Mornings in the Republic of Nomos are always quiet.

  As a comparative historiographer, I sat by the window of my study, savoring the aroma of carefully brewed black coffee. Beyond the glass, the landscape lay still. I glanced at my reflection in the full-length mirror leaning against the wall.

  The person staring back was as slender as ever. My colleagues often told me to build more muscle, but that was easier said than done. My short-cropped hair was a practical choice—easy to manage, leaving more time for research. I’ve always thought my face was fairly well-proportioned, though it lacks any striking features. In my adolescence, that lack of distinctiveness was a source of quiet insecurity. But now, I recognize its usefulness—especially when conducting fieldwork under the strict surveillance regimes of places like the Ethos Federal Republic.

  As I brought the deep amber liquid to my lips, the bitterness and faint acidity grounded me. In this moment of stillness, I centered myself for the journey ahead.

  Beside me, my cat lay curled in a patch of morning light, purring softly in a rhythm that soothed the silence. I reached out and gently stroked its head. This warmth was the only comfort I had before embarking on a solitary quest—one that would lead me to the heart of the Federation’s forbidden past.

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  Nomos is a rare place—quiet, contemplative, and unusually tolerant of academic inquiry into historical narrative. It is here that I’ve chosen to confront the heavy subject of the Ethos Federation’s historical architecture. The Federation, a powerful bloc that has risen to global dominance, maintains a centralized regime where history is not only censored—it is engineered.

  My first case study is the Republic of Ana, the Federation member state geographically closest to Nomos. And yet, its historical control is the most extreme. Under the New Federal Charter, the construction of national origin myths and foundational histories is explicitly forbidden. That prohibition is the core of my interest.

  But my journey to Ana is not driven by academic curiosity alone.

  In the oldest records of my homeland, I found strange fragments—traces of Ana’s past before its history was blurred. These fragments are treated as “erased memories,” remnants from just before the New Federal Charter centralized all narrative authority.

  I believe those fragments are real. That even the Federation, with all its power, could not fully erase them.

  I took a deep breath of coffee-scented air and looked once more at the reflection in the mirror—an unremarkable figure, but one carrying both anger and curiosity. Then I turned away, resolved to follow the trail of those “erased memories.”

  And so, I set out for the Republic of Ana.