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The city had been burning for three days.

Smoke clung to your cloak like a second skin, and the ringing in your ears was no longer from battle—but from the quiet that followed it.

You walked through the ash-covered streets without a sword, only the weight of memory pressing against your back. Behind you, the old tower had fallen. So had the banners. And the king you once swore to.

You passed no one. Only crows. Only ruins.

At the edge of the kingdom, where the cobbled road gave way to broken stone and creeping moss, you found the fork—four paths stretching in four directions, each leading toward a different kind of forgotten.

No signs. No voices. Just the wind.

You close your eyes. You still remembered her voice, the warmth of old wood, the scent of parchment, the echo of bells.

But memory is not a map.

And now, your soul must choose.



❓Where Would You Take Refuge?