Snow fell without a sound over the peaks of Vardheim, blanketing the pines and jagged stone in a cold, unbroken white. Amid the mist stood the Ordo Arcanis — an ancient fortress of stone encircled by glowing sigils, each one pulsing faintly with light, like the heartbeat of some sleeping giant.
Lyra awoke in a room washed in pale blue reflections. The ceiling arched high above her, carved with luminous runes that shimmered like breath on glass. The air was damp, sharp in her lungs. She felt weightless and hollow at once, as though a fragment of her soul had been left behind in a nightmare.
When she tried to sit up, a sharp pain flared across her left wrist. The mark was still there — a circle shaped like the broken moon faintly glowing, like an ember that refused to die.
"Slowly now," came a voice, deep yet gentle.
A man stepped from the edge of the light. His hair was white as frost, his robes dark blue, marked with sigils of rank and age. His eyes were the color of winter skies — calm, distant, unreadable.
"My name is Seren Aldwyn," he said, placing his hand above her wound. "You're safe here. The Ordo Arcanis will protect you."
Lyra didn't answer. Her gaze was empty, her lips moving only to whisper a single word.
"Mom…"
Seren's eyes softened with quiet grief. "I came too late. Sylvania was already burning when I arrived. You were the only one left."
He reached to steady her, this fragile thing that looked as if she might shatter at a touch.
His words cut through the silence like a blade. Lyra bit her lip, her chest trembling. She wanted to scream, to cry, to curse the world — but her body had no strength left for any of it. So she just lay there, staring at the stone ceiling, letting her tears fall soundlessly.
"From this day forward, you'll stay with us, Lyra."
She didn't respond, but she understood. Nothing would ever be the same again. Her home was gone, and so was the person she loved most. The only choice left was to obey the man who had saved her life.
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ꧂
The days that followed had no shape. Lyra lived in a small chamber beneath the eastern tower. Through its narrow window, she could see nothing but the endless fog that swallowed the world beyond.
The apprentices of the Order watched her with wary curiosity. The mark on her wrist, glowing faintly in her sleep, kept their whispers alive.
"Is it true? That she carries cursed blood?"
"They say she's a child of the Veil."
"Don't say that too loud. Misfortune listens when you speak its name."
Seren treated her differently. Calmly. He spoke to her gently, as though afraid to wake something dangerous. He alone taught her — the art of meditation, the discipline of the Resonance, the flow of magic that echoed from one's soul.
Lyra was quiet. Too quiet. She accepted her fate with eerie calm, as if grief had hollowed her until nothing remained. No one knew how much emptiness she carried inside.
She followed Seren's instructions with obedient precision. His lessons made sense. If she wanted to survive, she had to learn to control what lived within her.
"Still your mind," Seren said one night in the training chamber. "Resonance is not mere power — it's the echo of your soul. If your heart trembles, your magic will break with it."
Lyra sat within a circle of sigils, breathing slow and steady. Seren began to chant the old words. "Velas… aethra… silen mor…"
The mark on her wrist flared. The sound sliced through her thoughts like a blade. Before she could react, silver light burst from her hand, ricocheting off the walls and snuffing out every candle.
"Lyra!" Seren caught her trembling shoulders. "Focus! Breathe!"
"I… I can't…" Her voice cracked. "I heard something… someone calling me…"
Seren's expression darkened. "That voice will never stop calling you. But don't answer it, Lyra. Whatever speaks, it isn't human."
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ꧂
Nights at the Ordo stretched long and cold. Lyra often climbed to the tower's highest point, staring at the fractured moon. Sometimes she swore she saw her mother's face there — soft, watching her through the silver light.
In dreams, her mother's voice returned. "Remember what I told you, my little moon."
"Who are the Veil, truly?" Lyra would whisper into the dark.
She didn't know what the words meant, but each time she heard them, the mark on her wrist burned like boiling water. One night, she saw something in the mirror — her reflection smiling back at her though she hadn't moved.
The image whispered, "You weren't meant to live. He's coming for you."
Lyra stumbled backward, falling to the cold floor. The reflection vanished as the candlelight died all at once. Her breathing came fast and shallow. The mark seared against her skin.
"No… please… stop…" she whispered, curling in on herself. She didn't know if she was haunted by guilt — or by something far older.
The next morning, she found a small silver pendulum on her table, shaped like a crescent moon. Words were etched into the back in delicate script.
To remind you that you're not alone.
— S.A.
She stared at it for a long time. For the first time since that night, she smiled faintly.
In a world so dark, someone still cared enough to leave her a light.
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ꧂
Years passed like drifting snow. Lyra was ten now — the youngest prodigy the Ordo Arcanis had ever known. She could draw sigils without ink, summon light without words, and walk on air for the span of a breath.
Yet none of her triumphs made her proud. She remained humble, quiet, a shadow among others. And still, every night, she dreamed of her mother. Each morning, the mark on her wrist shone a little brighter.
Then came the winter night. Lyra sat in the lower library, surrounded by walls of crystal glass that shimmered with runic light. Her fingers brushed a book buried beneath dust and melted wax — old, untitled, forgotten. When she touched it, the pages stirred on their own, revealing a symbol that stopped her heart.
It was the same as her mark. Below it, a line written in the old tongue, just clear enough for her to read.
"The rift between flesh and soul, sealed by the blood of House Veynhart."
Her eyes widened. Her family name. Before she could think, a whisper brushed her ear — soft, familiar, unmistakable.
"You've been silent too long, Lyra. They're coming for you."
She spun around. No one. Only a thin veil of mist creeping from between the shelves. Then, from the far corridor, three low chimes rang through the fortress — the warning bells of the Ordo Arcanis.
Lyra ran to the upper balcony. Through the fog, a beam of blue light tore through the sky. The same light she'd seen the night her mother died.
Her mark blazed. Her skin burned. Her knees gave way as her gaze locked on the light — and for a heartbeat, she saw a figure standing at its center. A man with a sword on his back, wrapped in silver mist. The fortress that had once sheltered her began to tremble. Cracks spread along the walls like veins of light.
And in her mind, her mother's voice screamed once more. "Run, Lyra! The Veil has found you again!"
꧁𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ꧂