Main:
Gwynviène Avenloré, Lowen Foss
Other:
PanvierPanvier, unnamed lesser fae
Where:
Outskirts of Lindral Citadel, on the road to the outer wilds of Gildraen
When:
Present-day Evergild Era, shortly after Gwyn and Lowen begin traveling together
Theme:
Privilege, names and identity, perception, inherited legacy, quiet reckoning, humility
Summary:
Far from the Library’s familiar corridors, Gwynviène Avenloré finds that her name—once a symbol of access and respect—is met with suspicion and resentment. When she and Lowen are stopped by a group of lesser fae on the road, Gwyn is forced to reckon with how her House is seen beyond its gilded walls. The confrontation leaves her shaken, prompting a late-night conversation by the fire that shifts something within her. By morning, she begins carrying her name differently—not in shame, but with awareness.
Somewhere deep in the realm of Gildraen, before the dripping fens.
Gwynviène Avenloré had never once thought to hide who she was.
Why would she? Her name had always been her key, unlocking gates carved with ancient sigils and sealed archives alike. In the Library, her surname was a legacy—spoken with reverence or caution, but never contempt. She had worn it like a ribbon in her hair, unthinking, proud, and weightless.
Yes, she had always known there was a certain coldness to the broader House of Avenloré—formality over fondness, legacy before laughter. But within the quiet halls of her immediate family’s wing, there had only ever been warmth. Her mother’s quiet encouragement, her father’s laughter, her siblings’ easy closeness—these had shaped her understanding of what the Avenloré name meant. Kindness. Curiosity. Love.
Until she was outside the walls of Lindral Citadel.
The road had grown meaner over the last few days, curling through brackish land and hollowed trees, the old magic thick in the air. Even Panvier, ever watchful, had pressed close to her legs with unease. Lowen had grown quiet, their steps more careful, fingers resting on the talismans tucked beneath their cloak.
The group came out of the dusk mist like ghosts.
Five lesser fae, gaunt and moss-slick, their clothing patched and piecemeal, expressions carved from suspicion. One of them—older, with a crescent burn scarring his jaw—stepped forward with a tilt of his head and a voice like gravel.
“Name and intent.”
Gwyn opened her mouth without hesitation. “Gwynviène Avenloré. WIth my friends, we travel for knowledge and…”
Her words trailed off as she noticed the looks passing between the fae, the curl of lips and furrowed brows. A low grumbling rose like distant thunder—muttered names, bitter echoes of a House that had never walked these roads. One of them let the word “Avenloré” fall like a curse, and the air shifted around her, sharp and unwelcome.
The elder fae’s lips curled, not quite into a smile. One of the younger ones—a wiry girl with bark-wrapped arms—spat to the side. Another’s hand ghosted over the blade at his waist. And though they said no words of challenge, the message coiled into Gwyn’s stomach like a vine: you do not belong here.
One of the younger fae twitched toward his blade, taking a single step forward—and that was enough. With a growl that echoed like thunder, Panvier surged between them, hackles raised and teeth bared, eyes glowing with warning. The threat halted mid-step. No one moved.
The bark-wrapped girl gave a mirthless laugh. “Far from your books now, aren’t you, Avenloré? No pages here to hide behind.”
As the elder fae raised a hand, ready to dismiss the tension, the scarred one added lowly, “Your kind’s walls won’t hold forever, girl. Be careful how far you wander.”
Then, without another word, the others withdrew, vanishing into the trees like smoke. Just a longer path, watched eyes, and a silence between her and Lowen that tasted like iron.
That night, they camped under a sagging willow, where the air hummed with unseen wings and distant songs.
Gwyn sat with her knees to her chest, cloak drawn tight. The firelight cast long shadows across her face, and Panvier lay with his chin on her boots, huffing quietly.
She didn’t look up when she spoke. “They hated me. For my name.”
Lowen didn’t answer right away. They sat opposite her, carving slow circles into the dirt with a silver stick. Finally, they said, “They didn’t hate you. They’ve just only ever seen your name from below.”
“I didn’t mean—” Gwyn started, then stopped. “I never thought… it could hurt someone.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Lowen said, voice soft.
The fire crackled between them. And Gwynviène, for the first time in her life, considered that her name was not only a key—it was a wall, too.
By morning, she had tucked it away.
Not lost. Not shamed. Just… folded, like a letter pressed to her chest. She would still carry it—but quietly now, until she better understood the world outside her walls.
And when the next stranger asked for her name, she smiled and simply said:
“Gwyn.”