Young Writers Society

Chapter 1.1

The Memory Wasn't Mine

The memory wasn't mine.

I knew it the moment it crept into my mind, coiling around my thoughts like smoke. The scent of damp earth, the weight of a blade in my hand, the screams of a city crumbling beneath its own illusions--none of it belonged to me. And yet, there I was, standing at the edge of a fractured cliff, staring into the jagged, glowing vastness of the Veil Rift as if I had lived this moment a thousand times.

"Princess Lyssantha," a voice broke through the haze. My tutor, Elder Sevrin, "The council waits. Would you prefer I tell them their heir is once again preoccupied with... distractions?"

The vision shattered, leaving me breathless. I blinked at the ink-stained parchment in front of me, my quill poised to write words I could no longer remember.

"Of course not," I said. I pushed the quill aside and stood, smoothing the folds of my violet robes, "Let them wait, Sevrin. They're quite good at it."

I followed Elder Sevrin down the winding hallways of the Silver Keep. My hands brushed against the violet silk of my robes, smoothing away invisible creases, though my mind remained elsewhere.

The Veil Rift. The jagged cliffs. The screams.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen something like this--a flash of a memory that didn’t belong to me--but this one had felt sharper, more vivid. As if I’d truly been there, standing at the edge of some great catastrophe.

“Lyssantha, you’re drifting again,” Sevrin said, his voice tinged with the exasperation of someone who had long given up on gentler commentary. He glanced back at me, his dark eyes narrowing. “Whatever dreams haunt you, leave them at the door. You have a responsibility to your House, and today’s council meeting is not one to neglect.”

“I’m perfectly aware of my responsibilities,” I said, though my tone betrayed more irritation than assurance. “And I’m not dreaming. It was just... a thought.”

“A thought, or another one of your visions?”

I didn’t answer. His question hung in the air as we arrived at the double doors of the council chamber.

The silver etchings on the doors depicted a scene of the Bloom, the event that had marked the Age of Ascendance and granted the Houses their power. The Wyrd’s colorful lights danced across the carved figures.

Sevrin gave me a long look, then pushed the doors open.

The council chamber was filled with the soft murmur of conversation, the kind that always ended the moment I entered. Seven pairs of eyes turned toward me as I stepped inside, each gaze weighing me, measuring me, and finding me lacking.

At the head of the table sat my father, High Teller Alira. His silver hair gleamed in the soft glow of enchanted lanterns, and his stern expression was as familiar as the walls of this room.

“You’re late, Lyssantha,” he said, almost sounding agitated, “Again.”

“I was studying,” I said, taking my place to his right.

Councilor Elyndra, seated two chairs down, snorted softly, “Studying what, I wonder? Another one of those fanciful illusions your House is so fond of?”

The room chuckled lightly, though my father’s expression didn’t shift.

“I’m afraid it’s far less exciting than that,” I said, forcing a polite smile, “Trade agreements. Tax levies. You know, the things that make the world spin.”

Elyndra’s smirk faded slightly, but she didn’t respond. My father cleared his throat, and the room fell silent.

“We were discussing House Ithis’s recent ambushes into Bardmire’s northern borders,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “Their emissaries claim it was a simple misunderstanding, but their movements suggest otherwise. Lyssantha, as heir to this House, your thoughts on this matter are important.”

“My thoughts?” I asked, meeting his gaze. “Or the thoughts you want me to have?”

The tension in the room thickened. My father’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I think,” I continued, leaning back slightly in my chair, “that House Ithis doesn’t make simple mistakes. If they’ve overstepped, it’s because they see an opportunity. The question is whether we let them believe they’ve gotten away with it.”

My father nodded slowly, though I couldn’t tell if he approved or merely tolerated my answer. “Elyndra, what are our options?”

As the discussion continued, I let the words wash over me, half-listening as the council debated strategies and alliances. My mind drifted back to the vision, to the cliff, to the Rift.

The memory wasn’t mine, but it had felt real. Too real.

“Lyssantha.”

My father’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. I blinked, realizing the room had gone silent. Seven pairs of eyes were once again fixed on me.

“Do you have anything to add?” he asked, his tone even but expectant.

“No,” I said quickly. “No, I think you’ve covered everything.”

His gaze lingered on me for a moment, and I saw the faint flicker of disappointment in his eyes before he turned back to the council. When the meeting finally ended, I lingered in the chamber, waiting until the others had left. My father remained at the table, sorting through papers and maps with meticulous care.

“You were distracted today,” he said without looking up.

“I wasn’t,” I lied.

“You were,” he said firmly, setting the papers down, “And distraction is dangerous, Lyssantha. Not just for you, but for the House.”

I hesitated. I wanted to tell him about the vision, about the Rift and the screams and the memory that didn’t belong to me. But I knew what he would say: It’s a trick of the Wyrd. A story you’ve spun for yourself.

So I said nothing.

“I’ll do better,” I said instead, glancing at my feet.

He studied me for a moment, then nodded, “See that you do.”

~

The library was quiet when I returned. I sank into one of the cushioned chairs, staring at the blank page of the journal I had brought with me. The memory still lingered, vivid and unyielding. The scent of damp earth. The weight of the blade. The screams.

And the Rift, glowing like a wound carved into the world.

I picked up my quill and began to write, the words spilling onto the page before I could stop them.

The memory wasn’t mine.

But whose was it?

The question pulsed in my mind. The Wyrd--our world’s lifeblood, the current that binds us all--has a way of seeping into places it doesn’t belong. For most, it manifests as the power of their House, a connection inherited and cultivated over generations.

For me, it was different. The Wyrd didn’t just give me power--it gave me glimpses of things I couldn’t explain. Memories, stories, fragments of lives I had never lived. Sometimes they were fleeting, little more than flashes of light and sound. Other times, like today, they were overwhelming, pulling me into places that felt all too real.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the words I had written. The memory wasn’t mine, but it had felt important. Urgent.

Something was stirring in the Rift. I didn’t know what it was, but the Wyrd didn’t send visions for no reason. It was trying to tell me something. I closed the journal and pressed my fingers to the cover. Whatever was happening, it would have to wait. My father had made it clear where my priorities needed to be, and running after silly memories wasn’t among them.

But as I sat there, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this memory, this vision, was different.

And I was going to find out why. I rang the bell to my right, the sound ringing in my ears long after it stopped. My handmaiden, Rose, slowly opened the mahogany doors. Her long, blonde hair was tied into a messy braid-- pulled loosely to the side. I grinned at the leftover stains on her apron from the peach cobbler she made the night before. 

"Locate Basil. Have her meet me in the courtyard in approximately twelve minutes."

"Will do, Princess," Rose bowed once before exiting the same way she came. I grinned wider and turned back to my empty parchment. It wasn't long before I bit my lip, and started writing.