The tower smelled of damp stone and burnt parchment.

  Lyria’s humming had stopped—finally—but the silence it left behind was worse. The Exiled One flexed their gloved fingers, the leather creaking like a sigh. The girl sat cross-legged on the floor, tracing patterns in the dust that only she could see. Her eyes, too old for her face, flicked up.

  "You’re thinking too loud," she said.

  The Exiled One ignored her. The mask itched today. It always did when memories pressed too close.

  A knock rattled the door—three quick taps, a pause, then two more. The Exiled One didn’t turn. "Enter."

  The door swung open, revealing Nyx, a lithe figure draped in a patchwork cloak, their grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Brooding again? You’re worse than a cat in a rainstorm."

  Lyria giggled. Nyx winked at her.

  The Exiled One’s voice was flat. "You’re late."

  Nyx flopped into a chair, kicking their boots onto the table. "And you’re dull. I brought gifts!" They tossed a small, cloth-wrapped bundle onto the table. It unraveled to reveal a handful of stolen trinkets—a silver locket, a broken compass, a vial of something that shimmered like liquid starlight.

  Lyria reached for the vial. Nyx snatched it back. "Ah-ah. This one’s for our gloomy host."

  The Exiled One didn’t move. "What is it?"

  "Memory," Nyx said, twirling the vial. "Or close enough. Stole it from Harlan’s back shelf. He calls it ‘the weight of yesterday.’" They smirked. "I call it ‘useful.’"

  The Exiled One’s hand twitched. Nyx’s grin widened.

  Lyria tilted her head. "You’re afraid of it."

  Silence.

  Nyx laughed. "Oh, this is rich. The great Exiled One, scared of a little bottle?"

  The Exiled One stood abruptly. "Enough. We have work to do."

  Nyx rolled their eyes but pocketed the vial. "Fine, fine. But you owe me a drink after."

  The Exiled One turned to Lyria. "You will stay here."

  Lyria blinked. "No."

  A beat. Nyx snorted.

  The Exiled One’s voice dropped, cold and final. "You are a liability."

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  Lyria’s smile didn’t waver. "And you’re a bad liar."

  Nyx whistled. "Kid’s got teeth."

  The Exiled One exhaled through their nose. "Then you will watch. And you will not interfere."

  Lyria nodded, solemn as a grave. "Promise."

  The training yard was a ruin—a courtyard of cracked flagstones and overgrown weeds, hemmed in by walls that leaned like drunken sentinels. Sorin stood at its center, his golden scars flickering in the dusk.

  The Exiled One stepped from the shadows.

  Sorin tensed. "You."

  "Me," the Exiled One agreed. They tossed a practice blade at his feet. "Pick it up."

  Sorin didn’t move. "Where’s Lyria?"

  "Safe."

  "Prove it."

  The Exiled One tilted their head. "You’re in no position to demand anything, kingling."

  Sorin’s jaw tightened. "Stop calling me that."

  The Exiled One lunged.

  Sorin barely dodged, scrambling for the blade. Steel clashed, the impact shuddering up his arms. The Exiled One moved like smoke—fluid, relentless. A twist of their wrist, and Sorin’s weapon flew from his grip.

  He hit the ground hard.

  The Exiled One loomed over him. "Pathetic."

  Sorin spat blood. "What do you want?"

  "To see if you’re worth the trouble." The Exiled One kicked the blade back to him. "Again."

  This time, Sorin was ready. He feinted left, struck right—a clean hit that should have landed. The Exiled One vanished, reappearing behind him. A boot to his spine sent him sprawling.

  Nyx, perched on a crumbling wall, clapped. "Bravo! Truly, a masterclass in getting your ass kicked."

  Sorin glared. "Who the hell are you?"

  Nyx pressed a hand to their chest. "Nyx. Thief, charmer, and—most importantly—not the one getting thrown around like a sack of potatoes."

  The Exiled One ignored them. "You’re holding back."

  Sorin wiped his mouth. "I don’t even know what I’m doing!"

  "Exactly." The Exiled One sheathed their blade. "The crown eats memories. Yours are already half-gone. But your body remembers."

  Sorin went still. "What?"

  Nyx hopped down, circling him like a curious cat. "Oh, this is juicy. You mean our little street-rat here used to be someone?"

  The Exiled One’s mask hid their expression, but their voice was edged with something bitter. "He was the Hollow King’s spymaster."

  Silence.

  Sorin’s breath hitched. "That’s not possible."

  The Exiled One leaned in. "You died once. Why do you keep coming back?"

  Nyx whistled. "Well. That’s a mood-killer."

  Sorin’s hands shook. "You’re lying."

  The Exiled One didn’t answer. Instead, they turned to leave.

  Nyx, ever the opportunist, darted forward—and snatched the Exiled One’s mask.

  The world froze.

  The Exiled One spun, but it was too late. Nyx stumbled back, the mask clutched in their hands, their face paling. "Oh. Oh, shit."

  Sorin’s heart stopped.

  The face beneath the mask was Kael’s.

  But older. Scarred. Eyes hollow with years of grief.

  The Exiled One—Kael—snarled and grabbed for the mask. Nyx tossed it to Sorin, who caught it on instinct.

  For a heartbeat, no one moved.

  Then Kael—the real Kael, the one who should be back in the city, the one who sang bawdy tavern songs and made terrible jokes—stepped forward. "What the hell is this?"

  The Exiled One’s voice was raw. "The only thing worse than being forgotten is being remembered wrong."

  Lyria, forgotten in the chaos, spoke softly. "You’re both him. Just… different echoes."

  Nyx edged toward the gate. "I regret every life choice that led me here."

  The Exiled One lunged—not for the mask, but for Sorin. Their hand closed around his wrist, golden scars flaring. "Find the crown. Before it finds you."

  Then they were gone, vanishing into the shadows like a bad dream.

  Sorin stared at the mask in his hands.

  Kael—his Kael—looked like he’d seen a ghost. "Did I just… meet my future self?"

  Nyx patted his shoulder. "Congrats. You grow up to be a dramatic bastard."

  Lyria picked up the discarded vial of memory, rolling it between her palms. "It’s starting," she murmured. "The forgetting. And the remembering."

  The wind howled through the ruins, carrying the scent of burnt sugar and old stones.