Page 81 of The Last Remaining Light

The scholars of Veylspire—even those long dead—had spent their lives studying the stars while something far older moved beneath them all. Whatever it was had been disturbing the aethercurrents upon which every city depended, but the unraveling had begun so gradually it had taken turnings for anyone to recognize it. The Ash Wars were proof enough of that.

The thought weighed heavily upon her.

When sleep finally claimed her, she did not dream of stars or observatories.

She dreamed of a dark-haired boy with sightless forest-green eyes, fear forever frozen upon his face as he lay in a pool of his own blood while frost crept silently across the stone around him.

A Letter to Sister Agatha

Hearthwane, 750 A.V.

Sister Agatha,

You once told me that fear makes people believe certainty is wisdom.

I didn't understand what you meant then, but I think I do now.

The observatories have grown increasingly tense these last moons. No one says anything directly, of course, but discussions surrounding resonance instability and current fluctuations have become impossible to avoid. Certain archives have become restricted when they were not before. Symposiums end in arguments more often than conclusions. But beneath all of it? A distinct feeling that many scholars here know something they are unwilling to speak aloud.

The currents beneath Veylspire feel wrong.

I am aware that statement lacks any sort of scholarly precision, but I do not know how else to describe it. The harmonic flow beneath the lower observatories has become uneven in ways I have never encountered before. At times it almost resembles pressure building beneath the stone.

You asked me once whether Veylspire still felt wondrous after living here. It does, but there are also things that have happened that make me ill to think about and too horrific to write down.

There are moments lately where the city feels less like a place devoted to knowledge and more like a civilization attempting to convince itself it still understands the forces keeping it running.

Master Vaelor has begun taking unusual interest in my research. I know you had warned me in a previous letter to take care around him, but I wish I knew why. How do you know him? I cannot yet determine his goals, and that frustrates me.

I suspect correspondence may become less reliable once the mountain passes close fully again for winter moons. If you do not hear from me for some time, please do not worry unnecessarily. Though I realize telling you not to worry is roughly equivalent to telling the sea not to crash its waves into the abbey cliffs.

I have enclosed a letter and a small gift for Caelyn as well to save on courier fees. Could you pass it along to him, please?

And… thank you.

For sending me here. My first turning has been filled with so much knowledge and experience.

May your lantern burn steady,

Elowynn

A Letter to Caelyn

Hearthwane, 750 A.V.

Folded carefully within the letter was a slender resonance tuning tool unlike anything commonly crafted in Lumenshire. The handle was forged from silversteel shaped into intricate spirals reminiscent of symbols on observatory arches. Faint astrylite filaments were threaded beneath the surface like frozen lights. Tiny celestial engravings had been etched near the base with remarkable precision—constellation markers used within the observatories of Veylspire. Though clearly designed for practical use, the tool carried the elegance of mountain-city craftsmanship: beautiful enough to belong in an archive display and durable enough to survive decades of actual work.

Attached to it by silver thread was a small folded note.

Caelyn,

I found this in one of the lower terrace markets several spans ago, and it made me think of you. Specifically those times when I caught you acting as if you were not freezing because you refused to light a hearth while repairing resonance instruments at impossible bells of the night.

The merchant claimed it came from one of the older observatories before the collapse of the lower bridge districts. Whether that is true or simply an elaborate attempt to overcharge scholars, I cannot say.

Still, it reminded me of home. Of you.

Veylspire saw its first snowfall earlier than expected. The upper bridges vanish into the fog by dusk now, and the city looks like a painting beneath it all. It is beautiful. I know I say that a lot, but Veylspire really is something entirely its own.