"Have you heard of gods who beg to be remembered?"

  To be remembered was to breathe, to be called upon by the name was a pulse. A god did not know of dying, not could it die, for it could not be ripped apart, dragged from the heavens or slain. Yet, it was not immortal against the forgetting. And that lack of remembrance, erasure of memory, would become a weapon.

  In Old Solthar, the Sun was said to give life. The people preached that all warmth flowed downwards, that the light was s permission to exist, that in existence was mercy.

  Here, the sun hung low over the cobbled streets of Old Solthar, brushing the rooftops with a rich, warm gold. Merchants called out their wares, children chased one another in spirals of laughter, and the scent of fresh bread drifted from Granny Lenna's bakery.

  Amid the bustle within the plaza, an old woman cloaked in deep green stood on a wooden crate near the fountain, her eyes glinting with secrets. The children of the locals gathered around her with curiosity.

  "Listen well, you lot," the old witch rasped with her voice a rough wind curling through the square, "for I tell a tale not written in books, but carried on the tongues of wanderers and the whispers of winds."

  With that, she lifted a hand high, letting her gemstone rings catch the sunlight as if tiny flames were held on her knuckles.

  "There was once a woman born of no house, no father, and no god. The world forgot to give her a place, as if she were a shadow too subtle to notice, yet too bright to ignore. When she was young, she went to the river and asked the water, 'What am I?' But, the river passed her by in silence, gifting only gold. She went to the fields and asked the earth, 'What am I?' The soil offered her bread that was warm and fragrant, but still no name. So she went to the temple and asked the priests, 'What am I?' They replied, 'All who are not named are dangerous,' and drove her away before the altar."

  The witch paused, letting the clatter of the market fade into a hush as the silent crowd began to gather around her with interested eyes. "So, as she wandered, her skin took the pale glow of moonlight, her hair was bright with stardust. And she bowed to no kings, idled by no hearths. She was not wife, not mother, not servant, and nor saint. And when they called her a curse, she answered: 'Better a curse than a prisoner of fate.'"

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  An old man in the crowd muttered, "Ah... that one. They said she wandered lands long before we were children who worshipped the gods."

  "Yes," the witch replied, her green cloak billowing with a sudden gust, "and in the old tongue they gave her a word, a name to keep her outside their walls. A word meaning night left behind. Yet she carried that night like a cloak, and from it she dreamed of light. Wherever she stepped forth, the world might one day bloom anew, she hoped. A Sun would rise again, not for priests, not for kings, but for those who dared to be nameless wanderers, for those cast aside, and for all who dared to dream of Dawn."

  The children shivered with excitement, and some with awe, but they all leaned in closer to hear more with unsaid expectation.

  A young merchant whispered to his companion, "Such folktales. Do you really think such was real?"

  "Real? Perhaps." The witch smiled, eyes gleaming beneath the shade of her hood. "But every town needs a tale to remind its people that even in darkness... the forgotten can rise. One day, the Sun will vanish here, and the darkness will test all hearts."

  And with that, she vanished down a narrow alley, leaving the streets of Old Solthar alive with murmurs, laughter, and a lingering sense that the world was larger than its walls, and older than its memory. A reminder that some stories are meant to chase you long after they are told, and some names, once remembered, can never be forgotten.

  Soon, the town would hold its Midsummer Festival, and this year, whispers said, the sun would dim at its peak. A rare eclipse would be casting Old Solthar in shadow even at noon. It was a rare, unknown sight, and the locals had been ever curious to watch. They had prepared even, a celebration where lanterns would swing in the wind, music would echo through the streets, and feasts would be laid beneath a golden sky; one that might not stay bright for long.

  You do not kill a god by defying it, for defiance feds it. As if god thrived on hatred like a parched land thirsting for rain, for nourishment. Martyrs beneath the Sun strengthened the memories. Blazing rebellion of eternal winters carved it's spine. And so, you killed it by severing it's remembrance, refusing what it demanded of you to become. When that reminiscence eroded, what remained was not to be a corpse of the fallen, but a vacant abyss that made way for something more inauspicious. And where a god was forgotten, deceased, something else awaited to be born.

  After all, light would always cast shadows, as one cannot exist without another.