halvor set down a large iron-bound ledger on a stone table.
"The festival logs," he said. "Written by hand each year by the governor's own scribes."
He left them alone.
Frankie flipped through the first few pages. Decorative entries. Songs performed. Foods served. Attendance.
Then—he frowned.
"Look at this," he whispered.
Elian leaned in. "What is it?"
"Year 77. 'Nine honored citizens failed to attend, presumed absent.'"
"So?"
"Next year, year 78—'Seven absences. Rituals adjusted.'"
Frankie turned more pages.
Year 81: "Twelve unable to return from ceremony." Year 85: "Nineteen honored guests lost to the light." Year 90: "Thirty-one purified."
Elian swallowed. "They're not missing. They're being—"
"Sacrificed," Frankie finished.
They read for hours. Patterns emerged. Names of families that vanished. Descriptions of the rituals subtly growing darker. More precise. More efficient. The entries became colder as the years passed, shedding poetic flourishes for stark, brutal terms like "purified," "selected," and "relinquished."
Frankie closed the final book, hands shaking. "This has been going on for nearly forty years."
"Why hasn't anyone noticed?" Elian asked.
"Because they forget," Frankie said. "Every year. The music. The wine. The magic. The people don't remember what they lose."
Elian was silent. The weight of the truth settled over both of them like a stone.
Frankie stared at the open ledger in disbelief. "You remember what Toji said about the music. That it wasn't just celebration—it was layered. Programmed. Binding."
"You think that's what's wiping their memories?"
"I don't just think," Frankie said grimly. "I'm sure of it."
The sun had begun to set when they emerged from the archive vault, pale and trembling. They didn't speak as they made their way through the city. The once-charming architecture now looked alien, and the sounds of life echoed with eerie cheer.
They found Toji outside the city walls, where the land opened into green fields speckled with wildflowers. He sat on a lone stone near a wind-worn tree, eyes closed, his coat trailing in the wind. A silent sentinel.
"Toji," Frankie called as they approached.
Toji opened his eyes slowly and turned. "You've been gone all day."
"We found the records," Frankie said.
Toji stood. "Show me."
Frankie handed him a copy of the most damning page, transcribed in his own hand. Toji read it in silence. With each word, his expression darkened.
"You're sure this is accurate?" he asked.
Frankie nodded. "I cross-checked the names. They exist in family registries—but their lines abruptly stop after their recorded 'purification.' No death certificates. No burials. Nothing."
Toji's hand curled slowly into a fist.
"What kind of god demands silence and forgetfulness in return for power?" he asked, more to himself than them. "The people celebrate with their chains around their throats."
Elian stepped forward, quiet but firm. "What do we do?"
Toji didn't answer right away. He turned his gaze back to the city skyline, where the towers of Gulmund glowed in the fading light.
Then he spoke. "We make them remember."