Prologue

The history books say the hero saved the world.

They speak of a final battle beneath a burning sky, of a blade raised against despair, of a single victory that brought peace to all. That is the story people remember. That is the story they were allowed to remember.

But I was there.

I stood behind the hero, holding neither sword nor spell, my hands stained only with ink. I watched villages fall before they were ever mentioned in songs. I recorded victories that cost more lives than defeats. I wrote down names that were later erased.

In this world, stories are not born from truth.

They are chosen.

I was summoned here as a mistake—an extra body in a ritual meant for a hero. With no power to fight, I was given a different role: to write. To observe. To remember what others wished forgotten.

They called me a scribe.

At first, I believed my task was harmless. Words on paper could not change the world, after all. But I learned too late that what is written survives, and what is not written disappears.

This is not the story of a hero.

This is the story of what was left out.