The city of Grayhaven did not remember Lemma Heartfilia.
That, more than the cold stares or the rusted gates, was what hurt most.
She stood at the crest of the hill overlooking the city, cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, watching smoke coil lazily from chimneys and lanterns flicker to life as dusk settled.
Grayhaven had once been a loyal trade city of the Heartfilia kingdom. Its markets had sung with gold. Its banners had carried her family's crest.
Now the walls were patched with mismatched stone. The guards wore no heraldry—only steel dulled by neglect. A new flag hung above the gate: a white sun over black cloth.
Lemma frowned.
"That's not ours," she muttered.
She descended the hill alone.
The moment she passed beneath the gate, the noise swallowed her—vendors shouting, carts rattling, drunk laughter spilling from taverns.
Life went on here. People lived, traded, argued, loved.
As if a kingdom had not burned.
As if a royal family had not been butchered on a girl's birthday.
Lemma kept her head down, but her presence still tugged at the world.
The Dragon's Brand pulsed faintly, a warning she had learned to recognize.
Eyes lingered on her a second too long.
A beggar flinched as she passed.
A child burst into tears for no reason at all.
She exhaled slowly.
"Easy," she whispered to herself. "You're not here to break anything. Not yet."
She found an inn near the central square—The Gilded Nail, its name half-scratched off and replaced more than once. Inside, the air was thick with ale and smoke.
Lemma took a seat in the corner, ordering bread and stew she could barely taste.
That was when she heard her family's name spoken.
"…Heartfilia?" a man scoffed at the bar. "That line's cursed. Good riddance, if you ask me."
His companion snorted. "They say the queen consorted with demons. Brought the kingdom down on herself."
Lemma's fingers tightened around her spoon.
"They say a lot," a third voice said—a woman in priestly white, her symbol a polished sun disk.
"What matters is that order has been restored. Her Majesty Seraphina rules wisely now, under divine guidance."
Divine.
Lemma felt something twist in her chest.
A group at the far table laughed loudly—young men in polished armor, cloaks embroidered with exaggerated sigils.
"Heroes," someone whispered admiringly. "The Dawnwardens."
One of them stood, raising his mug. "To the defeat of demon cults! To the cleansing of corruption!"
Cheers erupted.
Lemma studied them quietly.
Their armor was new. Untested.
Their hands were steady—not with discipline, but with comfort. These were not warriors forged by war.
They were symbols.
False heroes, elevated to reassure a frightened populace.
How useful, a voice purred faintly in her mind.
Lemma stiffened.
Not one voice.
Two.
They wear borrowed light, said the molten one, amused.
I could peel them apart like fruit, hissed the cold voice.
She forced them back, focusing on the room.
Outside, a commotion rose—shouting, then screams.
The inn door burst open.
"Cultists!" someone yelled. "They're taking people—by the old chapel!"
Panic rippled through the tavern.
The Dawnwardens leapt to their feet, drawing blades with theatrical flair.
"This is our moment," one said eagerly. "The people will see."
Lemma stood.
The Dragon's Brand burned—not hot, but insistent.
She followed.
The old chapel sat crooked at the edge of the city, its once-sacred stones defaced with red sigils carved deep into the walls.
Hooded figures chanted, their voices raw and desperate, as townsfolk knelt bound in a circle.
A summoning.
A sloppy one.
The air reeked of fear and rot.
The Dawnwardens charged in shouting, blades flashing. The cultists panicked immediately—some fled, others screamed prayers to things that did not answer.
The fight was brief.
Too brief.
Lemma watched as the "heroes" cut down kneeling figures without hesitation, without mercy. One cultist—a boy no older than sixteen—raised his hands, sobbing.
A blade took his head anyway.
The chanting stopped.
The sigils flickered… then destabilized.
"Wait—" Lemma started.
Too late.
The summoning circle collapsed inward with a shriek of warped space. A shockwave blasted outward, throwing heroes and cultists alike to the ground.
Lemma was the only one who remained standing.
From the center of the broken circle, something tried to emerge—an incomplete manifestation, snarling and furious.
Pathetic, sneered one Demon King.
Mine, growled another.
The presence split.
Literally.
The forming entity tore itself apart as two opposing influences dragged it in different directions. The result was catastrophic.
The thing screamed once—then imploded, leaving a crater of scorched stone and silence.
The Dawnwardens stared, pale and shaken.
"What… was that?" one whispered.
Lemma stepped forward.
"A fight," she said quietly. "Between things far above your pay."
They turned toward her, finally really seeing her.
"Who are you?" their leader demanded.
Lemma met his gaze.
"No one you remember," she said.
Behind her eyes, the Demon Kings snarled at one another—angry, frustrated.
You interfered, one accused another.
You were too greedy, came the reply.
She is not yours.
Lemma clenched her fists.
"Shut up," she hissed under her breath.
The heroes recoiled slightly—not hearing the words, but feeling the pressure behind them.
Divine bells rang in the distance—temples reacting, gods being alerted.
Lemma turned away.
She had seen enough.
As she slipped back into the city's shadows, one truth settled heavily in her chest:
The world had moved on.
It had replaced her family with lies.
Her mother with false order.
Heroes with costumes.
Faith with convenience.
And above it all, monsters argued over who would claim her.
Lemma Heartfilia walked on, unnoticed by the crowd—
—but not forgotten by the powers that mattered.
Not anymore.