The knight stood unmoving, bathed in the pale light of the moon. His armor was tarnished but whole—save for a spiderweb fracture across his breastplate, over where a heart might once have beat.
He held no weapon. Yet Arjuna did not move closer.
The figure inclined his head. "You know my name. Say it."
A memory stirred—not a vision, not a voice, but a feeling. The weight of a promise. The scent of rain on stone. A sword raised beneath starlight.
"…Ser Caedin," Arjuna whispered.
The knight's eye glinted. "So you do remember."
"I remember a battle. A circle of fire. You… fell."
"I did." Caedin's voice was low, filled with iron and ash. "We all did. You broke the line to chase her. You left us in the breach."
A flicker of pain crossed Arjuna's face. "Nyssara."
Caedin's jaw tightened. "The Witch Queen. Your ruin and ours."
Arjuna took a step forward, slowly. "I didn't remember. Until now."
"And what will you do with memory?" Caedin asked. "Ashwood lies in ruin. The Oathstone is shattered. The dead whisper, but no one listens. You were supposed to guard the veil."
"I was cursed," Arjuna said.
"Cursed?" Caedin's laugh was bitter. "No. You chose to forget. You made the Vow. And when the cost came due, you ran."
The silence stretched.
Then Arjuna spoke, voice low. "I'm here now."
"Too late," Caedin said. "But not alone."
Behind him, more figures emerged from the shadows. Knights in tattered cloaks, helms cracked, armor stained with moss and time. There were five of them, then ten, then more. Not ghosts—but memories given shape.
Each bore a weapon forged in a time before kingdoms.
One stepped forward—a woman with a shattered visor and a glowing wound where her throat had been.
"She died at the veil," Caedin said. "Singing your name."
Another—missing an arm—dropped his sword at Arjuna's feet.
"You let him bleed for hours, holding the breach alone."
"I didn't know," Arjuna said, breath sharp. "I didn't remember."
"But we did," Caedin said. "We remembered everything."
A wind stirred. The trees shuddered. The ruin groaned.
Tellen stirred at the campfire, muttering in his sleep.
Caedin stepped forward until only a breath separated them.
"You want to walk the path again? Then bear the weight. Take back your name. Kneel."
Arjuna looked up. "You would make me kneel?"
"No," Caedin said. "Ashwood would."
There was no pride left. No protest.
Arjuna knelt.
The memory-knights circled him. One by one, they laid broken swords at his feet.
Caedin drew a blade from his back—a narrow saber with runes etched into its fuller. Not whole. Not holy. But still sharp.
He touched the flat of it to Arjuna's shoulder.
"Do you swear to remember?"
"I swear."
"To bleed again for those who have no voice?"
"I swear."
"To hold the veil, even when the gods turn away?"
"I swear it on the flame, and on my soul."
The saber hummed. The runes pulsed with crimson light.
And every knight bowed.
The moon passed overhead.
And Ashwood… stirred.
Later, as dawn broke and the knights faded into mist, Tellen finally sat up, blinking blearily. "What… did I miss?"
Arjuna stood alone, surrounded by broken blades.
He turned.
"I remembered their names," he said. "And mine."
Tellen looked past him. "Did you fight something?"
"No," Arjuna said. "I was forgiven."
They entered the hold.
Vines crunched underfoot. The courtyard was overgrown, the chapel collapsed. But the tower still stood. And within it, buried beneath centuries of ash and roots, they found a sealed stone basin.
The words etched into its lip were in old Ashwood script:
"When all is forgotten, remember this."
Arjuna placed his hand to the stone. Blood welled from his palm—not from a wound, but from memory.
The basin filled.
And in its reflection, he saw not himself—but a younger man in full armor, standing before a goddess cloaked in flame and shadow.
Nyssara.
She reached out.
And kissed his brow.