A Knight's Last Stand

The air in what I’d come to think of as the ‘ruined museum’ hung thick with the scent of dust and something else… something like regret. It clung to the shattered pedestals and the ripped tapestries, a palpable weight that pressed down on my chest. I’d been tracing the spectral outlines of what *should* have been, the ghost of history overlaid onto the stark reality of Erebos. The Goddess had tasked me with piecing together fragments, but it felt like trying to rebuild a cathedral with a single, chipped shard of stained glass.

My Chronicle Engine hummed beneath my skin, a constant, low thrum that was both a comfort and a curse. It showed me the faint, shimmering trails of what *had* been, the ghostly imprints of events long since erased. I could see the phantom shape of a warrior, his armor dulled and cracked, his sword hanging limply at his side. He was an echo, a residual memory clinging to the very fabric of this desolate place.

“Alright, Sir Knightly Ghost,” I muttered, my voice a dry rasp in the oppressive silence. “What’s your story?”