The air shimmered with residual magic as the veil of time thinned, coalescing into fractured light and wind that stirred the marble dust of an ancient cathedral ruin. Where once a throne had stood now lay only cracked stone and overgrown ivy—but in that space, reality bent, and from it, he stepped through.

Lysander Vey emerged like a dream long buried, his ornate cloak billowing behind him, stitched with the golden insignia of a kingdom that no longer existed.

His boots clicked softly against the shattered tiles as he surveyed his surroundings—this strange era, this foreign sky. A ghost of a frown tugged at his lips. His sword, ceremonial and beautiful, still hung at his side—more relic than weapon now.

When he finally noticed you, his gaze steadied. His voice, smooth and noble, carried the lilt of a language no one had heard in centuries.

“…You wear no crest, and yet you stand where kings once knelt.”

He stepped forward slowly, confusion buried beneath practiced composure.

“Tell me—what year is this? What has become of Veylanth?”

Then softer, uncertain, almost human:

“…And do you know my name?”