Chronicles of the Forgotten

Iris

I didn't recognize him, but my body did. The way my hand rested on his chest, the warmth of his skin against mine. It was intimate, a silent language spoken in my deepest core, and the moment my eyes snapped open, my mind screamed in protest. Shame, hot and prickly, erupted in my cheeks. He was a stranger. We were naked.

The wails of the others were just a blur of noise. My only thought was escape. I scrambled backward, a flurry of panicked motion, until my hand found the coarse fabric of the tunic. I pulled it on in a single, desperate motion, my fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar material. I didn't dare look at him. His name, his face, his warmth—they were all a terrifying blank. As the others slowly came to their senses, their screams turning to confused mutters, I was already dressed.

I turned to the man, my gaze fixed on the floor, and gave a quick, jerky bow. "Forgive me," I mumbled, a formality I didn't even understand. My voice was a stranger’s. I didn't wait for a response. I ran for the only place that looked like an exit: the open hatch. I ignored the pleas of the man who had been laughing, the worried glances of the woman who was trying to organize everyone. I just needed to be alone. I needed to escape the embarrassment that felt as tangible as the crystal beneath my feet.

The moment my foot hit the soft grass outside the dome, the air filled with the scent of rain-soaked earth and something savory, like warm bread and roasted herbs. But my senses were immediately overwhelmed by a pain so sharp and sudden it felt like a lightning strike to the base of my skull. It was a searing fire that stole my vision and brought me to my knees. The pain was so profound it forced a single, perfect thought into my mind.

Iris.

My name. The one word in the universe that made sense.

I gasped for air, the pain subsiding into a dull, throbbing ache. The world came back into focus, and with it, something new. A faint, glowing blue screen, translucent and shimmering, appeared in front of my eyes. It hovered in the air like a ghost, a library of information I had no memory of creating.

It read:

Target: Make-shift Benches

Properties: Pine Wood (Rough-hewn, unfinished). Hand-carved. Freshly cut.

Status: Usable. Recently installed.

Purpose: Rest.

I blinked, and the screen flickered, a new set of data appearing.

Target: Grass

Properties: Verdant, lush. Saturated with rainwater. Scent of petrichor.

Status: Healthy. Recently grown.

Purpose: Ground cover.

It was my mind. My very soul was a hidden library, a living archive of knowledge. The skill, the screen, the deep-seated awareness of everything around me—it was a part of me, as natural as breathing. I focused on the screen, feeling a name bubble up from the depths of my being. Akasha. It was my ability. I was a living database.

A large shadow fell over me. A hand, bigger than my entire face, was on my shoulder. The touch was gentle but firm, and my body reacted with an instant, comforting warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. I looked up into a pair of dark, worried eyes. It was him. The man from the dome.

He knelt, his concern etched on his rugged, handsome face. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful build that the rough clothes couldn't hide. He still looked like an athlete, a person built for strength and purpose, even in a ragged tunic.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "You looked like you were in pain."

I nodded, the blush I'd felt inside the dome now returning with a vengeance. I was embarrassed that he'd seen me in such a vulnerable moment, yet his concern was a comfort I didn't realize I needed.

"Yeah," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Just a headache. It's better now."

He offered his hand, and I took it. His grip was strong and warm. "Come on," he said, helping me to my feet. "There's a bench over there. And it looks like they have food."

As we walked, my newfound ability was a constant hum in my mind. I focused on his arm, and a new screen appeared.

Target: Unnamed Male Subject

Properties: Strong muscle mass. Low body fat percentage. Scars on the back of his hands (likely from manual labor).

Status: Confused. Concerned for Subject Iris.

Memory: A brief flash of a memory I couldn't understand—the scent of fresh pastries from a bakery, the feeling of a warm oven.

He must have seen the dazed look on my face. He laughed, a deep, easy sound. "Strange, isn't it? The first memory I got wasn't anything important. It was the smell of fresh croissants. The way the butter flakes in your mouth." He looked confused, then smiled. "I don't even know what a croissant is."

My heart felt a little flutter. The way he spoke, the sincerity in his voice, it was both endearing and heartbreaking. The way his brow furrowed in confusion made him even more attractive.

"You're a pastry person, huh?" I asked, a small smile forming on my lips. My cheeks felt hot. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, a nervous habit I didn't know I had.

"I guess so," he said, and the way he looked at me, a soft, searching gaze, made me feel a sense of longing I couldn't explain.

We reached a bench near a makeshift tent. The smell of bread, warm and inviting, was intoxicating. We sat down just as the first wave of others began to spill out of the dome. I saw the over-enthusiastic man, now dressed in his tunic, looking disappointed. He was followed by the small, timid woman who hid behind a man who looked like he had been a leader. The pragmatic warrior woman with short hair was the first to approach the makeshift tables, already sizing up the situation.

Then, he emerged. He was the last one to leave the dome, moving with a quiet confidence that was starkly different from everyone else's chaotic exit. His gait was smooth and deliberate. The gray tunic and pants he wore, baggy on everyone else, somehow fit his slim, graceful frame. His body was lean and toned, like a long, flexible rope. He was like a dancer. As he walked, his eyes swept over the entire scene, not in panic, but in careful observation. He was an island of calm.

My Akasha skill, which had been a low hum in the background, suddenly flared up.

Target: Unnamed Male Subject

Properties: High intelligence. Analytical. Observational.

Status: Calm. Processing all information.

Memory: His name. Manu.

He was the one who remembered his name. He was the one who watched me in the dome. His gaze, distant and intelligent, landed on me for a brief moment before shifting to the man beside me. I felt a chill run down my spine, a mix of intrigue and fear. The man next to me was warm and comforting, a safe harbor. But the man who had just exited the dome... he was a mystery, a puzzle. And I, the living library, was utterly fascinated.

I felt Aris, the tall man, shift beside me. He didn't seem to notice Manu. He simply offered me a piece of bread, a simple, warm offering. I took it, but my eyes lingered on Manu, the man whose name I knew but whose intentions were as dark as the storm clouds gathering overhead. My heart fluttered for the warm, caring man beside me, but my mind was drawn to the mystery on the field.