Whispers of the Vanished

Prologue: The Kingdom That Forgot Itself

There was once a Kingdom at the end of the world.
Not a mighty empire, not a shining capital—just a broken place full of broken people who had fought a war no one else remembered.

It sat 10,000 miles from any known land, nestled in dusk that never lifted, wrapped in mountain ranges carved by gods who had long since stopped apologizing.
No ships came. No letters arrived. No maps marked its name.

It was not hidden.
It was forgotten.

Two centuries ago, four hundred warriors fled to its walls. Refugees of a final battle. Survivors of something worse than gods—something made of memory and silence.
They came to finish what no army could.
They came to bury a name.

But time wears down all things.

Of the four hundred, only sixty remained.
Then fifty.
Then forty-seven.

People had begun to vanish. Not die. Not flee. Just... disappear.

No blood. No screams. No doors left open.
Just warm teapots, unmade beds, and absences shaped like the people they loved.

It fell to three men to uncover the truth.

A wizard with a beard made of smoke and sins.
A knight with a steel jaw and a list of names he’d never stop reciting.
And a thief who once lied so well, even truth started to believe him.

They did not set out to save the Kingdom.
They set out to understand what had already been lost.

But some truths do not want to be remembered.
Some memories dream of becoming gods.
And some places are built not to be found—but to forget.

This is the story of what happens when you remember too much.

Or not enough.