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FARCASTLES: CHAPTER NINE – THOSE WHO REMEMBER They didn’t speak of the figure for the rest of the day. Not because they’d agreed not to—but because no one knew how to say what they’d seen. The sun hung low as they set up camp in a hollow beneath a crumbling ridge, trees curling overhead like fingers grasping toward a story they weren’t allowed to finish. Ern gathered firewood. Myrr sketched the ritual circle into their journal, slow and deliberate. Sarra sat with her back to a stone wall, polishing her blade not out of need, but rhythm. “I don’t think it was trying to stop us,” Ern said, finally breaking the silence. Torv looked up. “You think it was warning us?” “I don’t know. It didn’t move like something that wanted to kill us. It moved like it was... remembering.” Myrr closed the journal. “Memory is dangerous when it outlives the people who shaped it.” Gellon poked the fire with a stick. “Everything we do seems to come with a shadow.”
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Silence returned, heavier than before. Then—footsteps. Not loud. Not rushed. But enough to lift every head. Torv stood first. Sarra followed, blade half-drawn. Myrr whispered a word that bent the firelight unnaturally. A figure emerged. Not cloaked. Not spectral. Human. Weatherworn. An older man in layers of wool and faded canvas leaned on a walking stick carved with runes that looked singed into the grain. “I saw the smoke two nights back,” he said, voice like creaking parchment. “Didn’t expect to find anyone moving east.” “No one moves east,” Sarra replied. “Not anymore.” “I do,” the man said. “And now so do you. Maybe the story’s shifting.” “Who are you?” Ern asked. The man looked at each of them in turn. “A witness. A keeper, if that still means anything.” Myrr stepped forward. “What do you keep?” “Stories,” he said. “Ones the Castles erased. And names buried with them. Names are more dangerous than blades, if you say them at the wrong time.”
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