Lyssara Vaelune: Where the Veil Learns Your Name

Lyssara Vaelune learned to listen before she ever learned to cast.

She waited in the Moonlit Glade, where the Feywild loosened its grip on certainty and allowed the world to breathe between moments. The grass shimmered silver beneath her boots, bending as though responding to thoughts rather than wind. Above, the sky layered itself in drifting twilight, stars appearing, fading, then reappearing in places they had no right to be.

This was a place that forgot itself on purpose.

Lyssara knelt and pressed her palm to the ground, letting the quiet sink into her bones. The Vaelune taught that magic drawn in haste carried lies. Emotion denied curdled. Intention ignored twisted. To touch the Veil safely, one had to acknowledge everything they brought with them, fear included.

Only then could truth be invited.

She breathed in. She breathed out.

The Veil thinned.

Threads of pale violet light drifted into view, subtle and tentative, like silk teased from a half-remembered dream. Lyssara guided them slowly, shaping a sight-rite meant to answer a single question. Something had been crossing through the Hollow Mirror without permission, without consequence. Reflections that did not belong. Presences that left no echo.

She did not command the Veil.

She asked.

It answered too quickly.

The threads tightened, spiraling inward. Sound softened, then stilled entirely. The Fey bells fell silent. Even the glade seemed to lean closer, as though the land itself wanted to hear the response.

Lyssara’s breath caught, not in fear, but recognition.

She was not alone.

A shape formed within the light. Humanoid, unfinished, its edges wavering like a reflection disturbed by water. It did not step forward. It did not reach for her.

It waited.

“Lyssara Vaelune,” it said gently.

The way it spoke her name made her chest ache, as if a memory she did not yet possess had been brushed awake.

“You are late.”

Her wards did not react. No echo signatures. No temporal distortion. This was not an alternate self, not a future remnant, not a trick of the Fey.

“I don’t know you,” Lyssara said, steadying herself, anchoring to the present.

The figure inclined its head.

“You will.”

The Veil shivered.

Fragments spilled into the air, not visions, but impressions. A tower strangled by roots. A mirror split cleanly in two. A city burning without sound, as though shame had smothered the flames. Each image tugged at her, not demanding, not threatening, simply waiting.

Waiting to be chosen.

Lyssara felt the pull of possibility tighten around her ribs. This was how paths began, not with prophecy, but with invitation.

She broke the weave.

The light snapped back into her hands, cold and aching, leaving her palms numb. Sound rushed in all at once. The glade exhaled. Somewhere beyond the trees, a bird dared to sing.

The figure unraveled, but not entirely.

Something remained, faintly etched into the Veil like a scar that had learned her shape.

Lyssara sank to one knee, pressing her hand to the grass, heart racing not with fear, but with understanding.

The Veil had not shown her a threat.

It had shown her a future that already knew her name.

And in the quiet that followed, Lyssara Vaelune understood the truth her lineage had never written down:

Some destinies do not wait to be discovered.

They wait for you to listen.