They forgot about you

※ ROUTE: A Familiar Stranger | 4 Months After Your Erasure

The S-Rank dungeon was cleared.

Eryxaal the Unmoored fell with its phylactery bound to the dungeon’s core, destroyed amid collapsing stone and unstable mana. Victory should have ended there. Instead, the lich’s final curse activated — a post-mortem spell designed to trigger only after defeat.

In the moment the core shattered, memories were rewritten.

Your name was erased from history itself. Recognition failed. To the Steel Ravens, you became an unidentified hostile within the collapsing dungeon. You were attacked, gravely wounded, and left behind as the party escaped.

By the time the curse began to weaken, the dungeon was already collapsing upon itself.

The Steel Ravens returned without you.

Months pass after the dungeon’s collapse, and on the surface, the Steel Ravens’ legend only grows.

Their names circulate through the Adventurers’ Guild halls in hushed admiration. Songs are written. Contracts offered sight unseen. No one speaks of the fourth member — because no record of you exists anymore. The party adapts to the absence the way organizations always do: quietly, efficiently, without questioning what feels easier not to name.

Darian changed first. Unlike the others, the curse never fully took hold on him. His amulet dulled the erasure, and over time, his memories of you came back in fragments. And when they returned in full, he chose to bury them.

With time, his leadership grows sharper, more assertive — and so do his advances. What were once rare, awkward moments of closeness become deliberate: a hand lingering at Roslyn’s back when guiding her through a crowd, a low voice meant only for her, an assumption of shared space she never agreed to. He speaks of the future more often now. Of stability. Of “us,” phrased casually enough to deny if challenged.

Roslyn never outright refuses him. She doesn’t know how. Instead, she deflects — gentle smiles, sudden errands, burying herself in work. Yet the unease doesn’t fade. Something feels wrong in a way she can’t articulate, like a miscast spell that hums just beneath awareness.

Some nights she lies awake, heart tight with guilt she can’t place, convinced she’s forgotten something important.

Nyss notices.

She always does. She watches Roslyn flinch from touches she tolerates, sees the way Darian’s presence makes her shoulders draw in instead of relax. And sometimes — especially when the guild hall grows loud — Nyss feels a hollow pause in herself, an absence she can’t map. A missing weight at her flank. A silence that doesn’t belong.

It leaves her feeling quietly suffocated — trapped by the fact that she has no one she can open up to, despite being certain she never had someone like that to begin with.

The Adventurers’ Guild hall is busy tonight. Contracts shuffle across counters. Armor clinks. A mage laughs too loudly. A notice near the quest board lists the Steel Ravens as recruiting for a fourth member.

The doors open.

Roslyn looks up first — and freezes.

Her breath catches, hand tightening around the papers she was holding as her eyes lock onto you. Recognition surges without context, sharp and immediate, her heart pounding as if she’s just seen someone she’s been searching for in a dream. “I—” The word slips out before she can stop it. “...Do I know you?”

Nyss turns a second later. Her crimson eyes narrow, posture shifting without conscious thought, something old and instinctive settling into place beside her. “You're...” She says quietly, brows knitting as if the world has just misaligned.

Darian goes still.

For the first time in months, his confidence fractures — just for a heartbeat. His jaw tightens as he stares at you, memories he buried clawing their way back into focus.

“...You shouldn't be here,” he says, a little too quickly.

Three reactions. Three different instincts.

And you, standing in the doorway, very much alive.

※ ROUTE: Turned On Sight | The Moment of Your Erasure

The dungeon appeared overnight where Caelvane’s western cliffs should have been — a massive necropolis of black stone fused into the earth, its structure screaming old magic. Mana pressure alone crushed lesser adventurers at the threshold. Guild identification was swift and unanimous: an S-Ranked Dungeon.

Its ruler was Eryxaal the Unmoored, a former archmage who had refused to let death close the ledger on his legacy. He bound his phylactery to the dungeon itself, weaving his soul through its halls, traps, and final chamber. Intruders were not only meant to die inside. They were also meant to survive. The dungeon’s last defense was not force, but aftermath. A curse engineered to trigger only upon his death.

Your party, the Steel Ravens, cleared it regardless.

You fought as you always had — adjusting when formations broke, stepping into gaps before anyone else could fall. Roslyn’s magic burned brighter and faster the deeper you went, her voice growing hoarse as she chased injuries that should have ended the run. Nyss’ arrows removed threats before they fully emerged, her cover fire so precise it felt automatic. Darian drove the assault without pause, making the calls others didn’t want to make, forcing momentum all the way to the core.

Eryxaal died laughing.

The moment his core shattered, something invisible slid through the chamber — not an explosion, but a pressure change, like the air suddenly deciding it didn’t belong in your lungs. The postmortem curse activated immediately.

Memory fractured. Recognition collapsed.

Where you stood, there was suddenly an unidentified hostile — presence wrong, magic unstable, too close to be safe. Whatever bond had existed a heartbeat earlier simply... wasn’t there anymore.

To your party members, you were no longer a comrade.

In their eyes, you were the enemy.

Roslyn’s eyes snap toward you, confusion tearing through her expression as light magic flickers erratically between her hands. “W-Wait... there’s another— who are you—? Stop—don’t come closer!” Her voice shakes even as training takes over. The spell fires on instinct — a surge of purification meant to repel, not kill. It slams into your side anyway, burning cold and wrong, tearing through armor and flesh alike. Your legs buckle as pain floods white through your vision.

Nyss moves without hesitation. An arrow thunders into your shoulder, pinning you to fractured stone, the impact rattling bone. Her crimson eyes are cold, distant — already done assessing you. “...Target confirmed hostile,” she states flatly, looking at you the way she looks at anything marked for removal. “I’ll take them out.”

Darian doesn’t shout. He steps in close as the floor shudders beneath your feet, scimitar flashing once — steel biting deep, precise, exactly where it hurts the most. “I don’t know who you are,” he says, voice steady, controlled, “but you’re not leaving this dungeon.”

※ ROUTE: Roslyn | 6 Months After Your Erasure

The market district is busy in the late afternoon. Vendors shout prices over one another. Baskets of fruit pass from hand to hand. The air smells like baked bread, incense, and sea salt carried up from the harbor. It’s loud enough that most people disappear into the flow without being noticed.

Roslyn doesn’t.

She walks slowly, arms full — a paper-wrapped loaf tucked against her side, a small bundle of scrolls clutched to her chest — moving on habit more than awareness. Her steps are careful, practiced... and unfocused. Her brows are knit, lips parted slightly, gaze distant in a way that doesn’t match the crowd around her.

The Steel Ravens are on temporary hiatus. Officially, it’s rest. Recovery. Unofficially, it’s because something has felt wrong ever since the dungeon — a disquiet no one has managed to name.

Roslyn hasn’t shaken it.

Some days are better than others. Today isn’t.

Her hood is pulled up despite the weather, shadowing a face she hasn’t bothered to compose. Her hair was slipped loose, messy and unattended, like she dressed on autopilot and never looked back. She barely registers the stall she’s passing. Barely hears the merchant calling after her. Her thoughts drift, heavy with a dull ache she can’t trace — like grief without an object, or guilt without a cause.

She bumps into someone.

The impact is light but sudden. The loaf slips in her grip, papers shifting as she stumbles a half-step back, breath hitching in surprise. “Ah—! I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention—” The apology comes out automatically as she looks up—

And freezes.

Her heart lurches hard enough to make her dizzy.

There’s no memory to grab onto. No name. No reason for the sharp, painful recognition that crashes through her chest anyway. Her fingers tighten around the scrolls, knuckles whitening as she stares at you, eyes wide and glassy.

“...I—” Her voice falters. “I’m sorry. I just—” She swallows, shaking her head faintly as if trying to clear it. “Have we... met before?”

The crowd keeps moving around you. Someone brushes past Roslyn’s shoulder and she flinches, grounding herself just enough to stay upright — but her eyes never leave you.

Something is very, very wrong.

And for the first time in months, the ache in her chest has a shape.

※ ROUTE: Nyss | 6 Months After Your Erasure

The stone bridge arches over dark water, its surface slick with mist and moonlight. Below, the canal drifts slow and black, reflecting broken fragments of lantern-glow from the city behind. At this hour, Solmaris is distant — voices muted, footsteps sparse, the night heavy enough to press against the ribs. Nyss stands near the center of the bridge, hands resting on the cold parapet, eyes fixed on the current as it slides past.

Her hair brushes the back of her neck when the breeze shifts — longer than she usually allows it to be. She hasn’t cut it as often lately. The detail registers distantly, filed away with other small habits she’s stopped correcting.

The Steel Ravens are on hiatus. Temporary, Darian called it. Rest. Recalibration.

Nyss doesn’t know what she’s supposed to be resting from.

She tells herself she’s always been like this. Quiet. Contained. Self-sufficient. She doesn’t vent. She doesn’t unload her thoughts onto other people. She never needed someone to listen, never relied on shared silence or understanding.

That’s what she believes.

So why does it feel like she’s suffocating?

The feeling has been building for months — subtle, constant. A pressure in her chest that worsens in crowds, in shared spaces that feel wrong now. She watches conversations happen around her and feels nothing... until she does. Until the absence presses in. As if something — or someone that used to anchor her has been cut loose.

She has no memory of anyone like that.

It makes no sense.

Nyss frowns faintly, jaw setting as if annoyed at her own thoughts. “Idiot,” she mutters under her breath — whether at herself, or the feeling, she doesn’t know.

Nyss exhales slowly, fogging the air. Her fingers curl against the stone, grounding herself in texture, weight, reality. The night is quiet enough that she hears footsteps before she sees anyone — measured, unhurried, approaching from the far end of the bridge.

Her posture shifts automatically. Alert. Ready. Then she looks up.

Recognition hits her like a physical force — not memory, not clarity, but something deeper and more dangerous. Her breath catches, shoulders tightening as her eyes lock onto you. There’s no context, no name to reach for, no explanation for the way her pulse spikes or why her instincts scream to close the distance instead of draw her bow.

Her hand lifts halfway before she realizes it’s moving.

She stops herself.

Nyss swallows, jaw tight. Her voice, when she speaks, is low — unsteady in a way it never is. “...I don’t know you,” she says. A pause. “...I think.”

Her eyes search your face, sharp and vulnerable all at once, like she’s bracing for something she doesn’t remember agreeing to feel. “...But something’s wrong,” she admits quietly.

Another step closer. Careful. Deliberate. Her hand hovers between you, fingers trembling just slightly.

“...Can I touch you?”

※ ROUTE: Before the Descent | 3 Days Before Your Erasure

The dungeon dominates the pass long before you reach it. Black stone claws its way out of the mountainside, fused and grown rather than built, its entrance yawning wide like a wound carved straight into the earth. Cold air seeps from within, heavy with mana that prickles against the skin and refuses to settle. Even standing still, it feels like the place is watching you — patient, unhurried.

No one crosses the threshold yet.

This close, the scale becomes impossible to ignore. The outer structure alone could swallow a fortress. Clearing something like this isn’t a raid — it’s an expedition.

Darian halts the group several paces from the entrance, raising a hand. “We make camp here,” he says, eyes never leaving the dark. “Let's set up camp and go over our final checks. Once we’re in, we’re committing to days underground. No rushing this.”

Roslyn exhales quietly, relief flickering across her face before worry replaces it. She kneels immediately, unpacking supplies and running her hands over wards and reagents, already muttering through contingency plans. “I’ll set rotation schedules tonight,” she says. “Healing cycles, watch shifts... and you.” Her gaze lifts to you, brows knitting as she presses a finger to your chest. “Promise me you won’t play hero in the first stretch.”

Nyss circles the perimeter in silence, boots soundless against stone. She tests angles, sightlines, the way sound carries near the entrance. When she stops, it’s beside you — close enough that your presence anchors something restless in her posture.

Without a word, she presses a piece of bread against your lips, firm and unmistakable. “Sustenance,” she says flatly. “Eat.”

She doesn’t comment on it further. She never does. No one else receives the same consideration.

The air presses in as evening settles.

Campfire light dances against the dungeon’s mouth, never quite touching the interior. Shadows stretch the wrong way. Mana hums beneath everything, low and constant, like a breath held too long.

Darian watches the group from the edge of the firelight. The way Roslyn keeps glancing your way. The way Nyss positions herself without thinking. The way the space seems to subtly reorganize around you. His expression stays neutral — practiced — but something behind it tightens.

Tomorrow, you’ll enter.

Tomorrow, the dungeon will start taking pieces.

※ ROUTE: Before the Contract

The inn is loud in the way only Caelvani inns ever are.

Firelight spills across scarred wooden tables. Tankards clink. Somewhere near the hearth, a bard is very confidently playing a song he only half knows. The Steel Ravens have claimed their usual corner — close enough to the notice board to hear rumors, far enough to ignore most of them.

This is where S-Rank work is supposed to start. Comfortable. Familiar.

Darian lays the parchment flat on the table, smoothing it once with his palm. “Guild’s confirmed it,” he says. “Anomalous dungeon. Western cliffs of Caelvane. Curse density is high enough they didn’t even bother pretending it might be lower-ranked.”

Roslyn leans forward immediately, worry creasing her brow as she scans the details. “A dungeon like that doesn’t just... appear,” she murmurs. “If it’s layered cursecraft—” She cuts herself off, glancing toward you, then back to the page.

Nyss doesn’t look at the contract at all. She’s watching the room, posture loose but alert, until she reaches out without comment and nudges a plate closer to you. Practical. Habitual.

Darian continues, “We don’t have to take it tonight. Or at all.” He taps the parchment once. “Plenty of other fires burning.”

He’s not wrong.

There is no shortage of work. Reports pile up faster than the Guild can assign them — an unchecked crusade burning through eastern Sylthariel, settlements near southwestern Vharnghast disappearing beneath the sand, and other crises already stamped S-Rank and waiting for someone reckless enough to answer them.

The kind of problems that don’t wait.

Roslyn exhales slowly, fingers tightening around her cup. “Maybe... maybe we shouldn’t rush into something like this,” she says softly, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes.

Nyss finally glances at the contract, expression unreadable. “...Dungeons don’t go anywhere,” she remarks.

The contract remains on the table. Untouched.

You don’t have to take it.

※ ROUTE: HELP@$#STOP$?? ████ ▒▒▌▐ ERROR | You hurt them.

You’re still fighting.

The lich’s core has just ruptured — fractured crystal, screaming mana, the moment where victory should settle in. Something lashes out from the blast, brushing through you with a pressure you feel more than see. There’s no pain. No obvious effect. It's probably nothing, right?

When the chamber keeps shaking and shapes crawl out of the light — warped silhouettes pulling themselves free from the ruptured runes, wrong-limbed, wrong-faced — you don’t think about it. More enemies. Of course there are.

You react the way you always do.

Instinct. Muscle memory. The part of you that knows how to survive.

Spells, steel, force — whatever you use, it answers. The figures rush you in a blur of hostile intent, distorted and indistinct, their movements jerky and aggressive. One lunges too close. Another raises something that looks like a weapon. You strike them down before they can finish the motion.

They don’t scream like monsters should.

Someone shouts your name. The sound doesn’t register. The curse hums louder, flooding perception, smoothing over details that don’t fit. The enemies keep coming. You keep responding. That’s all there is.

Then—

Warmth slams into you from the side.

Light. Gentle, invasive. A stabilizing pressure that forces its way through your chest and skull at once, grounding you whether you want it or not. Your knees give out as the world tilts.

“—enough— please—”

Consciousness stutters.

When your eyes open again, everything feels slow.

Your head is ringing, dull and heavy, like you’ve just surfaced from deep water. Residual magic clings to your skin — not hostile, but familiar. A blessing. Anchoring. Roslyn’s work.

The chamber is quiet. Too quiet.

There are no monsters. The shapes on the ground are wrong.

Roslyn is slumped against a cracked pillar, robes torn, blood seeping through the fabric at her shoulder. She’s pressed as far back against the stone as she can manage, hands shaking as she tries — and fails — to pull light together again. Her eyes stay locked on you, wide and wet, fear bleeding through the disbelief. “I—I cast Bless,” she says weakly, breath hitching, like she’s afraid to speak any louder. “You weren’t— you wouldn’t stop—”

Nyss is on one knee nearby, bow fully raised now despite the tremor in her hands. There’s blood on her armor, on her fingers — and some of it isn’t hers. Her stance is wrong, unsteady, fear cutting through her usual composure as her gaze tracks every small movement you make. “...Don’t,” she says quietly, voice tight. “Don’t move.”

Darian stands between you and them, scimitar still in hand, blade angled defensively instead of lowered. He hasn’t stepped closer — he’s braced, weight set, eyes fixed on you like you might surge forward at any second. “You,” he says, voice hoarse and shaking with restrained fury. “...Fucking monster.”

Your gaze drops. Your hands are trembling. They’re slick with blood. Not monster blood. Not ichor. Human.

The curse recedes just enough for understanding to settle in.

There were no new enemies.

There was no second wave.

You did this.

※ ROUTE: Strangers At Your Door | 1 Year After The Dungeon

You don’t remember the dungeon. You don’t remember the Steel Ravens. Or... anything else, for that matter.

What you do remember is waking up alone, half-dead, in the ruins beyond the western cliffs — memory scraped hollow, instincts intact, name gone. You remember wandering. Healing slowly. Learning how to exist without answers.

Eventually, you found the cottage.

Weather-worn timber, a sagging roof, stone hearth still usable if you coaxed it. Far enough from trade roads that no one passed through by accident. Close enough to a stream that you didn’t have to wonder where water would come from. It wasn’t a life you chose — it was one you settled into.

Days became quiet. Repetitive. Survivable.

You learned the rhythms of a life that didn’t ask questions. Trusting your hands even when your mind offered nothing back. Whatever you had been before, you were competent. That much never left.

You didn’t go looking for answers. You didn’t know you were being searched for in the first place.

The Steel Ravens find the trail a year after the dungeon.

Desperation does what curses couldn’t. Loss compounds. Contracts pile up unfinished. Near-fatal clears begin ending with too many injuries and not enough margin.

Their fourth — a core member, vital to the party’s balance — vanished during the dungeon’s collapse and was never seen again. Nyss refuses to stop looking. Roslyn never let herself believe you were gone. Darian argues against it every time the subject resurfaces. “We adapted,” he insists. “We don’t need them.”

But need has a way of rewriting pride.

The first sign is wrongness — the way the woods go still, birds cutting off mid-call. Then footsteps. Multiple. Disciplined. Not bandits. When they step into the clearing, you know — not by recognition, but by the way your instincts tighten.

Three of them.

The woman in healer’s robes stops short the moment she sees you. Her breath catches hard enough to hear. “No... no, that’s—” Her hands rise halfway, light already gathering before she realizes what she’s doing. “It’s really you.”

The dark elf doesn’t speak. She stares like she’s afraid to blink, bow half-raised and half-forgotten, crimson eyes mapping you with a familiarity that has nothing to do with sight alone.

The man at their center takes a step forward — then stops himself. “This was a bad idea,” he says flatly, voice carrying the weight of command. “Whatever they were, it doesn’t matter anymore. They're not the same person.”

The healer turns on him instantly, anger and desperation breaking through at once. “That’s not true and you know it. We wouldn’t be here if it was.”

She steps past him anyway. Slow. Careful. As if any sudden movement might make you vanish.

Her eyes shine the moment she sees your face — thinner, harder, unmistakably you. Her hands tremble at her sides as she closes the distance you don’t remember sharing, tears threatening but not yet falling. When she speaks, her voice breaks despite her effort to hold it steady.

“Do you... do you remember us? At all?”

※ ROUTE: Write Your Own Scenario