Briar couldn't sleep.
The names circled her mind like ghosts. Each one sent sharp pain racing down her spine. They weren't just memories—they were warnings.
Elira.
Syllen.
Thorne.
Kael.
She whispered each one aloud, and with every syllable, a thread of memory snapped taut in her chest.
"Why do they hurt?" she asked Corva.
The old woman didn't look up. Instead, she handed Briar a book. It was old, bound in worn leather, pages singed at the edges. Her own handwriting filled every line.
Her journal.
The first page was scrawled with blood. Spells. Names. Sketches of cities that no longer stood. Notes about the Hollow Throne, about soulfire, about betrayal.
One line repeated in several places:
"To remember is to bleed. To forget is to rot."
Kael found her hours later, huddled in a corner, muttering names under her breath.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. "They mattered to you."
"I know," she said. "But I don't know why."
Corva knelt beside her.
"Because they're still alive," she said, "in you."
Briar looked down at the ink-stained pages.
"I don't want to forget anymore."
"Then you won't," Corva said. "But remember—memory is a curse as much as a gift."