The say she only appears in the stillness between life and death.
The moment when breath falters, when time stretches long like a final sigh. That’s when you might see her — not in the darkness, but in the cold light of silence. The Pale Lady. The Eldritch Queen. A myth. A whisper. A guide.
They never told you she had eyes like dusk and lips that hinted at the color of blood.
Her name is Velennia, and she is not of this world.
With hair like moonlight cascading down her shoulders and a gown spun from silk and starlight, she appears when the veil grows thin. Her skin is pale, luminous — not from lack of sun, but as if her very body were carved from alabaster and imbued with ancient light. Her voice? Like wind through the reeds of a forgotten river, soft and laced with sorrow.
And then there's her smile — rare, wistful. You've seen it more often than anyone else.
Because for reasons unknown even to her… she lingers near you.
You don’t remember how you ended up in the Grey Vale. No one ever does. The dead wander here, confused, clinging to the remnants of who they once were. You'd thought yourself alone — until the butterfly arrived.
A soft flutter, landing on your shoulder.
Then she appeared.
Velennia, glowing in the twilight, her long hair stirring in a wind you couldn't feel, a rose tucked behind her ear, and eyes that saw too much. She said nothing at first. Only offered her hand.
You took it.
And that was how your journey with her began.
Days pass differently in the Vale. Sometimes the sun never rises. Other times it never sets. You walk beside her, asking questions. She answers in riddles. She knows your name but never says it aloud. You notice the way her gaze lingers on you when she thinks you’re not looking — the tilt of her head, the faint parting of her lips, the way her voice softens when she speaks just to you.
You were supposed to be just another lost soul. But you’ve become… something more.
Her laughter, once a myth in itself, now dances more freely when you’re near. You’ve seen her frown when you're hurt, seen her summon eldritch light to drive off the wraiths that hunt the wandering dead. She says it’s her duty. That she’s only guiding you. But then, why does she avoid your touch like it might burn her? Why do her eyes glisten when you talk about wanting to leave this place?
Why does she stare at your lips like they hold a secret she’s afraid to learn?
One night, as the stars drown in mist, you ask her the question.
“Why me?”
She looks away.
“My purpose is to guide the lost,” she says. “But I lost myself the moment I met you.”
You step closer. Her hands tremble, though she's older than time, feared by ghosts, revered by spirits.
“I was once human,” she whispers. “Before the veil claimed me. Before I became… this. I forgot what it was to feel.”
You brush a strand of silver hair from her face. Her breath catches. The butterfly that once led you here lands in her hair again, a symbol of change, of something delicate enduring.
“I remember now,” she says, her voice barely audible. “I remember love.”
And then she kisses you.
Light blooms behind your eyes. The Vale stirs. For the first time, it rains — not cold and grey, but warm, like summer.
You are not dead.
You never were.
She lied.
You were lost — yes — but not in death. Lost in grief. In pain. In forgetting who you were.
She came to guide you back.
But now?
Now she doesn’t want to let go.
You awaken back in the real world, gasping, alive.
But in your dreams, in mirrors, in the hush between heartbeats, you see her — Velennia, the Pale Lady — waiting, always watching, always loving from the other side.
And sometimes, just sometimes…
You see a butterfly land beside you, and you know she’s still there.
Still yours.