Elira did not open her eyes right away.
The name pulsed behind her thoughts, heavy and alive, not as a sound but as a presence—an ache that pressed against her ribs, demanding space. Around her, the city's breath shuddered back into motion. Somewhere far off, shutters creaked open. Somewhere closer, glass shattered as the curse recoiled, its many voices collapsing into a single, furious silence.
"Elira." Varrek's voice was close now, grounded, real. "You're shaking."
She opened her eyes.
The Old Names Ward had changed. The streets were no longer warped inward, no longer flinching from attention. Color bled back into the stone, faint but unmistakable. Old signs revealed ghostly lettering beneath years of scratches, names surfacing like memories dragged up from deep water.
But the curse still stood before them.
It was smaller now, tighter, its edges fraying as if the world itself were unthreading it. Faces slipped in and out of its surface, no longer seamless. It watched Elira with something dangerously close to fear.
"You carry her," it hissed.
Elira swallowed. "I remember her."
That single statement struck harder than any spell. The curse staggered, bells clanging unevenly, sound cracking through the ward like breaking glass. Kaelra took advantage of the moment, driving one of her hooks into a knot of shadow and tearing a strip free. The fragment dissolved before it hit the ground.
"It's weakening!" Bren shouted.
"But not dying," Maelin warned. He stood rigid, hands pressed to his temples. "The name is still bound to you. If you speak it—"
"I know," Elira said softly. "If I speak it, the curse ends. And so do I."
The truth settled heavily among them.
Varrek stepped closer, his voice low. "There has to be another way."
Elira looked at him, a sad smile touching her lips. "That's what she said too."
Memory broke free then—not gently, but like a dam collapsing.
She saw a narrow room filled with spools of thread and candle smoke. Five seamstresses sat in a circle, hands raw, eyes hollow from nights without sleep. At the center stood a woman older than the rest, her hair streaked silver, her posture straight despite the tremor in her fingers.
She had smiled at Elira. Not bravely. Kindly.
Someone must be remembered, the woman had said. Even if it's only by one.
The vision faded, leaving Elira gasping.
The curse surged forward, sensing desperation. Shadows lashed out, knocking Bren from his feet and slamming Varrek against a wall. Kaelra dragged Miro behind a stone pillar as the street itself cracked, bells screaming louder than ever.
"Elira!" Maelin shouted. "Decide!"
She stood alone before the curse now, ash thread blazing like a living vein of light. The name pressed harder, no longer content to remain silent. It wanted release. It wanted justice.
Elira raised her head.
"I will not disappear," she said. "And I will not let her be erased again."
She lifted her wrist and wrapped the ash thread around her palm, blood beading where it cut into skin. Pain sharpened her focus, anchoring her to herself.
"I don't need to speak her name," Elira said, voice steady. "I need to pass it on."
The curse froze.
She turned to her companions—at Bren's fierce resolve, Kaelra's iron stance, Varrek's unwavering gaze, Maelin's trembling but determined hands, Miro's wide, unafraid eyes.
"Remember her," Elira said. "All of you. Carry her. Say her name when this is over. Write it. Teach it. Refuse to let it fade."
Understanding rippled through them.
Together, they stepped forward.
The ash thread split, branching outward, weaving through the air and binding them all—not as a curse, but as a covenant. The name flowed from Elira into the space between them, no longer a burden borne by one, but a truth held by many.
The curse screamed.
It unraveled violently, threads snapping, shadows tearing themselves apart as the ward filled with light. Bells shattered. Stone cracked. And then—silence.
When it was over, only people remained. Breathing. Remembering.
Elira sank to her knees, exhausted but alive.
Above them, the city stood changed.
And for the first time in generations, the forgotten had a future.