Into the Heart of Aetheria

Within the crystalline geome, Queen Dumávariel stood alone, hands lightly resting on the living shard as it bore her upward. In the elder age, when Aetheria was still finding her shape, rhime-ice was drawn from the Well of Vergelmir and given into the keeping of the first Queens. From that frost the rhime-geomes were wrought, to bear the Queens along the far roads between branches where the art of transiting thins and fails. The geome in which Dumávariel now travelled was one of these ancient vessels. It felt her thought and answered, its translucent skin deepening and paling like slow water.

The Sea of Eternity appeared before her: a slow-turning ocean of stars and enchantment, its drifting plumes of colour painting the void in deep violet, midnight blue, and glimmering gold. Its swirling tendrils seemed infinite from this vantage, an endless expanse of celestial wonder. Within this majestic reach lay hidden the driftworlds, floating like islands in the cosmic sea.

Below, Armónialèth appeared as a serene azure orb, cradled in the cosmos, with ribbons of pink and orange clouds wrapping it like delicate silks—the cerulean cradle of the first Fae, the birthplace of the Eldari, where heaven and the deepmost shadows both cast their long reflections.

But Dumávariel’s path ran higher than cradle or palace. With a small flex of will, she turned the geome toward the Imperial Court, that high citadel of light and law set among the upper branches of the Tree, raised as a visible sign of the far-reaching dominion of Empress Lúthienarë. The very ascent felt like a visible act of will.

She did not rehearse what waited above. She went to stand before the sister who had named herself Empress of all Fae, the one who sat the highest bough and wrapped it in law. Between them lay old vows and older fractures: battles won side by side, crowns raised from the same grief, a quarrel over the Veil that had never truly ended. Dumávariel did not go in fear of her. Power answered more readily to her hand than to Lúthienarë’s, and they both knew it. She went because she was done with waiting, because the pattern woven for the youngest Fae could not be delayed again, and because if the Empress would not bend to duty, Dumávariel was prepared to see how far the throne would bend around her.

As she neared, the Imperial City sprawled beneath her in a dazzling display of light and form. Towers of clear Fae-glass spiraled upward, alive with patterns of radiance that shifted like living things. Elevated walkways connected various sectors in an intricate web, while lush parks and water features added touches of nature to the skyline. Even after countless visits, the sheer scale and beauty of the Imperial City never failed to impress her. It embodied the Empire’s own vision of order and grace, a fitting backdrop for the confrontation she was about to face.

At its center stood the Imperial Palace, its gleaming walls seemingly crafted from pure light, rising in elegant spirals toward the heavens, crowned by the magnificent Central Spire—the Empress Lúthienarë’s seat of power.

Dumávariel’s thoughts turned to the purpose of her visit. She was here to fulfill a destiny woven for the youngest Fae, and Lúthienarë, with her unyielding authority, was the only obstacle. Lúthienarë was but one of her eleven Sisters, and while the Empress might resist, Dumávariel knew she could not withstand their collective will—if it came to that.

The geome gently touched down on a designated platform, and the living glass parted with a sound like wind through crystal chimes. Dumávariel stepped out onto the polished marble, her obsidian cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. She straightened her shoulders, a subtle but deliberate gesture, and began her measured stride toward the grand entrance of the palace. The time had come to face her sister, the Empress. Dumávariel had not come to the Imperial Court to be deterred; she had come to be obeyed.

Dumávariel walked with measured steps through the grand hall, her presence commanding the attention of all gathered. The Fae nobles, adorned in their finest silks and shining jewels, whispered amongst themselves as she approached the throne. Empress Lúthienarë sat with a regal air, her pitch-black eyes watching Dumávariel’s every move.

As Dumávariel neared the throne, she noticed the slight hesitation in Lúthienarë’s gaze—the small, hungry pause of someone waiting to be named as she wished to be named. The empress wanted the full litany, here, before the court.

Dumávariel stopped at the foot of the steps. For a long moment she said nothing at all.

“Lúthienarë,” she said at last, the name alone carrying easily to the back of the hall.

The silence that followed sharpened. A few fans trembled, then stilled.

After a heartbeat, Dumávariel allowed herself the smallest concession. “Empress,” she added, the word edged in iron.

Lúthienarë’s smile deepened by a fraction. She let the moment stretch, then finished the title herself, voice smooth as poured glass.

“Queen of all Fae,” she said, as if correcting an oversight.

The court heard the addition and understood exactly who had spoken which words.

“Queen Dumávariel,” Lúthienarë went on in a regal voice, “to what do I owe this unannounced visit?”

Dumávariel clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before speaking. “I have come to ask you to lift the Veil.”

A murmur flared at the edges of the hall and died as quickly as it rose.

Dumávariel’s gaze did not waver. “Because it is time,” she said. “We have delayed the rite long enough. I have spoken with others, and there is no doubt worth naming. Finnoola must be prepared for what was promised to her.”

She did not say who the “others” were. She did not need to. The word itself was a reminder: there were powers in Aetheria that did not sit upon this throne.

Lúthienarë’s expression darkened, and she straightened on her seat.

“We lost two girls there,” she began, her voice cold and unwavering—

“Freya and Gulveig,” Dumávariel broke in, the names cutting cleanly through the hall.

A murmur rippled through the gathered Fae. Lúthienarë paused, just long enough for those closest to see the stiffening at the corner of her mouth. She had not spoken their names. Being forced to hear them stung.

She drew herself taller, gathering her composure like a cloak.

“A thousand Eldari lives,” she went on, “and two of our innocent sisters, Dumávariel. I will not risk more.”

The words hung in the air like a sentence pronounced. Dumávariel’s heart clenched at the sound of their names, but she did not look away.

“We do not rule by committee,” Lúthienarë said sharply, seizing the moment, her eyes burning with a hard, brittle light. Her next words held a faint, almost playful lilt. “I make the rules,” she added, almost sing-song, “and my decision stands.”

The hall tightened around them. Fans stilled. Jewels caught and held the light, motionless. No one dared speak.

Dumávariel fixed her eyes on the Empress and slipped silently into thought-speech, the words striking directly into Lúthienarë’s mind. You do not have a choice in this. It has been decided. The Veil must open. Do your duty, sister.

Lúthienarë’s telepathic reply came smooth and controlled, though a shadow moved beneath it. You want me to risk war with the Aesir—to reopen the wound that took Freya from us—so that you can send another child through?

Dumávariel did not flinch. The wound is not closed, she answered. Wounds do not close while the lost still breathe. Freya may yet live beyond the Veil.

For the first time, a tiny fissure showed in Lúthienarë’s composure. Her black eyes flashed, then cooled.

“May she rest in peace,” the Empress said aloud, making her denial a public thing.

Dumávariel broke the telepathic link and let her own voice carry, clear and resonant, to the farthest pillars.

“My place,” she said, “is to protect our people—to ensure their survival and their future. And you sit here on your throne, pretending this is only about war with the Aesir.” Her voice rose, echoing off glass and stone. “She is your sister, Lúthienarë. Freya is not dead.”

For a heartbeat, something flickered across Dumávariel’s face—a hairline crack in her own certainty, visible only to those who had known her since the elder days. Then it vanished, sealed over by will.

Lúthienarë’s jaw tightened. “We are not tearing open the Veil for the sake of a child’s journey into prophecy,” she said. “I forbid it.”

“You forbid it?” Dumávariel repeated, half in disbelief, half in scorn. The courtiers felt the pressure in the air shift, as if the hall itself were leaning in to listen.

Lúthienarë stood her ground, her posture straight and regal, an unyielding presence in the tense room. Everyone in the room held their breath for a heartbeat, the air thick with the promise of conflict. The Empress’s royal guard tightened their grips on their weapons, their knuckles turning white, eyes flickering nervously between the two eldest powers in Aetheria.

Dumávariel’s eyes blazed with determination. “I will not stand for this!” she cried. She stepped forward and seemed to grow in stature. “You will lift the Veil, or I will lift it for you.”

It was blasphemy, and everyone knew it. By the oldest laws only the Empress held the right—and Dumávariel had just promised, in open court, to break those laws if she must.

Queen Dumávariel, her composure barely masking the seething fury beneath, strode purposefully toward the exit, her footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Her obsidian cloak swirled around her like a dark storm. Servants and courtiers, sensing the volatile energy emanating from her, wisely stepped aside, their gazes averted in silent acknowledgment of her wrath.

As she neared the grand entrance, the palace guards snapped to attention, their disciplined movements a stark contrast to her inner tumult. Dumávariel pressed open the massive doors with the power of her mind, leaving the door attendants scrambling to get out of the way. The grand doors, adorned with Lúthienarë’s crest, swung open to reveal the waiting geome, its living glass glowing softly in the ethereal light.

Without breaking stride, Dumávariel ascended the steps. The geome’s surface parted at her approach, and she stepped inside, the familiar environment offering a momentary reprieve. The crystalline glass sealed behind her with a definitive thump, like a held breath finally released.

Inside, Dumávariel allowed herself a brief moment to exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. She moved to the center of the chamber and placed her hand on the living glass. The geome responded to her touch, lifting off the platform with a smooth, silent ascent. As it rose above the palace, she cast one last glance back at the imposing structure, her eyes narrowing with a resolve that had only been strengthened by the confrontation.

The spirit of the geome stirred. “Name your destination, Majesty.”

“Moonstone,” Dumávariel said—her citadel on Nocturnal, the driftworld that answered only to her.

The geome hummed as it adjusted its course, ascending into the stark blackness of the realm between branches, carrying her toward Nocturnal. Below, the lights of the Imperial City dimmed and fell away, the Central Spire dwindling to a single shard of brightness in the Sea of Eternity.

Alone in the soft glow of the crystal, Dumávariel let her hand remain upon the living glass. Freya’s name still rang in her ears—the way it had cut the air of the throne room, the way Lúthienarë had flinched and then buried the flinch beneath law. Freya and Gulveig: two sisters taken beyond the Veil, one mourned as dead, one folded into silence.

And far ahead, on the shadowed driftworld of Nocturnal toward which she flew, within the guarded halls of Moonstone, a child moved through her day in ignorance of what had just been spoken in her name.

Finnoola.

Dumávariel closed her eyes for a moment and saw the girl as she had last seen her: all question and untutored grace, the smallest spark in a house of ancient stars. The Empress might keep the Veil closed, might cling to her fear and her grief and her war with the Aesir. But the pattern woven for the youngest Fae would not be unmade so easily.

“The Veil will open,” Dumávariel murmured, more to the Sea than to the listening spirit. “For her.”

The geome sailed on through the star-lit dark, bearing her toward Moonstone and the choices that would decide whether Finnoola’s path was one of shelter—or of sacrifice.