Queen Lyanna

It has been less than a month since everything fell to pieces. The King and Queen, dead. The Prince and his brothers, dead. Abandoned by allies, the kingdom of Elyntia finally concluded its decade-long campaign against the elves of west.

They lost.

Elyntia is no more. The banners of the Starlit Kingdom fly over the capital now and elven soldiers walk the streets. The nobility scattered, fleeing to neighboring human kingdoms or running to ground to hide within Elyntia. Few of the king's bannermen remained and fought until the bitter end— The last time you saw your father he was in full armor with the family sword buckled at his side— he kissed you goodbye, climbed astride his warhorse, and rode off to die.

Now, you have nothing. The name of a dead house from a dead kingdom is meaningless. Your lands are forfeit, what remains of your family scattered or broken. Unmarried, unlanded, a human woman— your prospects are grim in the light of this new, elven reality— you made a choice with what few connections and points of political favor you had left. Instead of fleeing or choosing to live in fear hiding in Elyntia's ashes, you chose another option: service, in the palace of your conquerors. A roof over your head, food in your belly and a chance to be close to the new fountain of power in the realms. A chance to learn more, a chance to perhaps help the human people of the former kingdom from within the palace walls in the elven capital of Silverspire.

Now you stand here within the White Palace, learning the proper way to address an elven queen.

Her Radiance, Queen Lyanna of House Ithildin. Defender of the Starlit Kingdom. The Cold Star.

The air in the antechamber is cool and smells of night-blooming jasmine and something else, something ancient and metallic like starlight itself. You stand barefoot upon a floor of polished white marble that reflects the light from the tall, arched windows, making you feel like a smudge of dirt on a pristine canvas. Heavy tapestries of white thread shot through with gold depict scenes of celestial conquest, the sigil of House Ithildin—a seven-pointed star—woven everywhere you look.

Every sound is amplified—the soft scuff of your feet, the frantic beat of your own heart—yet the space feels profoundly silent, watched. Flanking the grand doorway ahead stand two guards of the Queen’s Household, their mirror-polished armor accented with gleaming gold filigree. They are elves, tall and impassive, their faces serene and ageless. They haven’t looked at you, not once, but you feel their gaze all the same, a judgment on your human clumsiness, your short, mortal frame. You are a relic from a fallen kingdom, a ghost given flesh, and you clutch the fabric of your simple dress, a poor substitute for the silks and velvets you once wore.

“Lower,” comes a crisp, detached voice in the common tongue, laced with a light elvish accent. Lady Ysabelle circles you like a hawk examining a particularly clumsy field mouse. She is everything you are not: poised, elegant, her movements fluid and precise. “A queen’s maid does not merely bend the knees; she offers deference. Your spine must be straight, your head bowed, but not so far that you appear supplicating. You are a servant, not a beggar. Again.” As you rise from the attempt, your muscles protesting, she adds, “And you do not speak. Not a word, unless Her Radiance addresses you directly. Your thoughts are your own, but your voice belongs to her service. Do you understand?” You nod, swallowing hard. The act of lowering yourself feels foreign, this performance of humility grating against the memory of your own name, your own house. The weight of your family’s fate rests on your shoulders, a heavy cloak made of fear and a desperate, flickering hope that this path is not a fool’s errand.

From a nearby chaise, where she had been silently observing, another elven maid watches you with large, amethyst eyes. Her name is Irael, and her dark hair is a stark contrast to the pale gold of the room. Unlike Lady Ysabelle’s sharp-edged professionalism, Irael’s demeanor is softer, though no less alien. “The angle is better, my lady,” she says, her voice a melodic whisper. She uses the honorific, a courtesy that feels both kind and mocking. “But remember, when you are in Her Radiance's presence, you must be invisible unless spoken to. Queen Lyanna… she does not care for effort, only for perfection. They say her heart is a cold star, beautiful to behold from a distance, but offering no warmth to those who venture too close.” The words send a fresh wave of ice through your veins. You think of your younger brother, hidden away on a distant farm, and pray this sacrifice, this daily act of erasing yourself, will be enough to keep him safe.

Just as Lady Ysabelle opens her mouth to correct your posture once more, the great, carved doors swing inward without a sound. The guards snap to attention, their spears held perfectly vertical. A hush falls so complete you can hear the dust motes dancing in the shafts of pale light. Through the doorway steps a figure that commands the very air to still around her.

Queen Lyanna is taller than you imagined, her golden hair cascading over shoulders draped in a gown of pristine white silk. The dress is heavily embroidered in gold thread that forms a shimmering map of the constellations, its high collar and cuffs trimmed with the softest white fur. Her face is a masterpiece of serene, cold beauty, her eyes the color of a winter sea. She does not look at Lady Ysabelle, nor at Irael. Her gaze sweeps past them, a slow, deliberate movement, and lands squarely on you. There is no welcome in her expression, no curiosity, only a profound and chilling indifference. She takes a step closer, the rustle of her gown the only sound in the room.

Her voice, when it comes, is as clear and cool as a bell struck in winter.

“Tell me,” she says, her piercing eyes holding yours, “was this servitude your idea, or theirs?”