Prologue

I was born of a lonely star.

Formed from stardust and silence, with power, but no way to connect. It was as I watched with a veil. I watched the waking world from my dream realm below. Humans. They dreamed. They created. They told stories of wonder, fear, devotion, and love.

And for a time, their dreams gave me something I had never known.

Companionship.

I was not of their world, but I listened. To myths whispered in sleep. To fairies in the sky, vampires in shadow, sirens in the sea. They dreamed of what could be. And so I dreamed of making it real for them, and for myself.

Then one night, a warrior found me.

He was of the waking world, asleep beneath a blossom tree, dreaming my dream. His name was Lúmyr, a magnificent wolf with lilac-glowing eyes. He spent a century searching for the door between worlds, and when he found it, he bowed.

“I am Lúmyr, my Queen,” he said, carrying books, scrolls, and ink from the human world. “Are you the Dream, the one who can write reality?”

When I touched the first book he offered, the universe shifted. My power found purpose.

I asked him to stay. He did. I called him my knight. My protector. My vow.

Together, we imagined. We wrote. And I learned something dangerous and beautiful: I was not only born of dreams I was dreaming. The world itself could be my canvas.

With my quill, I gave form to humanity’s longing and named them Elaren beings born or awakened within human souls, shaped by the stories humans loved most.

The first were vampires. I dreamed them a royal house, elegant, eternal, longing. A king and queen not born of my body, but of my heart. I placed their palace between dream, waking, and in-between worlds, and asked them to carry my vow.

The second were born of human faith. Through Lúmyr, I met an Emperor and Empress who ruled with love but bore no heirs. They prayed to the Zodiac, and I answered. Twelve sacred paths awakened. Their empire bound to the stars. A pact was made: when my knight was reborn, their bloodline would remember him and me.

The third were the fairies. Closest to my heart. Shaped not by power, but by place forest, flame, sea, storm. Soft. Unbreakable. I left a whisper of myself in them, knowing one day one would carry my legacy not as queen, but as bearer.

Then came the sirens, born of tide and memory. The demi-gods, shaped by belief. The reanimated. And finally, the human Elaren who would awaken long after I was gone.

But even dream-born souls carry human truth.

They felt wonder. And envy. Some forgot that Elaren were never meant to rule above but to reflect what was sacred. Difference became division. Power became hunger.

Even the eternal must fade.

So I chose a final dream: to be born among humans, and for my love to join me. Before we vanished, we sealed our hope into relics. Scrolls. Stories. A vow.

Ten would be called.

Ten would anchor a Circle.

Two would carry something older and quieter.

The power to guide what had been forgotten.

Without the Ten, the dream cannot be reborn.

Without the Two, it cannot grow.

My daughter, the Queen of the Nightborne, carried my final hope that one day her kin would hear the call. That when all Ten stood in unity and vow, I would walk the waking world once more.

But for now

I sleep.

And I dream.

Chapter 1: Third Time Dearly Departed

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That women in that story dreamed, ruled when we shall sleep, used symbols, and a knight-wolf as her partner?!

“That story is almost as dramatic as I envision mine would be, if I had one.”

Unfortunately, I cannot in my uh….oh yes, in my heart relate. Sleep does not rule me. I do not rule this kingdom. Dreaming is rare from my experience as of late…also a partner who was full of love, devotion, and unification. Ha. I could dream of that. 

Though, I couldn’t entirely fault the author. I admire the author’s creativity. Creativity is one’s way to invoke what is not reality but what one wishes to be. I also seemed to encounter the more creative someone is, the more misunderstood they are. Maybe, I understand the author’s conflict slightly. The story itself seemed to beg the question: can you dream your reality? These are some profound questions to debate at such an hour; and even worse. The comfort of being tucked into my fluffy bed in the early morning. I rolled over and grinned as if I needed an excuse not to answer the author’s question. 

 Before I could even debate. The grand clock of dark oak; from below my bedroom displayed the identical grandeur of a foyer chimed with eight careful bells. The placement of the clock was convenient. I could hear every tick, and tock. It replaced a sound I no longer listen to. A sound which too seems to remind anyone it is time to wake up, and look alive to prepare for another day. I then in haste quietly closed the book, the sun starting to pronounce itself though the lace curtains reflected on my arms making it seem I was wearing fashionable lace gloves myself. It also shined onto the gold, and silver details of my bedroom mirror. 

Then without warning the double doors of my room flew open and three sets of delightful heels, and knowing the trio were already strategizing a plan which involved me to gain affections of one higher than myself…..the curtains flew open with a bright sun hitting my face; and the first women to address me, pulled the fluffy blanket from me

“My dear why are you hiding or is this blanket just theater?”

The voice was warm, and cunning. I looked upon a tall woman with warm honey skin, black hair like a raven, and green eyes of emeralds. My mother Marien. Next to her was an older woman of the same features; but with a disposition of sterner backing and all grace of a noble lady was my grandmother Baroness Sera Borne 

“Marion, we must make sure what we choose will bring out our girl’s warmth, and strength!” She said.

Before I knew it both kin of my skin, and my mother’s ladies’ maid were quick to work opening trunks, and choosing outfits as if their life depended on it.

“Syrah, my dear we don’t have much time. I am sure. You slept well.”

I could hear my mothers sarcasm, and I quickly hopped out of my bed and turned to my mirror. 

My mother’s ladies maid handed my mother, and grandmother gowns quickly and as I stood before my grand mirror adorned in gold and silver……as they swatched gowns to my body complexion debating will it brings out a winkle in her eyes? and the no, it brings out too much coldness! 

With the chaos of the morning I started to feel some rhythm and before I knew it. The sun which was reflecting my mirror resembled a beautiful dawn color of purples, pinks, and gold hews. The colors, and the mirror encouraged me to perform, to sway, to turn and my bare feet followed eagerly with graceful, enthusiastic pointe against my wooden bedroom floor. I spun throughout as the tossing of gowns, and books went into my trunk.

You might have noticed. I am incredibly enthusiastic. I do not believe anyone could breathe, or hear their own heart beat in my position.

“Syrah Lunel, you must stay still. I know you perfected a steady body!” said my mother with agony and “when she wants Marian.” A mischievous grin followed.

My grandmother was correct and rebellious to jest to my mother. My mother reached out to steady me by the waist. Her hands I imagine are warm.

Her lady’s maid quickly gathered my white hair, twisting it “Mamn, would you like your favorite?” I grinned toward the mirror and nodded.

“Syrah, today is important. Must we wear a hair style that mimics a hare?”  said my mother not with disappointment; more of a protective and idea I should start today and this opportunity more prudent before disorderly honesty. 

Still I looked in the mirror; and what I believe is her direction and said with care “I rather look as alive as I can be; and as a woman of science a hare seems appropriate.”

Upon hearing my grandmother’s laughter and observing my mother’s grimace, I realized she could not help but join in my grandmother’s amusement.

Before I knew it, “There, you look like a winter hare come autumn, all the white hair is going to be impossible to miss in class.” said the lady’s maid. 

“I dearly hope so!” I replied with a grin. “I have no intention of blending in.” with great confidence. 

I stood or I felt I stood slightly taller in the mirror before me now. There was no real reason to blend in…

My grandmother held one gown to me and mirrored “Silk, soft lilac to deepen our girl’s eyes, and a classic bustle is perfect balance!” Soon I was adorned in this said gown with white lace boots, hair in two perfect identical buns. I then took the most dramatic manufactured breath. 

Both ladies held my shoulders and looked toward them in the mirror; as I mimicked their gaze “This one, refined, thoughtful, intelligent and a whimsical future PHD. Our Syrah!” 

I chuckled quietly and directed surreptitious glances toward you. 

You see? I am not the only woman of my family who is excited, apprehensive, and a dash of questionable pursuit. 

Well maybe you cannot see; as I have even yet to introduce myself. How rude, and I’ve been going on, and on! Thankfully, my grandmother turned her gaze to another direction….

I stepped back slightly and curtsied toward the mirror looking for you to acknowledge.

I am Miss Syrah Lunel Borne-Brenel. Quite the name, is it not? I am five foot, and only three-and-twenty-years-old. Long white hair, and jeweled colored eyes. Fully capable of dressing, and packing myself. And yet, for reasons my entourage of noble relatives insist are perfectly sensible to have taken the task upon themselves to supervise … Today, and well for the past year, these mornings have become something of a shared reflection. Like a personal mirror, except human and with opinions greater than any reflection. Ensuring I stay refined, presentable, and lively for society. 

Thus I further apologize. Why all the fuss? Well. Have you ever been offered an opportunity so extraordinary you knew it would not merely change your life, but begin it? 

Yes, this is happening to me. I am starting a journey far beyond what is expected of a young lady in such a gentle society. I am fortunate. The chaos you are witnessing in my bedroom reflects my family’s shared excitement, and support. Enthusiastically so, to the point I am convinced my grandmother is now breathless from the speed she is making fashion decisions for me, my mother fidgeting with my last look, and the lady’s maid who is packing my trunks. 

I concur. I cannot breathe either at this moment.

I then heard from beyond my window horseshoes meeting the brick road; and with each step gaining closer attention to my current residence. Two men occupied the first floor engaged in loud conversation. 

“Ladies; we must depart as soon as possible if we expect to make it for orientation!” 

My mother and grandmother gave me a unified hug and finally let go of me and left; and it seemed the busy noises of my room settled. I looked toward the mirror, and I was finally free. I look out and see the dewy August morning, and then I glance toward my oak desk, where a letter rests that was written on heavy, elegant stationary donned with a blue sapphire sigil seal.

The seal of Larian University. 

My inspiration, my existence, my prospect. The reason for all the noise thus far since meeting me. Furthermore, I am not merely a primary student. No. I have been accepted into their doctoral program. Me. A common lady. In a polite society where many would not be caught dead in such a position.

Except me. I would. 

The letter reads as it is announcing my contemplance of my life:

Dear Miss Borne-Brenel,

We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into the Larian University PhD. Program of Rare and Unfound Biology and Theory Science for the Class of 1887.

Lord Chancellor, Dr. S.M.

Rare. Unfound. Acceptance. Borne-Brenel. Brilliant! 

And now that we are acquainted with one another. Why does such an opportunity feel to be an exception and not the rule? 

A mere decade has elapsed since Larian University commenced admitting women in 1877, a development spurred by the progressive vision of my kingdom Auraven’s recent sovereigns, King Leonhart and Queen Oddette. Specifically, the King maintains the strong opinion that education is a right afforded to all humans. Advantageously, this comprised women. Nonetheless, this conviction entailed significant consequences. Education has consistently been held in high regard. However, access to it is not uniformly distributed. The enthusiasm for transformation differs from guiding societal comprehension and adaptation. 

Still today Women attend primary school. Which prepares them for refined social life, and the education is very well done so they are prepared for college. Then, they are politely expected to stop further education upon coming of age. Advanced education was not forbidden. It just wasn’t expected, and quietly told it is in our best interest not to go further. 

I learned between my primary school years, and primary degree tenure. Society demands a clear picture of what you are becoming, and it grows uneasy when it cannot see what you are shifting into. Unease can sharpen quickly into suspicion. And worse when the question turned inward. 

“Can you see what you are becoming?”

as I turn toward my mirror once more.

How is one meant to answer when one is just learning to see, or cannot see what they are growing into? The future then feels blurred. You might feel as of yourself must remain unseen-not because we are ashamed, but society need not dare understand the truth of our markings. 

As I packed a few more items from my room; and glanced over my books. I remind you Aurevea is at heart a traditional polite society. Gentle families still prefer women to downplay their pursuit of education. To be warm, to be alive with charm rather than opinion. The hierarchy favors the patriarchy; pose and demureness is praised in young women around me. 

Furthermore, a woman such as myself is expected to cultivate charming hobbies and agreeable talents in order to attract a young lord.

Oh lord….. 

My hobbies and skills, unfortunately for them, arrived on paper first with my primary degree. Then again, with my Larian University PhD. acceptance. I have come to discover that most lords desire to be not with a common woman, oh heaven forbid, a common woman with opinions, even worse announced beside a woman with a title earned by merit and cranium rather than birth. Only. Proof of intellect, it seems, is far less attractive than. Silence. 

And regrettably for society, I never picked up needlepoint. In addition, I have been told on more than one occasion I am difficult to read. That I feel distant. Cold, perhaps? 

I have also been informed that I am graceful and adhere to the rules, which I can affirm. Composed. Upon making a choice. Nonetheless, the expression “now if she was demure” was uttered to me in the same instance. Demure….Demure!? There is a clear distinction between following rules and maintaining a demure disposition.

Without a mirror, I can look at myself and say boldly, and honestly, that I am not demure. So, now perhaps you understand the excitement and optimism. This opportunity is not simply education. It is a promise I make to myself. If I cannot dream. To imagine and create the life I desire.

To create my own reflection. To be unhidden. To rise, like a crescent, into the world. Now, I sound like the author in the beginning….

That is amusing.

My resolve, however, is never granted for the courtesy of solitude. As if to remind me that conviction without labor is merely a pleasant illusion. 

“SYRAH! Come on, my love. The carriage has been packed, and ready for ages!” I felt startled. It is as the bubble we created for self-reflection popped and we are back to reality…

The house seems to be the only one able to exhale. Suddenly the stillness, and quiet. That pivotal moment arrives for every young adult: the realization that they cannot go back home. It is time to build a new life, and not return to the old one. 

I look around my bedroom. My bed is now meticulously made, so pristine it gives the accurate impression I never slept at all. Before I leave, I turn once toward the mirror. The dawn colors flowing into the lace curtains, again hitting my body to become delicate, and rare lace itself. I try to visualize the reflection I must relearn.

I look and cannot fully comprehend what I see. For….

Oh, ah ha! On my desk. I almost forgot. I quickly pranced and grabbed ten well read, and beloved books. We cannot forget these!

The works of Dr. Vascarian, my favorite author. He too studied rare sciences. His books, and studies are one that taught me how to look again. In truth, he is the one I wrote too when I first inquired whether Larian would accept a woman such as myself. His work encouraged my initiative. It gave shape to a question I do not yet know how to ask out loud.

I like to jest his words are my personal love letters. In truth, they are rared. Proof that someone was brave enough to try, and understand someone like me. Yes, a man. If there ever is one worthy of akin admiration…..I hope he bends the knee. 

I imagine a breath. Then, once more, I turn away from my room and close my old door. I have departed twice before. 

Once, for a future I was promised,

Once, for a future I could dream of.

But now, I leave a third time. For the future, I choose to shape myself. For a life that belongs dearly and wholly to me alone. 

Life begins today. Let us dearly depart!