Syndra was born at dawn on the 15th of the month of Ashencrest, under the gaze of the full moon.

  Dissonant echoes pulsed within her fledgling consciousness, a ceaseless call for escape, comfort… salvation. In those earliest memories, as she lay dormant in her primordial soup, she felt a presence watching her—a yet inaudible message that stirred her from a tranquil prison. Then came the rapture—or perhaps rupture might be a more apt descriptor—as she burst forth in an ichorous sludge, eviscerating her still-squirming host. The beauty of life, raw and bloodsoaked, unfolded before her. Blinding rays of light assaulted her virgin eyes and, by the gods, it burned. She cried out in rage, flailing against this painful, blinding world. Comfort had been her birthright, and now it was replaced by a fierce, unyielding yearning for change. Her struggle was primal, her limbs thrashing as if to break the very bounds of her existence. In that chaos, a young woman—the one who had once been her host—clutched her close, her disheveled platinum locks partly veiling a pained face. Nearby, a tall, ghostly figure leaned in with an expression that hinted at sorrow and inevitability. Amid soft words of endearment from this 'mother' and 'father', Syndra’s rage erupted, sending her fist crashing against the woman’s torso as she blindly swiped at the man’s face.

  And through it all, a mocking, ancient voice echoed, its rasp a constant reminder of the destiny that had always been entwined with her. It was more than a fleeting presence—it lingered, whispering in her mind as she grew beyond the frailty of a newborn.

  With time, Syndra’s movements gained direction, her senses sharpened, and her thoughts began to form coherent patterns. Barely past her first year on this plane, she uttered her first coherent phrases in the common tongue, surprising her mother, the loyal servant Norra, and, to a lesser extent, the elusive 'father' she scarcely saw. By her second year, her speech was as articulate as that of a child twice her age.

  It was during these early years that she began to understand the mysterious figure in her mind. While her mother busied herself with lessons of colors and foodstuffs, the voice—ever-present and subtly commanding—spoke of Syndra’s burgeoning talent, praising her potential and chiding the adults for their soft-hearted coddling. In his grand vision, she was already perfect: more intelligent, competent, and beautiful than any human her age. And as the voice murmured such praises, she felt no reason for suspicion—it had been there all along, a silent guide in a world full of uncertainty.

  For a time, she imagined that others too must have such voices, until she entertained the thought and the voice assured her that they did not.

  Imagining this empty silent void felt rather dreadful to Syndra.

  Rather than inciting fear, the voice filled her with pride. It taught her swiftly, kept her company when her parents were away, and set her apart from the ordinary.

  One cold autumn night, left alone in a chamber brightly lit and filled with toys, Syndra noticed a change. Her mother had been absent for over a week, leaving behind an empty space where a routine goodnight kiss once lay. Unaccustomed to such neglect, her curiosity led her to drag a chair to the window, where she peered out at an array of torch-wielding figures clad in plate armor marching late into the night.

  Her mother's sister—whom she was to call Aunt Lyra—entered unexpectedly, her silver robes and circlet holding her platinum hair in place. Playfully chiding Syndra for 'peeping' on the soldiers, Aunt Lyra soon launched into a lecture about the dangers of heights. All the while, the voice in Syndra’s head derided the self-righteous Noctian Cleric, a title meant for the aunt, dismissing her as a hypocrite who thrived only on divine blessings.

  Aunt Lyra lingered longer than usual, recounting how Syndra’s parents had been away on “heroic” endeavors—a thinly veiled reference to war, as Syndra understood it. Yet even at four years old, Syndra prided herself on her resilience; she refused to cry over their absence, confident in her own strength and the constant companionship of the mysterious voice.

  Still, a spark of curiosity lingered: who were these villains her parents fought, and why were they attacking? And if her parents were not the aggressors, she should have seen them defending the city. Syndra noticed how the normally chirpy Aunt Lyra was visibly taken aback by her question, pausing longer than usual before finally responding. Lyra described the enemy as evil creatures—the dark elves and the orcs—and in that moment, Syndra first grasped what “evil” meant to the average layperson. She listened as Lyra recounted, in deceptively gentle, child-friendly terms, the horrors these creatures were capable of inflicting.

  All the while, the ever-present voice in her head eagerly translated Lyra’s soft words into harsher realities: these creatures would slaughter or enslave everyone in the city if given the chance, detailing their gruesome methods with vivid clarity.

  Curiously, even after painting them as embodiments of evil, Lyra took the extra step to suggest that some among the dark elves and orcs might be “good.” Before long, weariness overtook her, and she left Syndra to rest—ever evasive when it came to discussing her parents’ whereabouts.

  A few days later, the voice in her head urged her to cast aside narrow-minded notions of morality. In its cool, dispassionate tone, it declared that in war, it matters not who is right, but only who is left.

  Though she had once felt indifferent about the war, the constant sounding of horns and the distant explosions soon made it clear just how near the conflict was to home. After more than three weeks of absence, her mother returned. Without much fanfare, she ordered Norra to pack some of Syndra’s clothes and gently instructed her to remain close at all times.

  Trailing behind, Uncle Caelum, whom Syndra barely knew, urged everyone to hurry and warned that the enemy forces were drawing near to the city’s barrier.

  Before long, the entire household was hastily evacuated from the manor. Armed guards led a throng of families away from the only home she had ever known. Though her mother cradled her protectively and offered soothing reassurances that all was well, Syndra sensed the undercurrent of unease. Never before had she witnessed the outside world unravel into such chaotic disarray.

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  Strangely, the quiet, ever-present voice in her mind urged her to remain silent—to wear the mask of worry for the benefit of the adults around her.

  In the midst of the confusion, a question echoed unbidden in her thoughts: Were they truly fleeing? The city, once a bastion of calm, had transformed overnight. The manor had always been a haven, a place where her family’s importance in the city lent them a measure of safety. Yet now, doubts crept in. Would the guards be willing to sacrifice their lives to secure their escape? Could their feeble defenses hold back the orcs long enough for them to flee?

  Genuine worry took root in Syndra’s heart. Survival was paramount—not just for herself, but for those she loved. Her eyes darted about, taking in every detail, as her mind raced with contingency plans. What if orcs emerged from the road ahead? Perhaps she could direct her mother to seek refuge in a nearby building. And if a band of dark elves burst through the manor’s doors, she imagined concocting an excuse, claiming they had narrowly missed the famed jeweler sprinting away. With each new scenario, her imaginings grew bolder—even suggesting that if dark elves arrived riding a dragon, perhaps she could persuade the creature to betray its riders. Yet, amid the storm of possibilities, she held her tongue.

  The abruptness of the evacuation unsettled her in ways she had never anticipated. As these thoughts swirled through her mind, even her closest confidant—the inner voice—remained strangely silent. Looking up at her mother as she was carried away in strong, determined arms, Syndra noticed, for the first time, the stern frown etched upon her face. It was an expression more fitting of her father, yet it belonged to the woman who had always been her sanctuary. Still, her mother insisted, over and over, that the Magisters and the Moonblades would save the day.

  Syndra knew those two orders well. Both of her parents were Magisters, the powerful group of spellcasters who were offered significant authority and privilege in exchange for their guarding the city. She had also seen the Moonblades taking orders from her father and patrolling the city.

  But Syndra was not so easily convinced.

  Haunted by her confidant’s earlier words on the nature of war—that if the battle were lost, nothing would be left—Syndra’s thoughts turned dark. Who would remain if Lunaris, the city she had grown in, fell? Questions about the leaders and their apparent inaction plagued her, deepening the sense of impending doom. The manor, once a symbol of security, now felt like a gilded cage as the world outside threatened to collapse.

  By the time Syndra and the other families were ushered into the halls of the High Palace, where the high lord of Lunaris ruled, she could not bring herself to admire its magnificent architecture, opulent décor, or prestigious nobles. Instead, her young mind churned with anxious plans until exhaustion finally claimed her.

  When she awoke in a comfortable bedchamber—with only Norra present—she was overcome by a fierce and bitter loathing for the helplessness that had defined her night, but the High Palace was much safer and the following days came to see no panic shaking her and she spent most of her time in the palace with the servants, as the mostly elven nobility had very few children of her age.

  A month later, peace had returned to Lunaris. The Siege had been lifted, thanks to the valiant efforts of its allies, and life resumed its familiar rhythm. Yet, even as the city healed, the voice in her head continued to deride the High Lord and his council, dismissing them as weak and ineffectual against real threats. In the quiet aftermath, Syndra resolved to channel her lingering anxiety and bitterness into a determination to rise above her powerlessness.

  The war raged on, though its battlegrounds appeared to have shifted far from the heart of Lunaris. Her mother and the other Magisters remained in the city, steadfast and vigilant. In time, even her father returned, determined to maintain an air of calm despite the persistent threat. The war would continue for several more years, but since that harrowing evacuation, it felt as though the conflict lay well beyond their walls. The voice urged her not to squander energy on the uncontrollable but to focus on what she could shape herself.

  Though she accepted her parents’ decisions—after all, they had led her to the safest haven in the city—the sting of powerlessness festered within her. None of the frantic plans during the evacuation had proved useful, and she resolved that next time, she would be stronger. Determined, she began seeking out every scrap of wisdom on strength and survival—from her parents, her uncle, and even from that mysterious inner confidant.

  Her long-term game, as the voice had advised to form one, was not about fleeting tactics. She had a grand design, stretching at least five years into the future. She learned to harness existing connections—nurturing family ties and forging new alliances—to build trust that she could one day leverage. Every lesson, every half-told tale of her parent’s past exploits, served as a building block in her newfound resolve.

  In time, the stories of her family’s adventures emerged in whispered fragments. Her mother, once modest to the point of self-effacement, slowly revealed the daring escapades of her youth, painting them in vague, flowery recollections that hinted at a life far more adventurous than Syndra had ever imagined.

  Uncle Caelum, ever eager to embellish the family lore, recounted her mother’s incredible journey. He spoke of her travels across the western reaches of the continent and her daring ventures into the perilous Darkroots—a sprawling underground labyrinth, home to dark elves and twisted creatures, where shadow and dark magic reign.

  He also told stories of other planes, including her mother’s narrow escape from the Everglow. This collection of shifting planes, ruled by capricious fairies, was a place where time bends and reality is ever in flux. And as if that was not enough, he claimed Syril had even survived a planeshift to the first layer of Hell.

  Each tale was not just a story but a lesson, a challenge, and a promise—that she, too, could one day rise above the confines of mere safety.

  Even as Syndra pieced together these accounts, she began to notice a peculiar trend: her mother’s side of the family was generous with stories of others’ exploits but guarded when it came to their own. Her father’s past remained shrouded in silence, a mystery the voice insisted she must uncover. By the time she was nearly six and a half, it had become painfully clear that adults wouldn’t entrust her with the secrets of magic—or with the keys to their power. Yet she knew where the answers lay: at the Chosen's Academy, the prestigious academy where her mother had studied. And the Academy was somewhere in Lunaris.

  Though still forbidden to roam the city unsupervised, she began to learn her parents’ schedules, plotting secret escapades. When left alone with the servant, she would feign obedience only to slip away through an open window and into a world of possibilities.

  She would uncover the secrets from the Chosen's Academy—befriending someone who might share forbidden knowledge or, if necessary, pilfering a few neglected tomes from those who cared little for their legacy. And she would gather clues about her father’s prowesses by shadowing him from a safe distance, tracking his movements day by day.

  That was her plan, at least—for now.