Main:
Gwynviène Avenloré, Lady Velarienne Avenloré (in memoriam)
Other:
Lady Syraëlle Avenloré, Lord Theridian Avenloré, Lord Riven Cormarn, Lord Commander Darrek Volric, Master Cyrion Belleran, Siran Dravenor, Warden Juniper Bryrehart, Magister Syvran Illistar
Where:
The gardens of The Library
When:
Present-day Evergild Era,
Theme:
Legacy, remembrance, power, restraint, matriarchal influence, quiet rebellion, generational change
Summary:
As the noble Houses gather at The Library for the unveiling of Lady Velarienne Avenloré’s statue, Gwynviène reflects on the complex legacy of her formidable grandmother. In her honour, the ceremony is cold, formal, and exacting — but for Gwyn, a memory-charm made from a single petal carries all that words cannot.
The dusk mist had only just begun to lift when the first carriages arrived at the arched gates of The Library. Gilded crests glimmered beneath the rising sun—eight in total, for all the noble Houses of the Evergild Fae had been summoned, though not all had answered.
The unveiling of Lady Velarienne Avenloré’s statue was not merely a family affair—it was an event carved in duty and remembrance. For decades, Velarienne had ruled the Archivum wing of the Avenloré estate with cold precision, her word as final as a sealed ledger. She had shaped the House of Scholars with an iron will and little tolerance for folly.
Now, beneath the long-shadowed spires and among beds of violet sage and mourning lilies, her likeness stood cloaked in silk, waiting to be revealed.
Guests filtered into the gardens in groups, escorted past the central reflecting pool where inscriptions shimmered faintly in the old scholarly tongue of the Library. Gwynviène watched from the raised stone terrace, her fingers clasped tightly around a memory-charm tucked into the folds of her corset. She had crafted it the night before—just a dried petal from Velarienne’s study wreath, but when pressed between her palms, it stirred the scent of cedar, beeswax, and ink.
She remembered her grandmother brushing dust from ancient tomes with gloved hands, or the rare, brittle smile when Gwyn asked particularly clever questions. Once, on a cold morning, Velarienne had wrapped a cloak around her shoulders without a word. “You are not made for warmth,” she had said. “But you might learn to wield it.”
A trumpet called. The ceremony had begun.
The heads of the Evergild Houses stood assembled in a half-circle before the statue plinth. Lord Riven Cormarn of Coin gleamed in golden silks and clinking jewels, his ever-watchful eyes scanning the crowd. Lord Commander Darrek Volric of Steel stood like a fortress in flesh, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Master Cyrion Belleran of Craft, tall and copper-skinned, bore the scent of forge and fresh oil, while Siran Dravenor of Whispers lingered on the edge of the crowd, his expression unreadable behind his lace veil.
From the back, a whisper of fur and wild musk signalled the arrival of Warden Juniper Bryrehart of Beast, hair braided with feathers and beads. Beside her, in ethereal robes of storm-grey and star-silver, came Magister Syvran Illistar of Spires, obviously uncomfortable so close to The Library.
And finally, trailing a scent of lilac and parchment, stood Gwynviène’s own mother, Lady Syraëlle Avenloré—first daughter of Velarienne and keeper of the Archivum. Though not the host, her presence was a quiet pillar beside her brother, Lord Theridian Avenloré, who now held the title of Head of House and presided over the ceremony.
A hush fell.
Lord Theridian stepped forward, voice clear and distant as he began the invocation. He spoke of lineage, of the weight of knowledge, of Velarienne’s service to their people. There was no pretence of softness in his words—only truth, the kind Velarienne herself had always preferred.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the silk veil from the statue.
Gasps scattered like birds.
Velarienne had been rendered in silver-veined stone, standing tall, her chin lifted in studied dismissal, both hands resting atop a closed book. Her robes were carved in exacting detail, folds sharp as blades, her gaze forever cast toward the horizon beyond the Library’s garden walls.
Gwynviène stepped forward last.
A child’s courage lingered in her heart, tugging her to speak, but she did not. Instead, she laid the memory-charm at the statue’s feet.
For a heartbeat, the wind shifted—and she could almost hear her grandmother say: “Well done. Now do better.”
Then, with a nod to her mother, Gwynviène turned back to the gathered nobility, in time for a toast to be called.
“To Lady Velarienne, unyielding as stone. Guardian of our memory. May we carry her weight—and learn to carry it wisely.”
The toast echoed across the garden.
And though not all who attended mourned her, none dared forget her.