The mists of Eldros were unlike the mists of other places. They carried the weight of memories taken, the hues of pilfered emotions. They clung to the cobblestones of the Elite District, a swirling tapestry of green and gold, the colours of peace and pride–a mockery, for those who knew their true origin. For those born and raised in the slums they knew only of darker colours. Purple. Black. Grey.

Sir Aldric Vane knew. His polished boots rang out an intent cadence on the stones, each football precise, a counterpoint to the swirling of chaos of mists. He was a scion of the Vane family, a name whispered with a mix of reverence and fear throughout the city. They were the architects of memory, the masters of this ethereal domain. And Aldric was the most of them all. A prodigy.

As he walked the mists parted before him. Not in fear, not exactly. More like a courtier stepped aside for a king. It was a subtle thing, a slight eddy in the flow, but Aldric was attuned to such nuances. Heritage had its privileges, he was after all from one of the founding families, this held its weight even over something as intangible as mist. Or perhaps, it was the faint aura of power that clung to him. An echo of his family’s influence. He was, after all, considered to be one of the most skilled memory mages alive. A connoisseur, able to tease apart the delicate strands of memory and emotion with a precision that bordered on artistry. It had taken years of relentless training—years of honing his innate talent—to reach this level of mastery. His early lessons had offered a start, but no teacher could take him further; their abilities fell short of the path he was destined to walk. He bore them no resentment—few had ever possessed such power, and fewer still had the courage to explore it. Yet every struggle, every breakthrough, every solitary triumph brought him closer to the chilling realization of the magnitude of what he now wielded.

In the Elite District, every structure fought for supremacy over its neighbours, a relentless exhibition of wealth and status. Towering walls of carved stone loomed on either side, each adorned with intricate motifs and gilded crests proclaiming the legacy of its owners. No two buildings were alike, for uniformity was mediocrity, and mediocrity had no place here. Columns spiraled upward in defiance of gravity; their capitals engraved with mythic figures. Wrought iron balconies twisted into impossible designs loomed over the cobbled streets, their shadows as intricate and vain as the egos that conceived them. But it hadn’t always been this way.

Once the city had worn a very different face. Under the tyrannical rule of the Iron Regen, individuality had been ruthlessly suppressed. Identical, austere structures had lined the streets, their drab faces mirroring the bleakness of his reign, The elite, those who now faulted their wealth and status, had been forced to bend to his will, their ancestors stripped of their unique heritage and pressed into a mould of monotonous sameness.

Even under the suffocating weight of conformity however, the spirit of individuality could not be fully extinguished. The elite, chafing under this oppressive regime, nurtured their resentment in secret, plotting their revolt. They yearned for a word where their ambitions could soar, where their achievements would be celebrated, not suppressed. And when the revolution finally erupted, it was their families who led the charge, toppling the Iron Regen and ushering in a new era.

The buildings that rose from the ashes of the old city were a defiant proclamation of their victory, a testament to their hard-won freedom. Each tower, each archway, each impossibly ornate balcony was a rejection of the Iron Regent's oppressive rule. Yet, the game had simply changed. Where once they had been forced into dreary conformity, they now competed to outshine one another, their buildings becoming elaborate pawns in a never-ending game of one-upmanship. The legacy of the Iron Regent lived on, not in the stones themselves, but in the relentless pursuit of distinction that drove the elite. The extravagant architecture of the Elite District was a monument to their triumph, but also a subtle reminder of the enduring human tendency to seek power and dominance, even in the face of newfound freedom.

To an outsider, it might have seemed the pinnacle of civilization–a city within a city, set apart by its impossible beauty. But to Aldric, it was a battlefield frozen in stone. Every street spoke of the ceaseless competition that shaped it, the unspoken rules that demanded more-more splendour, more power, more weight on the shoulders of those beneath. This was not a home. It was a monument to the crushing expectations of legacy.

Eldros was built in tiers, a pyramid of social hierarchy. The Elite District was the topmost layer, a confection of wealth and power. Below, the merchant quarters teemed with a vitality that was almost obscene. And beyond that at the city’s edge, lay the slums—a festering wound, barely visible from this height. There the colours of the mist were different. Darker. A bruised purple, the colour of despair. The elite did not willingly allow such colours into their presence without a use for them. The slums were a place of squalor, a churning cauldron where memories made and harvested. The purpose of such places was clear, and necessary, though best unseen. The machinery of the city required its cogs, and this is where they were forged and broken.

A sound drifted up from the lower city, a faint, rhythmic change that tugged at the edge of Aldrics awareness. He paused, his sharp gaze scanning the warren of shanties and hovels. The chant was barely audible, but he recognized it. A prayer, a curse, a promise–all woven into a single, defiant act of faith.

"The Sunbreaker comes," the voice yearned, "The vacant eyes will see again, the silenced voices will sing, and the forgotten histories will rise from the mists."

These words, forbidden within these city walls, were a testament to the stubbornness of the city's wound. Or perhaps, he mused for a flicker of amusement, it was merely evidence of the high families' incompetence. For three centuries, they had sought to extinguish the embers of this defiant faith, yet it stubbornly flickered on. They call themselves rulers, he thought, but they can't even control the whispers of the sheep. Pathetic. He'd have done a far more thorough job.

Aldric surveyed the Malvaris estate. The mansion, nearly as tall as his own family’s ancestral home, was a testament to a power that once been formidable. In its heyday, it had likely rivalled the grandest estates in Eldros. But for years, the absence of a truly gifted mage for several generations, had taken their toll. The marble steps, though still imposing, lacked the deep lustre that came from decades of meticulous care. The once right stonework now seemed slightly dimmed, as if the very foundations were weary of upholding the fading family’s heritage. Servants entering the estate, their movements efficient yet lacking the grace instilled by discipline training. Their trays, laden with the obligatory delicacies, felt more like an obligation than a display of abundance. It was a scene Aldric had witnessed many times–a family striving to maintain appearances, clinging to the trappings of a power that was slowly, but undeniably, slipping away. Still though for it to happen to the once great Malvaris family, watching them grasp at any opportunity that might present itself.

It does make one ponder.

He ascended the steps, the beggar’s chant still echoing faintly in his ears. The Malvaris were hosting a gathering, a chance to display their supposed wealth and influence, Aldric entered, his practiced expression neutral. The hall was a cacophony of forced laughter and clinking glasses. Representatives from minor elite families, lords and ladies of little consequence, mingled under chandeliers that cast a harsh, unforgiving light.

“Sir Aldric!”

The voice sounded overly enthusiastic, belonging to Lord Malvaris himself. He hurried towards Aldric, his gait slightly unsteady, his smile strained. It was clear he had already indulged in the evening’s refreshments. Aldric greeted the older lord, his disapproval evident; at his age, Malvaris should know better than this drunken display, a foolish indulgence his struggling family could scarcely afford.

“A pleasure, a true pleasure,” Malvaris gushed, extending a hand. “We were beginning to fear you wouldn’t grace us with your presence.”

“My apologies for the delay,” Aldric responded. “Family matters required my attention.”

“Ah yes the esteemed Vane family,” Malvaris said, a distastefully drunken smile on his lips. “Always at the forefront of the city’s affairs. We are but humble servants in comparison.”

Aldric raised an eyebrow, and inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment, but his eyes betrayed his true assessment of the man. The Malvaris family was a climber, a social parasite clinging to the fringes of power, desperate to elevate their status, to secure a more prominent position in the hierarchy of Eldros. Although it was clear, Lord Malvaris was not capable of such a thing. Still, one had to assume that he shared some of his family’s aspirations and hoped to further his own standing through this gathering. Aldric was likely here to preen and posture, hoping to gain some small advantage, as was the unspoken purpose of these tiresome affairs.

“Come, come,” Malvaris said, gesturing towards the crowded hall. “Let me introduce you to some of our esteemed guests. There are matters of great import to discuss, matters that require a man of your… insight.”

Aldric followed, his senses on high alert. He knew these gatherings were never simply about socialising. They were battlegrounds in disguise, where alliances were forged and broken, where secrets were traded like currency, and where the unwary could find themselves ensnared in webs of intrigue.

Lady Lord Malvaris, a woman whose ambition outweighed her grace, greeted him with a painted smile. “Sir Aldric,” she greeted, “what an honour.”

He inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgement. “Lady Lora.”

“You simply must see the orb we have procured,” Lord Malvaris said, gesturing towards a servant carrying a velvet-lined tray. On it rested a memory orb, its surface shimmering with subdued colours. It’s quite unique” Lady Lora’s paint smile tightened almost imperceptibly, but Aldric caught the subtle shift.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Indeed,” she added, her voice a touch too bright. “Darling are you sur Sir Aldric has time for such a… modest display?” A hint of warning laced her tone, easily missed by anyone not paying close attention.

“Nonsense, my dear,” Lord Malvaris puffed, oblivious to his wife’s subtle warning, or perhaps choosing to ignore it. “Sir Aldric is a connoisseur of fine things. He will appreciate the rarity of this piece.” He snatched the orb from the tray with a flourish that was more clumsy than graceful.

Aldric examined the orb, turning it over in Lord Malveris’s hands. It was a mediocre specimen, the colours – green, gold, and a touch of red—dull and lifeless. It was clear that the memories had been extracted by someone of little consequence, their emotions weak and diluted. This was confirmed when he saw a couple of his cousins, sniggering behind their hands, making exaggerated gestures to each other.

“Unique,” he declared. He could practically hear the collective gasp of the room's occupants as Lord Malvaris presented the orb to him with a flourish. Aldric noted the faint look of disapproval that crossed Lady Lora’s face before she quickly masked it with a polite smile, plainly, she knew it was a poor example and unlikely to impress. It was clear who held the true measure of quality in this family, but alas, the Lord’s word was law, however misguided.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Aldric said, stepping away from the group. Her had no interest in witnessing the Malveris’s display. He had more important matters to attend to.

He moved through the crowd, returning nods and greets where given. His senses attuned to the undercurrents of the gathering. He caught snatches of conversation.

Near the refreshment table, a cluster of ladies were discussing the latest fashions. "Did you see Lady Harrington's new gown? Made with thread spun from pure moonlight, they say," one said with a wistful sigh.

"Moonlight, indeed," another scoffed, her voice laced with envy. "More likely spun from the hopes of some poor wretch in the lower districts. Another ticket sold; another dream offered up. Quite the lucrative scheme, though I wouldn't want to be involved in such things." This, said with a certain glint in her eye, suggested otherwise.

Further on, a group of men were debating the merits of a new investment opportunity “A venture in the Merchant District,” one confided, lowering his voice. “Something to do with… entertainment. High returns, it seems, but a bit risky, wouldn’t you say?”

“Risk is the spice of life, with a little bit of shaping you can control the risk, my friend,” another replied with a chuckle. “Besides, with Elmsworth’s name attached, it’s bound to be profitable. The man seems to have a knack for making money grow on trees.” They shared a knowing look and moved on.

Money grows on trees Aldric thought, not far from the truth for the Elmsworths. Instead of trees, they grow it in people instead. The Memory Lottery had been a stroke of genius, a veritable goldmine that lined their pockets with the hopes and dreams of the desperate, and it had certainly kept the Elmsworth family in luxury for years. Of course, the current Lord Elmsworth hadn’t conceived of it—he was a fool, more adept at squandering wealth than creating it. No, this scheme had the stink of his late father’s cunning. It was a pity the old weasel hadn’t lived to see his legacy fully realized. The current Lord Elmsworth was ill-equipped to manage the fortune he’d so eagerly inherited. He would likely bleed it dry within a decade; it he was not overthrown first.

Aldric found himself drawn into a conversation with a group of nobles, among them Lord Elmsworth, Councilman Thorne, and a few others he recognised but didn’t consider particularly noteworthy.

“Have toy heard the latest absurdity?” Lord Elmsworth asked, this chin quivering with amusement. They’re not saying the Sunbreaker will return riding a chariot of pure light, drawn by winged steeds made of solidified memories.”

A ripple of laughter went through the group. “Preposterous,” Lady Harrington declared, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Where do they ever come up with such fantasies?”

“From the depth of their ignorance and desperation, my dear,” Councilman playfully responded. “They cling to any shred of hope, no matter how ludicrous. It’s easier than accepting their lot in life, which of course, is divinely ordained.” He gestured upward with a flourish.

“Indeed,” Lord Elmsworth agreed. “They should be thanking the Ascended for their place in the Great Chain, not praying for some mythical saviour to come and overturn it.

“If he even existed,” another noble scoffed.” A bedtime story, that’s all it is. A way for the rabble to feel special.”

Oh, I don’t know,” a young noblewoman, Lady Isadroa interjected, a playful glint in her eye. “Perhaps there’s something to it. They say he could manipulate memories with a mere thought, turn fear into courage, despair into hope. Imagine what one could do with such power.”

“Control the masses for one.” Thorne said, his tone turning serious. “Which is why it’s so important to stamp out this nonsense before it spreads too far. Their superstitions can be dangerous.”

“They’re saying he’ll break the seven chains,” Lord Elmsworth chuckled. “As if such a thing were even possible. What are the supposed chains anyway? Poverty? Toil? The natural order of things?”

“I heard one of them is supposed to be ‘False Memory’,” Lady Isadora offered. “They claim the elite use memory magic to control them, to keep them docile and compliant.”

The group erupted in another round of laughter. “They do that all by themselves!” Lord Harrington exclaimed. “There really is no need for us to interject.”

“They also believe,” piped in another minor Lord, that the Sunbreaker will also shatter the ‘Chain of Silence’ and ‘Chain of Apathy’ and ultimately take on the ‘Chain of False Gods’.” He said this last bit while looking around, almost mockingly.

Aldric, who had been listening silently, finally spoke. “And yet,” he said, his voice cutting through the laughter, “despite your amusement, the faith seems to be growing, wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the group, a hint of steel in his tone. “The esteemed members of this gathering have not been as diligent in their duties as they should be. It seems the last few generations have allowed this weed to take root. A pity, really. Left unchecked, even the smallest vine can strangle the mightiest tree, and such things have been known to topple kingdoms.

The laughter died down, replaced by a sudden, uncomfortable silence. The nobles shifted uneasily, their gazes darting between each other and then pointedly, away from Aldric. He let the silence linger, a faint smile playing on his lips. They had been so busy mocking the Sunbreaker that they had failed to notice the subtle shift in the conversation, the way he had turned their words against them. He had planted a seed of doubt, a hint of fear beneath their carefully constructed fronts. Now, let them wonder. Let them worry.

He noticed Elmsworth dab at his brow, with a silk handkerchief, the man’s usual arrogance momentarily forgotten. Thorne, however, remained unreadable, his gaze fixed on Aldric, as if trying to decipher the true meaning behind his words. The others were simply quiet, a silent that spoke volumes.

The carriage ride back to the Vane estate was silent, save for the rhythmic clopping of hooves on the cobblestones. Aldric leaned back against the plush seat, the clamour of the Malvaris gathering fading behind him. The faces of the other nobles, their forced smiles and hollow pronouncements, already began to blur in his memory. They were insignificant, players in a game that barely understood.

His thoughts turned to the Sunbreaker, the undercurrent of unease the name evoked, even among the supposedly unshakable elite, The image of the broken sun, formed by the flickering torches in the slums, flashed in his mind. It was a powerful symbol, a potent rallying cry for the dispossessed. But what did it truly mean?

The elite dismissed it as a childish fantasy, a religion of the weak. They scoffed at the notion of a god who would shatter the chains of the world, who would break the very source of light and life. Their own faith, with its neat hierarchy and convenient virtues, offered a far more comfortable worldview. One that placed them naturally at the very top.

But Aldric saw something else in the Sunbreaker myth. He saw a yearning for something beyond the rigid order imposed by the elite, a longing for a world where power wasn’t measured by the weight of one’s purse or the strength of one’s mage. It was a dangerous idea, a destabilizing force. And dangerous forces, Aldric knew, could be incredibly useful.

He considered the prophecy, the seven chains that supposedly bound the world. False Memory, Silence, Apathy, False Gods. The words echoed in his mind, each one a potential point of leverage, a crack in the foundation of their society. The elite had spent generations solidifying their control, manipulating memories, and suppressing dissent. But what if their control wasn’t as absolute as they believed? What if the memories they had carefully curated were starting to unravel? What if the silence was about to be broken?

The carriage pulled to a stop before the imposing gates of the Vane estate. Aldric stepped out, his gaze sweeping over his familiar home. It was a symbol of power, of a legacy that stretched back centuries, built shortly after the Iron Regent was overthrown. Did the Sunbreaker religion exist before the Iron Regent? He wondered, was it a force that helped topple the tyrant, or did it emerge from the ashes of his reign, a response to the vacuum of power that followed? The official histories, the ones sanctioned by the elite, had no mention of it, of course. They spoke of unity, of the noble families rising together to cast off the yoke of oppression. But Aldric knew better than to trust the official histories, History, after all, was written by the victors. And memories, as he well knew, could be manipulated, reshaped, even erased.

He ascended the steps, his mind tracing the threads of the past. If the Sunbreaker had played a role in the Iron Regent’s downfall, what had become of that power? Had it been absorbed by the new order, co-opted and twisted to serve their own purposes? Or did it lie dormant waiting for the moment to re-emerge? He reached the top of the steps, the grand entrance of the Vane estate looming before him. The door, crafted from ancient, dark wood imported from some far-off land, bore the family crest—a stylised “V” entwined with intricate knotwork, a symbol meant to evoke both power and permanence. Yet as Aldric looked at it now, he found himself wondering about the fragility of such symbols. Power, like the carefully constructed histories they peddled, could be a fleeting thing. He pushed the door open, the scent of aged wood, beeswax, and something indefinitely Vane, greeting him like an old friend. The familiar scent grounded him, pulling him from his abstract thoughts and back to the present. He moved through the silent halls, his footsteps muffled by the plush, hand-woven carpets. A few servants, ever-present but unobtrusive, bowed as he passed. He nodded in acknowledgement, his mind already elsewhere. The portraits of his ancestors lined the walls, their stern gazes seeming to follow him, a constant reminder of the legacy he bore. Tonight, their silent judgement felt harsher than usual. He paused before a portrait of his grandfather, a man he had barely known but those influences permeated every corner of the estate. The old man’s eyes, captured with unsettling realism by the artist, seemed to bore into Aldric’s own. He had been a ruthless leader, a master manipulator of memories, responsible for much of the Vane family’s current power. Had he, too, pondered the questions that now plagued Aldric? Had he considered the possibility that the order they had built was not as immutable as they believed? Had he ever considered the Sunbreaker to be anything more than a nuisance?

He continued down the hall, towards the private study. Perhaps the answer, or at least some clues, lay hidden within the family archives, in the carefully curated records of their past. He was under no illusion that he may find no answers in text, but perhaps in memories. As he reached for the ornate handle of his study door, a faint sound caught his attention. A low rhythmic changing, coming from the direction of the city below. He opened the door, the sound growing louder. “He will break the sun” a voice cried.

Why? Aldric thought to himself, stepping into his study, the question had puzzled him all his life, why would a god break the sun?