The Extra's Transcension

The first to vanish was Mara.

No blood. No struggle. Just silence.

Her hut was found empty at dawn. Bed still made. Teacup still warm.

No one questioned it, not really. They just spoke softer that morning. Smiled thinner. Like their minds agreed, quietly, to forget.

Except Ember.

She stormed to the square with her fists clenched, voice ringing sharp against the hush.

"Mara is gone," she snapped, eyes scanning the villagers, "and none of you are talking about it."

Blank stares.

A few exchanged looks, hesitant, like children caught half-remembering a lie.

"She's visiting her sister," someone muttered.

Ember turned. "Mara doesn't have a sister."

The man blinked, confused. Then laughed, awkwardly. "Guess I misremembered."

But Ember saw it in his eyes, he wasn't lying.

He believed it.

Ash stepped up beside her.

He didn't say anything.

Just placed a hand on her arm.

Later, as the village returned to its muted routine, Ember and Ash walked the outer edge of the woods, away from ears, away from eyes.

"She didn't leave," Ember said.

"I know," Ash replied.

"They're being rewritten."

Ash was silent a long time. Then:

"Yes."

Ember's jaw tightened. "This isn't corruption. It's something deeper. Something that reshapes memory."

Ash nodded. "It doesn't just erase. It replaces. Softly. Like snow covering footprints."

Ember clenched her fists. "And it's winning."

That night, Ember dreamed of a woman with burning eyes.

Not Mara. Not anyone she recognized.

The woman stood in a field of ash and wheat, speaking, but no sound came.

And yet the dream pulsed with intent.

A whisper beneath the world.

"We are all echoes of the first name."

Ember woke in sweat.

Ash was already awake, sitting outside, bare feet in the dew-wet grass. Eyes glazed, staring into the trees.

She joined him.

"Another dream?" she asked.

He nodded slowly. "They keep calling it the Unspoken."

Ember felt the air shift at the name, like the trees themselves tensed.

"You said the glyphs were a door," she whispered. "This thing… it came through?"

"No," Ash said.

He turned to her then, voice flat.

"It was already here. The glyphs just reminded us."

By morning, another had vanished. Derren.

His barrel shop stood open. No tools gone. No signs of travel.

And again, no panic.

The villagers murmured of errands. Visits. Journeys no one had planned.

Ash and Ember didn't speak much as they walked the edge of the granary that morning.

Not until they heard a child humming nearby.

It was a girl, barefoot, blonde, no older than six.

She crouched near the side wall, tracing her fingers through the dust.

Drawing.

Not nonsense.

Glyphs.

"Hey," Ember said gently, crouching.

The girl looked up with wide, too-bright eyes.

"What's your name?" Ember asked.

The girl smiled. "Doesn't matter. I gave it back."

Ember froze. "To who?"

"To the nice man who whispers when I sleep."

Ash stepped in, his face carefully blank.

"Can you show me what you drew?"

The girl nodded and backed up.

In the dust, a ring of symbols had been sketched with chilling precision. Not childish scribbles, these were ancient. Complex.

Ash knelt slowly. Traced one with a fingertip.

He paled.

"What is it?" Ember asked.

He looked up at her.

"This… is part of a name."

"What name?"

Ash stood.

His voice was distant.

"The true one."

That night, the sky turned violet.

No stars.

Just thick cloud.

And a hum in the earth.

Not loud. Not aggressive.

But constant.

It made Ember's teeth ache.

The granary door stood open.

A faint light spilled from insideb, pale, pulsing.

They went alone. No villagers stirred.

Ash paused at the threshold.

"This is a lure," he said.

"I know," Ember replied.

They stepped inside.

The grain smelled wrong. Sweet, but spoiled. Like honey left too long in heat.

The walls had changed.

The glyphs had spread.

More now. Hundreds.

Moving.

Not visibly. But Ember could feel them pulsing in the corners of her vision. Like thoughts crawling across glass.

At the far end, near the sacks of barley, stood a figure.

Not a person.

A silhouette.

It wore robes made of whispers. Its face a shifting blur, as if memory itself refused to settle.

And when it spoke, it wasn't with words.

It was with recognition.

Ash gasped, stumbling back.

"Do you see it?" he whispered.

Ember nodded.

But it wasn't the figure that made her blood run cold.

It was the sense that something inside her, some memory, had just knelt.

She shook her head violently.

"No. No, you don't get to do that."

The figure flickered.

Ash stepped forward.

"You're not real."

A voice responded, from nowhere. Everywhere.

"Neither are you."

Ash's jaw clenched.

Ember grabbed his shoulder. "Don't listen. It wants you to doubt."

The figure tilted its head.

Ash whispered, "It's a Mindweaver. Older than language. It feeds on identity."

The figure seemed to smile, without features.

"You speak of me as if I were distant," it cooed. "But I wear your shadows like robes. I am the moment before forgetting. The silence between names."

It stepped forward.

But Ember drew her blade.

"No closer."

It paused.

Then turned to Ash.

"You left pieces of yourself behind, Godbinder."

Ash flinched.

"I've gathered them."

And then, just like that, the figure was gone.

No sound. No wind. Just silence.

The glyphs stopped pulsing.

The light faded.

They stood in darkness.

Only their breaths, and the weight of knowing:

It had shown itself.

It had touched them.

And it knew their names.

*****

The night didn't end when the figure vanished.

It lingered.

Not physically, but in the trembling of the earth, the way the torches crackled out of rhythm, the sudden confusion on villagers' faces as they emerged from their homes without knowing why.

Ember and Ash stood in the granary long after the light had faded.

The air felt thick, like water trying to drown breath.

"Did it… mark us?" Ember asked quietly.

Ash was staring at his hand. "No. Worse. It remembered us."

They said nothing more until they left the building.

Outside, a small crowd had gathered, none had approached during the event, but now they milled near the edges, unsure, eyes glazed as if waking from sleepwalking.

Then a voice rose from them.

"You two," a young woman called out. Her voice was clear and steady, unlike the dazed mutterings around her. "What just happened?"

Ember turned. It was the girl from earlier in the week, the one who worked at the well.

Dark curls tied back in a ribbon, sleeves rolled up, hands calloused from hauling buckets all day.

Her name was Eila, if Ember recalled correctly.

"We're still figuring that out," Ember said cautiously.

Eila stepped forward. "Everyone's been… off. Talking in circles. Forgetting things. My little brother doesn't remember my face if I leave the room."

Her eyes sharpened. "But you two aren't losing yourselves."

Ash's posture remained guarded. "And you?"

"I write things down," Eila replied, holding up a small leather journal. "Names. Faces. Every night before I sleep."

Smart, Ember thought. Smart and aware, and not afraid to speak up.

"I heard voices last night," Eila continued. "Not outside. In my mind. They were asking me to forget my mother."

She looked between them, fierce despite the tremor in her hands.

"I think I need to help."

Ash frowned slightly. "You might not like what that means."

"I already don't," Eila snapped. "But I'll like losing who I am even less."

They regrouped by the well.

Ash sat with his back against the stone rim, staring up at the violet-hued clouds above.

Ember paced. "It's spreading. Subtly. Like rot under a floorboard. That… thing, that Mindweaver, it's playing with us."

"Or preparing something," Ash said.

Eila knelt beside them. "I want to know what it wants."

Ash shook his head. "It doesn't want. Not in the way we do. It's not alive in the conventional sense. It's… mnemonic hunger. Thought given shape."

Ember muttered, "That doesn't help us stop it."

"No," Ash admitted. "But it tells us how it feeds."

"By replacing," Ember said.

"By unraveling," Ash corrected. "Memories, relationships, meaning. It chews through bonds between people and leaves empty certainty behind."

Eila stiffened. "That's why no one remembers Mara. It didn't just erase her. It rewrote what she meant."

Ember nodded grimly. "We're dealing with more than just survival. We're fighting for memory."

The next morning, a new sound echoed through the village.

Laughter.

But not joyous.

Disjointed. Sudden. Like glass cracking.

A man stumbled through the main path, giggling. His eyes wide, his lips murmuring fragments:

"She said… but she didn't… I don't… who was I again? Funny, isn't it?"

Ash stopped him gently. "What's your name?"

The man blinked.

Then screamed.

Not at Ash.

At himself.

He clutched his face and collapsed, sobbing, whispering apologies to names no one recognized.

Ember reached into her satchel and pulled out a chalk stick, scribbling a glyph in a circle around him. Ash joined her silently.

"Containment," he muttered. "It won't hold him forever, but it may slow the fray."

Eila stepped back, clutching her journal.

"That wasn't madness," she said shakily. "That was infection."

Ash gave a grave nod. "That was the Mindweaver's touch, beginning to twist the threads of self."

Ember looked to the others.

"We need to anchor people. Names. Truth. Something it can't rewrite."

Eila held up her journal. "We build a ledger. A place where the names can't be unmade."

Ash looked thoughtful. "Glyphs… if encoded properly, we might seal memory within them, layer meanings that resist corruption."

Ember exhaled. "Then let's get to work."

That night, Ember couldn't sleep.

Ash stayed by the fire, scribbling runes into parchment.

Eila had turned in, but her journal sat next to her, pages open, names carefully written in ink.

Ember stepped out to the edge of the forest, heart pounding, eyes scanning the trees.

She could feel it.

The presence.

Not near, but not distant either.

A hum in the back of her skull.

"Why now?" she whispered aloud. "Why come after this village?"

And for a moment…

She thought she heard an answer.

A voice, quiet and broken.

"…because you were almost ready…"

She turned, but nothing was there.

Only trees.

Only wind.

But in the distance, through the leaves…

A faint laugh.

Not mocking.

Knowing.

And Ember understood something in that moment…

This wasn't just a game.

It was a test.

And they'd just passed the first question.

*****

A/N: Like I said you guys can skip most of the chapters of this arc but not he next one.. cuz its backstory...