A guttural roar, deeper and more resonant than any Zsigmond had uttered before, vibrated through Ilona’s bones. The shape that had been Zsigmond was now an eddying vortex of solidified night, tendrils of obsidian shadow whipping through the conservatory like hungry serpents. It lunged, not with the familiar, if terrifying, grace of a beast, but with the chaotic, raw power of a storm. A thorny arm, now impossibly elongated and tipped with claws like obsidian shards, swiped at Csilla, who stood frozen, clutching the volume. Ilona reacted without thought, shoving the elder out of the path. Csilla stumbled, falling hard against a collapsed pillar, the weathered pages skittering across the flagstones. The shadowy arm, diverted, arced back, catching Ilona across the ribs. The impact hurled her across the floor, her cartography bag ripping open, sending pencils and a half-sketched map scattering. She landed hard, her head striking the cold stone near the base of the petrified tree. A sharp ache split her temple, but the towering shape was already advancing, expanding across the flagstones. Each movement radiated a cold, ancient anger that was not Zsigmond’s. It was the ancient curse-core, fully unleashed. “Ilona, no!” Csilla cried, struggling to rise. But the words were lost in a cacophony of cracking stone and the beast’s roiling snarl. Ilona pushed herself up, her vision swimming. The tree, dark and menacing, was directly behind her. Its rough, unyielding surface pressed against her back as the monstrosity cornered her, blotting out the already dim light. Its shadowy talons, each as long as her arm, rose, prepared to strike. She could feel the chilling void emanating from it, the total absence of the Zsigmond she knew, the Zsigmond she loved. With a desperate, instinctual grab, she reached behind her, her palm flattening against the cold, gnarled bark of the petrified tree. At her touch, heat surged into her palm, followed by frost and a dizzying rush that enveloped her. It wasn't pain, but a sudden, overwhelming torrent of sensation, memory, and emotion that was not her own. She saw a boy with bright, earnest eyes, running through a sun-dappled meadow, his laughter like chimes. She saw a young man, older now, his hands calloused from work, his brow furrowed with a quiet kindness as he helped a village elder mend a broken fence. His face was clear, unmarred by shadow or thorn. Then, a scene in the manor’s grand library, soft light filtering through tall windows. He was there, seated at a heavy desk, engrossed in a tome, his lips moving silently as he read. A woman, Eleonóra, Ilona recognized her own past self, her heart aching with recognition, approached him. Her hand settled on his shoulder, and he looked up, a gentle smile gracing his features. “My dear Ábel,” she murmured, her voice soft, filled with a tenderness that vibrated through Ilona’s very being, “have you been at your studies all day?” The name, spoken with such affection, resonated within Ilona, echoing not just in her ears, but deep within her soul. It was a name of light, of gentle strength, a name of home. It was *his* name, the name he had been stripped of. Ilona gasped, the sudden influx of memory fading, leaving her disoriented but resolute. The roaring beast was still before her, its claws poised. But she saw past the coiling void, past the ancient fury. She saw the boy in the meadow, the kind youth, the gentle scholar. She saw Ábel. From behind her, Csilla, moving with a desperate, newfound strength, lunged for the scattered notebook. Her face was streaked with dirt and fear, but her eyes held a fierce determination. She ripped a page from the binding, yellowed parchment marked with intricate, spiraling runes. With a guttural cry, she began to chant, her voice raspy, yet firm, a string of archaic words Ilona had never heard before. As she spoke, she tore at her own tunic, revealing an arm scarred with faded, ritualistic marks. She pressed her bleeding palm against the parchment, then flung it towards the howling shadow. A blinding flash of silver light erupted, not from the beast, but from the parchment, striking the roiling mass. The beast recoiled with a shriek, its shadowy form momentarily solidified, as if encased in crystal. It strained against the invisible bonds, a low, furious growl escaping its depths, but for a precious few seconds, it was held. Csilla swayed, her face ashen, her body trembling violently. The effort had drained her, leaving her utterly spent. “It won’t last!” she croaked, collapsing to her knees. “Only moments!” The beast roared, the silver light flickering, threatening to shatter. Its claws, still massive and sharp, were now mere inches from Ilona’s face, scraping against the air, the cold emanating from them like death itself. But Ilona did not flinch. Her gaze was fixed, unwavering, not on the monstrous form, but on the space where she knew his eyes would be, the point where his soul resided. A deep, abiding certainty settled within her, eclipsing fear, pushing back the cold. She knew him. She saw him. And she loved him. She met the fury with absolute calm, her voice clear, steady, cutting through the deafening growl, echoing through the chamber. “Your name is Ábel. And I love you.”

What is Truly Forgotten