THIS IS A BOOK OF LORE. IF YOU ARE NOT INTO THE VOT UNIVERSE, THEN DON'T READ THIS BOOK.

  YOU WILL THINK YOU WANT TO READ IT BUT DO NOT. IT WAS NOT MADE FOR YOUR EYES.

  The Veil rippled. It didn't shimmer. It didn't glow. It rippled — like the skin of memory being peeled back, like something ancient yawning in a language the gods forgot how to fear. And Poseidon stood before it, at the edge of Lethe, where light dared not hold its form.

  He exhaled, slowly. His chest rose and fell, steady but heavy, as if Gaia's whisper still clung to his bones. Her resonance hadn't left him since the Echo Archive. It had burrowed deep beneath his divine skin, speaking not in words, but in pulses. In truths that had no language.

  "Truth must be layered. Knowledge must be grown into... not revealed."

  He remembered her voice, remembered the warmth. It was the kind of warmth you only felt when you were about to lose something you hadn't yet realized was yours. Around him, Lethe unfolded like a wound in the world. The ground was not ground. It was memory calcified. Silver-gray and black veins twisted through what resembled a shattered coastline, its shores whispering to no sea, only to itself. There was no sky, only a heavy dome of shifting twilight, and the air tasted like forgotten names. Poseidon narrowed his eyes.

  "This isn't where I was."

  He hadn't walked here. That much he knew. One moment he had been in the Echo Archive, tracing the glyphs of the Book of Echoes. Then, a pulse — harmonic, yet dissonant. Something had grabbed him. Transported him. He looked ahead. Beyond the curvature of the jagged land, Lethe flowed like molten shadow. A river of amnesia, slithering endlessly in all directions, refusing to reflect anything that looked back.

  "Not again," Poseidon muttered. "Not without warning."

  A shape materialized. Not footsteps. Not light. Just presence. Cold and vast, yet familiar. Hades. He emerged from the veil like a wraith, his black robes shifting like smoke underwater. But it was the figure beside him that froze Poseidon's breath.

  The Nasu. Not one, not many — just The Nasu. A singular harmonic. A silhouette blurred by shifting time, face masked, eyes like living voids. Their form didn’t walk; it floated slightly above the crust of memory beneath them, draped in layered robes carved from echoes. Poseidon instinctively straightened. His trident remained strapped to his back, but his fingers twitched.

  "Hades," he said carefully. "You're late."

  Hades smirked. "You're early. Or perhaps just out of tune."

  The Nasu tilted its head, as if examining a particularly persistent stain.

  "What is this? A trap? A test? Another riddle I didn’t ask for?"

  "No," Hades said. "This is a reminder."

  The Nasu's voice wasn't a voice. It was a chord. It struck Poseidon's mind like a bell rung underwater.

  "You know, Poseidon... time doesn’t flow for us. It coils. And when you coil something long enough... it bites back."

  The Veil pulsed. Poseidon's breath caught. The ripple in the world spread outward from the Nasu like an inverted shockwave. Around them, Lethe's winds changed pitch, becoming more than wind. They became memories. A scene unfolded in the air, like ink poured into clear water. A throne. Broken. A man. Kneeling. But not in surrender. He was fighting the kneeling. Resisting. Even as his bones cracked beneath the weight of divine punishment.

  "Who is this?" Poseidon asked, his voice a low growl.

  "Caelen," Hades said.

  Poseidon's brows furrowed. "That’s not a name I know."

  "That’s because you weren’t meant to."

  The vision deepened. He saw Zeus. Radiant. Cold. His eyes were thunder. His words law.

  "You dare offer me this?"

  The offering. A child, barely formed. A sacrifice. Poseidon's breath faltered.

  "No... he didn't..."

  "He was manipulated," the Nasu’s harmonic stated. "Whispers in his sleep. Erebus moved early. Corrupting before the flesh could harden."

  Zeus’s fury struck like lightning. The man was not killed. He was changed. His name ripped away. His sons destroyed. His body torn and reformed into something both divine and cursed. A howl echoed through the vision.

  "The first Lycan," Hades murmured. "The one the mortals call Lykaon."

  Poseidon's eyes widened. "That’s him? Caelen is Lykaon?"

  The Nasu nodded.

  "But I thought Zeus killed him."

  "No," Hades said. "Worse. He bound him to Lethe."

  The vision twisted. Caelen, now in beast form, stood before the river, surrounded by spectral figures. His sons. His bloodline. All cursed. All transformed. Poseidon watched in horror as the man-beast — proud, unbroken — slaughtered them. One by one. And each time, he wept. Not because they were enemies. But because somewhere, buried in his hollow memory, he recognized them.

  "He’s been killing his own," Poseidon whispered.

  The Nasu’s chord dimmed. "Not knowing. Not remembering. That was the curse."

  Hades stepped closer. "And Erebus has fed on every moment. Every drop of blood. Every broken bond. It’s made the Veil stronger."

  "Why show me this?" Poseidon turned sharply. "Why now?"

  The Nasu moved. Only slightly. But the motion carried the weight of continents.

  "Because Caelen is waking up."

  A sudden, violent pulse erupted from the Veil. The shimmering rain reversed course, flowing upward like time unraveling. The vision dissolved. The ground beneath Poseidon's feet cracked, splitting in a spiderweb of light. From below, a howl rose. One not of pain. Of remembrance. Poseidon's pulse thundered. The harmonic resonance around the Veil was changing. The Nasu’s voice returned.

  "Change happens and must continue to happen for life to exist."

  Poseidon turned to Hades. "What’s the cost?"

  Hades' smile faded.

  "Everything. Or nothing. That’s the problem with echoes. Sometimes they call back something we’re not ready to hear."

  The Nasu pointed. Toward the Veil. A new shape was forming. Not in shadow. But in silver. A fang. Gaia’s whisper returned.

  "Silver Fang."

  Poseidon blinked. The name felt... known. Like a dream he'd forgotten but still mourned.

  "That’s his true name," Hades said.

  "No," the Nasu corrected. "That’s the name he chose, before memory was stolen."

  The Veil cracked wide. And beyond it, something stirred. The Void Wolves howled in harmony. Not rage. Not hunger. Recognition. Poseidon’s breath caught in his throat. His trident buzzed with ancient energy.

  "What’s coming?"

  The Nasu turned fully to face him. No more cryptic chords. Only clarity.

  "The return of the forgotten."

  Poseidon stepped forward. And the Veil opened. The Veil’s surface rippled again, but this time, Poseidon was ready. The light did not pierce the darkness. It spilled, like oil igniting across water—memory flooding memory. The world twisted until it became not a place, but a perception. Poseidon floated within it, no longer a spectator but a node of resonance caught in a larger harmony.

  And then it began. A storm broke across the sky—lightning shaped like serpents, clouds splitting like ruptured scrolls of ancient fate. Amid the cacophony, a city made of marble and iron emerged from the haze. High walls, braziers burning with ghostfire, and a towering citadel at the center, adorned with symbols older than Olympus.

  This was Arcadia. Not the rustic dream of poets, but the brutal kingdom of Lykaon. Poseidon stood on a spectral balcony, overlooking a courtyard where warriors bowed before a man who did not bow. Not to them. Not to the gods. Not to anyone.

  Lykaon. He was tall. Broad shouldered. Cloaked in white fur that shimmered like moonlight on snow. His crown was not gold, but a band of bone and onyx, forged from the remains of beasts he had slain. His eyes—blue like a frozen sea—burned with fire unyielding.

  And behind that fire... sorrow. Poseidon could feel it now, not just see it. The ache of a man carved by defiance, shaped by a vision no one else dared claim. Lykaon raised his hands to the sky. The crowd knelt. He did not. He spoke.

  "I was born beneath thunder. Not to worship it. To command it."

  The crowd roared. And yet, Poseidon noticed the unease in their eyes. A boy was brought forth. No older than ten. His skin painted in sacred ink, his limbs trembling. A sacrifice.

  The High Seer stepped forward. "The rites must be honored. The child—"

  "Is not yours to command," Lykaon snapped.

  The Seer recoiled. "My king, the gods—"

  "Have taken enough!"

  His voice cracked the marble underfoot. A tremor shook the citadel. Poseidon’s heart sank. He recognized the rage. The pride. The temptation. Then, the voice came. Not from the crowd. Not from the heavens. From within.

  "They will never accept you. Not as you are. Not as you were born. Let them fear you. Let them kneel."

  Erebus. The whisper slid beneath Lykaon’s thoughts like venom in wine. And Lykaon drank deep. He raised the child. Not in devotion, but in defiance.

  "Here is your sacrifice, O gods! Innocence bled not for you, but for me!"

  Poseidon gasped. "No..."

  The altar ran red. The sky did not mourn. It watched. And from Olympus, a storm was born. The vision shattered. Poseidon was standing now in another place—yet the same. The citadel was gone. The sky above was thunder made flesh. Lightning struck, again and again, never fading. And then he saw him. Zeus. Wreathed in fury. Cloaked in storms. His feet never touched the ground.

  "You who would mock divinity. You who dares crown himself above Olympus."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Lykaon knelt—not in humility, but exhaustion. His blade broken. His sons slain by celestial wrath. The courtyard littered with their smoldering remains. Zeus did not offer mercy. Only judgment.

  "You will not die."

  His voice was final.

  "You will serve. As shadow. As beast. As gate."

  A bolt fell from the heavens. It struck Lykaon in the chest, flaying him from within. Bones reshaped. Muscles tore and reformed. Eyes burned yellow, fangs emerging, claws clawing at the air. The crowd screamed. Then faded. What remained was a monster. No… What remained was Caelen. Poseidon felt his name echo through him like a wound reopened. Caelen. The hollow crown. The cursed wolf. The Guardian of Lethe. And still, Poseidon heard Erebus’s whisper.

  "He did not fall. He was pushed."

  The vision faded to black. Poseidon stood in silence. The Veil hissed around him. He turned to the Nasu, whose face remained unreadable.

  "You wanted me to feel it. Not just know."

  The Nasu nodded. Hades stepped forward. "Now you understand the danger."

  "He's not just a prisoner," Poseidon muttered. "He's the lock. The key. The weapon. The shield."

  "And Erebus wants to wear him," the Nasu added. "Not destroy him."

  Poseidon stared into the shifting dark of Lethe.

  "Then it’s not just about Caelen waking up... it's about who gets to him first."

  The Veil pulsed. A new howl cut through the silence. And this one carried a name. Caelen. No longer forgotten. Lethe wept. Not with water, but with sound. A thrum of sorrow echoed through the Veil’s mouth as the memory faded, and Poseidon remained standing in its aftermath. The visions of Lykaon's defiance, Zeus's wrath, and the transformation into Caelen had carved more than a scar into his mind—they had shifted the harmonic gravity of the moment.

  "You saw his fall," Hades said, stepping forward. "Now you must understand the trap that followed."

  The ground beneath them responded, liquefying into silver mist as the edge of Lethe stretched forward like an obedient servant. In that mist, figures moved—ghosts, shadows... beasts. No. Not beasts.

  "Who are they?" Poseidon asked.

  Hades looked to the Nasu, who raised a hand. A new resonance spilled out, forming a glyph in the air. Its shape resembled a crescent moon surrounded by fangs—and it pulsed like a heartbeat.

  "They are the Guardians," Hades said softly. "They were once his kin."

  Poseidon’s heart stuttered. The mist parted to reveal the courtyard from before, but twisted—the colors were drained, the buildings in ruin. Caelen stood in the center, naked save for the chains wrapped around his arms and neck. Around him circled creatures with hollow eyes and snarling maws. Some limped. Others clawed at the air. Their howls came not from throats, but from the depths of their memory. The Void Wolves. They were not wild. They remembered. And that made them dangerous.

  "He killed them," Poseidon whispered.

  "Yes," the Nasu confirmed.

  "Not knowing..."

  "Yes."

  A silence. Poseidon turned slowly.

  "His bloodline. His sons. His sired ones."

  "All bound," Hades said. "To Lethe. Not to die, but to serve its threshold."

  The Nasu moved toward a structure forming from the mist. A monolith, ancient and breathing. Upon it, etched into its living stone, were glyphs. Poseidon stepped closer. They glowed faintly in hues of gold and violet. The symbols shimmered between form and meaning. The Nasu gestured.

  "Read."

  Poseidon reached out, and as his fingers neared the glyphs, the words translated themselves through his body, bypassing his mind.

  "That which guards the threshold must never cross it—until it remembers what it once protected."

  A pressure fell upon him. Not external. Internal. Like a truth that had been hidden in his marrow. He staggered back.

  "They were seals," he said aloud. "The Guardians weren't cursed for punishment—they were made to protect something."

  Hades nodded. "The Veil does not guard itself. It never has. The gods placed these warriors, bound by blood, at its edge. Their existence is the last defense."

  "Then Erebus—"

  "Corrupted the song," the Nasu said. "Tuned it to dissonance."

  The vision shifted again. Now Caelen stood alone. He clutched a body—a smaller wolf-like figure, its fur mottled silver and black. It breathed shallowly. Dying.

  Caelen whispered, "I remember your eyes..."

  The Void Wolf blinked slowly. A tear rolled down its cheek.

  "My king... we waited. We held the line. You... forgot."

  The figure dissolved into mist. Caelen screamed. It was not rage. It was grief made primal. Poseidon fell to one knee. He could feel the grief. The guilt. The truth. Caelen had been made a warden. But without memory, he became a butcher. The Nasu's harmonic changed, deepened. They pointed again at the glyph wall. More symbols appeared. A new phrase burned itself into the monolith:

  "When the Hollow Crown remembers the Moon, the Gate shall howl, and the Beast shall become Seal."

  Poseidon looked up. "What does that mean?"

  Hades approached.

  "It means he can still choose."

  "Choose what?"

  "To reclaim them."

  A rumble rose in the distance. The Veil flickered. Something stirred on the other side.

  "But if he does," Hades continued, "he must remember everything. Even the blood on his own hands."

  Poseidon stared into the mist, where now a hundred wolf-shapes emerged. Not snarling. Waiting. The Nasu stepped forward, drawing a small blade from its sleeve—made of light, woven like thread. They handed it to Poseidon.

  "This was his."

  He took it. The handle was familiar. Too familiar.

  "I’ve seen this before. In the dreams."

  "The blade remembers him," the Nasu said. "More than he remembers himself."

  "Then why give it to me?"

  The Nasu tilted their head.

  "Because you remember how to give it back."

  Suddenly, a howl split the sky. Not from Lethe. From beyond it. The wolves began to stir. Poseidon's eyes widened.

  "Someone's coming."

  Hades drew his own blade.

  "No. Something's trying to break through."

  The glyphs glowed brighter. Poseidon stood, blade in hand.

  "Then I guess it's time he remembered who he was."

  And with that, the monolith cracked. Light spilled across the Veil. And the wolves—Caelen’s kin—howled in harmony. Not for blood. For home. Lethe trembled. Not visibly—its surface remained calm, a mirror of shadows—but in the resonance. The hum beneath existence shifted. Like a string stretched too tight. Like a heartbeat held too long.

  Poseidon could feel it in his teeth. This wasn’t just memory. It was machinery—ancient, layered, harmonic. A song buried beneath songs. Hades stepped beside him without a word. No need for ceremony now. They stood at the edge of a spiraling field. Not earth, not sky—just energy, rotating through every phase of reality: light, time, matter, thought.

  In its center, suspended by nothing, was Caelen. He floated mid-air, arms at his sides, head tilted back. Strands of spectral chain ran from his limbs in every direction—into stars, into glyphs, into screams Poseidon could almost hear but couldn’t name.

  "This," Hades said, gesturing to the spiral, "is his loop."

  The field pulsed. With every beat, a version of Caelen flickered into form. One enraged. One weeping. One monstrous. One serene. All the same, all trapped in recurrence.

  Poseidon watched, narrowing his eyes. "These chains… they’re glyphic. Not physical."

  "Correct. Each one is a harmonic tether. Memory turned into music, played backward."

  The realization crept in slowly.

  "This is… not punishment. It’s programming."

  Hades nodded grimly. "The Veil doesn’t just contain. It composes. And this song has a purpose."

  Poseidon began pacing in a slow circle, observing the flickers, counting the beats.

  There was rhythm here. But more than that—intention.

  "Every time he remembers who he is… the system resets."

  Hades said nothing. He didn’t need to.

  Poseidon’s breath caught. "That’s why he can’t escape. It’s not that he won’t—it’s that he’s designed not to."

  He turned sharply.

  "And Erebus… Erebus is using this."

  "Feeding on it," Hades replied. "Every echo of a slain kin, every regret, every almost-memory becomes another chord in the lock."

  Poseidon faced the spiral again, heart thudding.

  "The key isn’t forged by force. It’s composed."

  Now it made sense. The glyphs from the Book of Nasu weren’t just scripture—they were a score. Caelen’s soul was the instrument. And Erebus was waiting for the final note. Poseidon stared into the center. Caelen’s latest form flickered. He saw the pain in his face. The awareness flickering in and out, like candlelight in wind. He was close. So close to breaking free.

  "Why let him remember at all?" Poseidon asked.

  Hades finally answered. "Because full control requires consent. The glyph can’t unlock without the soul’s harmony."

  "So Erebus tempts him. Leads him to half-truths. Lets him taste memory—just enough to crack him open."

  "And once Caelen believes escape is impossible, he will howl in defeat. Not rage. Not battle. But resignation."

  Poseidon turned to face him.

  "And that howl will be the final glyph."

  The spiral darkened. The mist pulsed around them. The weight of the moment pressed in. This wasn’t just a curse—it was a ritual. And Caelen… was both altar and offering. A distant sound echoed. A heartbeat.

  Poseidon froze. "Did you hear that?"

  Hades frowned. "No."

  It came again. Louder. Boom. Poseidon’s eyes widened. He wasn’t hearing it—he was feeling it. In his ribs. His teeth. Another beat. Then a voice. Faint. But clear.

  "...help me…"

  Caelen. Poseidon stepped forward. The spiral field shimmered. Static danced around his boots.

  "Caelen?"

  The voice came again. Clearer. Stronger.

  "I… remember…"

  A chain snapped. One of the glyphs burst into flame. The spiral faltered.

  Hades tensed. "He’s slipping through!"

  More chains cracked. Caelen’s eyes flared open. Gold light burned from his irises. The spiral roared. Glyphs spun. Frequencies collapsed. Then—A howl.

  Not from Caelen. From above. A rift tore open in the Veil. And the Nasu descended. No longer ethereal. They struck the ground with thunderous silence, their robes rippling like oil in water. Their voice was not shouted. Yet it silenced everything.

  "The wolf’s howl is not a weapon."

  Everyone froze. Caelen gasped. His body suspended, writhing. The Nasu raised a hand. Glyphs spun around them like moons.

  "It is a memory of the moon. The first light. The unreachable home."

  Time fractured. Poseidon staggered, caught in overlapping visions. A silver forest. A moonless sky. A young boy looking to the stars, whispering a name he couldn’t remember. Caelen. The Nasu continued.

  "Erebus has stolen the chords. But not the song. That cannot be stolen. Only… forgotten."

  The Veil screamed. Reality twisted. And the spiral shattered. Caelen fell. Poseidon rushed forward, arms outstretched. But before he could catch him—They were gone. The spiral, the glyphs, the platform, Caelen… even Hades.

  All gone. Only the Nasu remained. They turned slowly to Poseidon. And with a voice older than time.

  "Now you must decide… if you will follow."

  Silence followed the collapse. Not the silence of peace, but the kind that arrives when too many truths have been spoken. Poseidon stood in the aftershock, the fractured spiral of Caelen’s loop still shimmering across his vision. The Nasu had vanished—just as quickly as they had appeared. Hades was gone too, taken by the unraveling of the Veil, his presence replaced by residual heat and the scent of scorched memory.

  The ground beneath Poseidon’s feet stabilized. Lethe’s surface became still once more, mirroring nothing, reflecting only the truth of absence. He was alone. And yet—The Book of Echoes hovered before him.

  Not held. Not summoned. It had chosen to appear. Its pages fluttered as though caught in a celestial breeze, though the air was dead. Words—shifting, luminous, resonant—etched themselves across parchment made of something older than time. And then they stopped. Poseidon stepped forward. He read.

  “When the wolf forgets the moon, And hunts the blood of his own kin, Lethe shall rise in shadowed bloom, And Erebus shall wear his skin.”

  The verse cut into him. Deep. Real. The kind of prophecy that didn’t predict the future, but forced it. The pages turned.

  “The throne shall tremble, the chains shall hum, A king reborn beneath a Black Sun. Yet cursed shall be the hunter’s breath, For every howl shall echo death.”

  Poseidon’s jaw clenched. The chains... the glyphs... the spiral... all of it was true. Another page.

  “One fang shall fall to light’s return, One heart shall bleed in silent flame, If memory wakes before it burns, The door shall open in his name.”

  He looked up. Something stirred in the fog beyond Lethe. Wolves. Dozens. No... hundreds. The Void Wolves. Gathering again. But this time... they were not circling. They were watching. A final verse blazed across the final page.

  “Beware the price of broken line, For what he kills, he once called mine.”

  A breath behind him. Hades reappeared. But this time... something had changed. His eyes were darker. His voice, more solemn.

  "The Book is writing again."

  Poseidon nodded slowly. "It’s recording his memory."

  Hades’s gaze turned toward the wolves. "That means the cycle is faltering. The loop may be undone."

  "Then we do have a choice."

  "Not we," Hades corrected. "He does."

  A howl pierced the mist. Not rage. Recognition. And from the far edge of Lethe, a figure stepped forth. Caelen. No chains. No flicker. No fracture. Whole. He walked slowly, surrounded by Void Wolves who did not growl but moved with him like an honor guard. His eyes locked with Poseidon’s. In them was sorrow. In them was hope. And Poseidon saw the truth. Caelen was the gate. And the key.

  "He remembers," Hades whispered.

  Poseidon stared at the man before him. Lykaon—the one who would not kneel. Caelen—the hollow king. The same. And yet, something new. Poseidon opened his mouth, but Hades interrupted.

  "You think you’re writing the Canticles, brother."

  Hades turned, and his voice dropped into something mythic, something final.

  "But there are verses only the dead remember."

  And behind them—The howling began. But not in anger. In harmony. The Void Wolves lifted their heads to the unseen moon, and their voices joined. The Veil shimmered, The Book of Echoes blazed. And for the first time in millennia… Caelen heard his true name echo across the threshold. And he didn’t flinch.