𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐈𝐬 𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝
Chapter 𝐈: "𝐵𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑉𝑒𝑖𝑙 𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠"
𝕿he last thing she remembered was fire... and his eyes—soft with regret, hard with resolve—before everything went black.
She could be a fool and believed he truly meant his promises. His empty, whispered words of sweet nothings. She clung into that, even as Death took her in her cold embrace.
"Wriath! You ought you to pay attention!"
Her father's sharp words snapped her out of her tiny daydreaming, which, in truth, she'll choose any day. With a huff, she straightened her slightly askew posture and began to pay more attention to the pacing man in front of her.
"Your brother's wedding has to be perfect tomorrow! With you guarding the veil and making sure everyone is safe- you should just let another guard take your post for the day. I fear you won't have much time to get ready and relax-"
"Father." She calls out softly, a slight reminder that he, himself, was not relaxing. "The wedding will be perfect. Only the best ceremony provided by our fellow kin." She stood up, placing a comforting hand on her father's shoulder.
"You need not fret over anything. You'll grow yourself another inch of your beard. Besides, you know how difficult it is to change my post at the last minute. It will cause a hindrance."
He sighs, fiddling with his own ring. A respected High Elven noble, calm and proud, master arcane arts, known for his unwavering ideals and strict honour. In the past, Vaerion Naevaris would scoff at the thought of marriage until he met the most wonderful elf of all. And now, his eldest and only son is to be married. How time passes indeed.
"Brother is not a complete idiot. Though... it confuses me how he could aquire such fine maiden."
Wriath jests, trying to lighten up her father's worries. "Everything will be fine. I promise you." She smiles, the kind that made her father's heart melt. Such uncanny resemblance to her late mother.
Thalira of the Veil, a quiet yet powerful Death Elf, priestess of the God of Death, feared and revered, keeper of mourning rites and secrets unspoken, passed a few years back after the arrival of the Dragon Emperor. It was dark time that boiled anger and hatred inside the hidden land of Elarindor. It only tightened their defences and protection against those who were not of their kin.
Thalira once had a dream of all creatures. Even Elves, alongside humans, become one. She had died believing such.
But just like any other dream... it becomes distant.
And to some, it becomes their own.
"I'll go attend to my post now, do eat your breakfast."
She stood up after gently wiping her mouth before she strapped on the last of her light armour.
"Yes, I know, I will be careful. I love you." She placed a quick peck on Vaerion's temple before she she left their humble abode.
Her hair blowed in the early morning wind as she decended down the vined stairs of their large estate.
Wriath Naevaris, a Duskwrought to those who knew her, came from a noble lineage that is marked in nobility by their distinctively unique vanta black hair, uncommon amongst their kind.
She made her way through the winding paths and familiar thickets of illusion-draped hedges, nodding politely at a few kin, preparing for the celebration ahead. Even in light armour, her gait was neither rushed nor heavy—measured, graceful, quiet.
Her post stood at the northern edge of the hidden land, just by the veil-pond where the mists clung thicker than usual, weaving with the soft arcane hum of the protective wards. She traced a runic sigil mid-air, eyes scanning the horizon with the keen sharpness of one who knew what silence meant when it was out of place.
Gaurding the Veil, they called it. In truth, Wriath did more than just watch. She also listened. To footsteps that seemed barely there, to wind currents that whispered of shifts in magic. She felt things—disturbances, weight, and intention. A skill she earned not by choice but by blood.
The duskwrought didn’t come with a title. It came with responsibility.
For though she bore her father's name and his magic, her mother’s shadow always clung to her in some way or another.
Wriath had walked between temple pyres and wept beside grieving souls when she was but a girl. She memorized rites meant for Death’s ears only. Even now, she carried the blade passed down by her late, lovely mother.
She paced quietly along the edge of the veil, eyes locked forward but senses stretching far beyond. Somewhere in the distance, a gentle songbird sang. Somewhere closer, the air shivered unnaturally.
It would be a perfect wedding. She would see to it—like she always did.
When the sun began its descent and the veil glowed with a faint golden hue, Wriath gave her final pass along the edge, carving a sealing glyph across the arching roots that framed the northern gate. No threat, as usual. The day had been kind.
She whispered a quiet offering to her mother beneath her breath, words ancient and sacred, before making her way back.
The following day, the morning rose with hymns carried by petals drifting from the treetops—subtle blessings from the grove's stewards. The wedding ceremony had passed without incident, Wriath’s vigilance ensured peace through the veiling. Now, her duty for the moment had ended.
And as per tradition, she shed the light armour of a veilwarden and adorned herself not as a knight but as the daughter of a noble house.
Her ceremonial robes were deep violet stitched with trailing silver thread, each line curling into symbols of her lineage. A high collar framed her neck, embroidered with the woven insignia of both her houses— a cat, for Naevaris, crescent thorns for the Veil. Her raven hair was partly tied back with pins, the rest tumbling in loose curls that framed pale face.
And though many stepped aside to admire her presence, she moved with the same quiet grace she had while guarding the veil— quiet and sure.
She spotted them near the heart of the grove—the newly weds.
Her older brother, Elarion, was practically glowing in embroidered robes of goldleaf and sage. His bride, soft-eyed and poised, wore the traditional starweave veil now pulled back behind her delicately pointed ears. They looked... happy. Exhaustedly so.
“Sister!” Elarion greeted, arms flinging open as if he’d spotted a long-lost friend. “You survived the ceremony. And you’re wearing colour! A miracle twice over.”
Wriath raised a brow as she approached, lips curled faintly. “I’d say the miracle is that you remembered your vows. You always had trouble with memorization.”
The bride laughed— kind, something Wriath had grown used to. “He practised by reciting them to a tree for three nights.”
Wriath chuckled under her breath. “A patient audience.”
She stepped forward, gently pressing her forehead to her brother’s in the old way—once for blood, twice for bond. “You look well. Genuinely. You chose... well.”
Elarion squeezed her hand. “I know mother would adore her..."
Wriath nodded, the moment softening the set of her shoulders. “She watches, brother. Always.”
And then came the familiar sound of measured footsteps.
Vaerion Naevaris, dressed in ceremonial white with cascading silver sashes, his beard freshly oiled and braided in sigils of heritage, approached with his usual air of command—and ever-faint softness reserved only for moments like these.
“You made it in time." He remarked, hands behind his back, though his eyes scanned his daughter’s robes as if checking for wrinkles.
“I always do.” Wriath tilted her head, a half-smile playing on her lips.
He offered a quiet, approving nod. “You look like your mother.”
The words hung in the air. Heavy. Tender.
Her father's gaze lingered on her form— just a moment, fondly— before shifting to her brother and his wife. “You all honour this house. Today, we are strong.”
She gave a small nod, fingers brushing against the ceremonial dagger at her hip. “And tomorrow, we remain.”
There was pride in her father’s eyes, but also something else—age, perhaps, or memory. He raised a goblet in quiet salute to his children.
Wriath, ever the shadow in the light, allowed herself a moment among them. Amid the laughter, the dancing, the warm gleam of lanterns overhead with fireflies adorned around it— today was indeed perfect.
