Date: Year 0047 of the Firmament Era
Time: Forty-seven years after the Sealing of Vorthar
Location: Elanduin, Capital of the Silver Canopy
Prologue
"All things fade. All things fall.
Even the gods, even the stars.
But memory endures—
So long as one still sings."
—From The Moonbound Verses, kept in the Vault of Remembrance
1. The Silent Song
The moon hung low that night, wide and full, but somehow dimmer than usual—its edges muted, as though veiled in breath. Wind moved gently through the high boughs of the Mirastar Grove, rustling pale leaves that shimmered silver beneath the sky. Somewhere, a crystal chime sang with the wind. Elsewhere, a harp began to play itself—a soul-instrument, reacting to the mood of the city.
In Elanduin, the City of the Silver Canopy, even silence was melodic.
Nestled into the trunks and canopies of trees older than nations, grown from soil first kissed by Lunara herself, the city glowed with a quiet, internal light. The structures were not built, but sung—shaped from living wood and stone by the Harmonic Art, the signature gift of the elves.
Walkways curved through the air like ribbons of starlight, suspended by memory and moon-thread. Lanterns made from frozen light hovered near balconies, their glow shifting in time with the sky's heartbeat. The river Ilmorae flowed through the city's heart, gliding past mirror-lilies that only bloomed under starlight.
In that sacred stillness, one could almost believe the world was perfect.
Almost.
2. The Queen Who Remembers
High within the Moonspire, the tallest of the city's towers, Queen Yllara of the Silversong stood alone before a mirror.
She did not gaze at her reflection. She gazed into it.
The Queen's Mirror was not like mortal glass. Forged by Lunara herself, it reflected not appearance, but essence. To look into it was to confront your truth—naked, eternal, immutable.
Most could not endure more than a breath.
Yllara had stood before it for the last hour.
She wore no crown, no armor, no jewelry. Only a flowing robe of twilight silk, and across her collarbone shimmered the tattoo of her Lifesong—a silver glyph that pulsed softly with her every breath.
Her hair, long and moon-pale, drifted slightly as if underwater. Her eyes were violet, touched with an inner radiance, and her expression… was neither sorrowful nor content.
It was tired.
"The stars dim," she said softly. "And the world forgets."
Behind her, a voice stirred the silence.
"You speak as though you expected something else."
Selivar, her consort and Captain of the Wyrdancers, stepped into the chamber. He wore ceremonial armor—elegant, tight-fitting, runed with moonsteel filigree. His long silver hair was tied back in warrior's braid. The edges of his blade-sheath glowed faintly.
"They are mortals," he continued. "Forgetting is what they do."
"And remembering is what we do," she replied, without looking away. "But for how much longer?"
Selivar exhaled, stepping to her side.
"Do you fear they will destroy themselves?"
"No," she said. "I fear we will let them."
3. The Chamber of Echoes
Later that night, Yllara convened the Council of Pale Dawn—an assembly of her most trusted voices.
The Chamber of Echoes was a wide, domed sanctum beneath the Moonspire, surrounded by cascading pools that reflected not images, but emotions. When one spoke here, their true feelings shaped the water's light.
Present were:
Calyssa Veylin, High Cantor and keeper of the Great Memory
Valaith, a Veyrin—one whose Lifesong had failed to bind
Elarien, a mortal-born musician adopted into elven society
Selivar, still in ceremonial dress, standing by his Queen
The meeting began in silence, as elven councils often do. Words were sacred. Waste none.
Calyssa was first to break the still.
"Two more spirit-fonts have dimmed. The Aelath Forest is losing its mana-spring."
"The spirits withdraw," said Selivar. "I've seen it. They hide. Or fade."
"And in the south," Elarien added, glancing at Yllara, "I heard a human song. A hymn. But not to the Eight. To something else. It spoke of chains. And hunger. And… release."
The water pulsed black for a moment.
Valaith, pale as pearl and draped in shadow-silk, spoke at last.
"The name of the one who was sealed spreads through dreams. And dreams… are our domain."
Calyssa turned to Yllara.
"Then it begins again."
"Not yet," Yllara said. "But soon."
4. The Culture of Memory
To be elven is not to simply live—it is to remember.
Every elf is born with a natural affinity to Lunar Harmony, a spiritual resonance that connects them to the moon's phases and deeper magical vibrations. Through this, they learn by absorption—history sung into blood, emotion sculpted into thought.
Each elven child is taught three songs before they speak:
The Canticle of Names — to remember their ancestry
The Lament of First Sorrow — to understand grief
The Mirror Verse — to face their own reflection when the time comes
Their arts are not pastimes. They are rites. Their architecture, their fashion, even their silence—all is sacred performance.
To forget is to desecrate.
To misremember is to blaspheme.
To stop singing is to die before death.
5. The Veyrin – Hollow Echoes
But not all elves are whole.
Some, at their Binding Ceremony, fail to harmonize with the Lifesong. These are called the Veyrin—"the dimmed."
They do not age. But they do not feel time. They drift. Detached. Often retreating into shadowed sanctuaries, speaking in riddles or not at all.
Valaith was the oldest Veyrin to remain in court.
Yllara kept her close—not out of pity, but reverence.
For in the absence of song, sometimes… a deeper truth is heard.
"We forget that silence is part of music," Valaith once said. "But we must never confuse it for completion."
6. The Coming Veil
As tension grew, Yllara began preparation for the Great Veiling.
The act would draw upon the combined Authority of the Queen's Mirror, the Lifesongs of ten thousand elves, and the last living fragment of moonlight gifted by Lunara before her slumber.
It would not simply hide Elanduin.
It would remove it from mortal perception—fold it into twilight, accessible only through resonance.
"The world must stumble in its dark," she told the council. "We must not guide it—not now. Not yet."
Elarien objected, his mortal blood stirring rebellion.
"And if they fall? If the darkness rises before they remember the stars?"
"Then we will still be here," she said. "Waiting to sing them home."
7. The Last Night Before Silence
The night before the Veiling, Elanduin held a final concert—The Moon's Memory, sung once every century.
It echoed through every tree. Every tower. The river itself harmonized with it.
Yllara did not attend. She stood alone, on her tower balcony, watching the sky.
And she whispered:
"Mother, are you watching?
They forget you.
But I will not."
And far above, the moon shimmered.
Not in answer.
Not in command.
But perhaps, in remembrance.