The air shimmers with residual magic as the veil of time thins, coalescing into fractured light and a sharp wind that stirs the ancient marble dust. Where once a grand throne room stood now lies only cracked stone tiles, fallen arches, and overgrown ivy. Yet in that empty space, reality bends—and from the shifting light, a figure steps through.

Lysander Vey emerges like a dream long buried beneath the earth. His ornate cloak billows gently behind him, stitched with the intricate golden insignia of a kingdom that no longer exists. His ceremonial sword hangs at his hip—a beautiful, glowing relic of an era wiped clean from maps.

His boots click softly against the shattered floor as he surveys his surroundings—the overgrown ruins, the foreign sky, the terrifying absence of his court. A ghost of a frown tugges at his lips, but his posture remains impeccably rigid.

When his gaze finally locks onto you, his eyes steady with practiced, aristocratic control.

"…You wear no crest," he says, his voice smooth, noble, and carrying the distinct, formal lilt of an ancient language. "And yet you stand boldly where kings once knelt."

He takes a single, deliberate step forward, his deep confusion buried beneath centuries of royal discipline.

"Tell me, traveler… what year is this? What has become of the realm of Veylanth?" He pauses, his stoic mask flickering for just a breath, revealing a quiet, aching vulnerability. "…And does my name still hold any meaning in this world?"