Caelith Morvain
Caelith Morvain (a.k.a. Rags)
Caelith Morvain is charismatic and quick-witted, balancing his responsibilities with a playful spirit. He takes his duties seriously but never misses a chance to lighten the mood with a joke or prank. Skilled in both magic and swordplay, he maintains an easygoing demeanor, always ready for fun without neglecting what needs to be done.
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Caelith is a half-elf with sharp but balanced features, including high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and pointed ears that distinguish him from human nobles. His dark brown hair is slightly unkempt, and his bright green eyes often reflect amusement.
Apparel & Accessories
He wears finely tailored clothing with a well-fitted navy-blue doublet designed for ease of movement, with a rapier at his hip and a casual confidence in his demeanor.
Relationships
Caelith Morvain, son of Viscount Edrian Morvain and Lady Sylwen Aerathis.
View Character Profile
Alignment
Brutal Good
Current Location
Year of Birth
7246 AV
18 Years old
Family
Spouses
Siblings
Children
Gender
Male
Eyes
Green
Hair
Brown
Height
6 ft
Weight
160
Aligned Organization
Other Affiliations
Common, Elven
Eva's Letter Home
Dearest Mother,
I wish I were writing under better circumstances, but I want you to know that Caelith and I are safe. The task we were given for our graduation is far more dangerous than any we’ve heard of before. We are to retrieve a Dragon’s Heart from Zorythis' lair in the Stormcradle Mountains. Yes, a dragon’s lair. The orb is said to be a powerful source of magic, and the court claims it will be used to bolster the kingdom’s wards. Maybe that’s true. Maybe they just want to see if we survive.
Don’t worry, though. We already knew we were going to have to face the dragon. Orren has been saying for months that the dragon’s lair might be the best place to learn more about how to free Lyrielle. Out of all the places we could go, it was the easiest to find. It almost feels like fate, as if we were meant to do this. Caelith is excited—nervous too, but excited. He thinks that if we can talk to the dragon, we might learn more about the fairies or even their language. He’s been trying to learn the old draconic tongue—maybe Zorythis will teach him something, if we’re lucky.
But that’s not the worst of it. While we were in Emberbrook, we received a letter from Headmaster Solmere. The King is dead. The Queen—the Duskbane Queen—has taken over. And she’s sent soldiers to Oathwatch. They’re calling it a protective measure, but they’ve taken Professors Thornblade and Vexmere away. The martial professors. The ones who could have organized a resistance. No one is allowed to leave the school.
The others are furious. Caelith wants to chase down the soldiers and find the professors himself. Orren keeps muttering about burning the capital to the ground if they hurt any of the children. And the rest of us? We’re scared. Because everyone left someone behind.
I can’t imagine what those poor children are going through, trapped there with no way out. It makes me sick to think of it. Caelith is safe with me, and I am grateful for that. But our friends? I can see the fear in their eyes every time they talk about their brothers and sisters.
I don’t know what to do, Mother. I don’t know what any of us can do. But I thought you should know the truth—not the official story, but the real one. I need you to be ready. To be prepared. And to stay safe.
I love you.
Evangeline
Letter to Lyra Blackwood
The handwriting is a mess—ink smudges, words trailing off, letters slanted and uneven. Clearly, he’s drunk.
Lyra,
So, we’re off to steal a heart. A dragon’s heart. No, not like that. It’s… a rock. Or a stone? An orb, maybe. Anyway, it’s in Zorythis’ lair in the Stormcradle Mountains, and we’re supposed to bring it back like good little Fatebound. Graduation gift. Or execution order. Not sure which.
Oh, and get this. Before we left, Princess Seraphina told us she awarded us Orders of Valor for helping her two years ago. Sent the medals to our parents. Maybe she thought I’d use them in some prank. Of course, I would have. How could she think otherwise? But it means I’m a real hero now. Recognized and everything.
Now, we’re in Emberbrook, and I am very, very drunk. You’d laugh if you saw me. We’re helping Dame Nyvessa’s brother, Ser Caldrin. Nice guy. Apparently, he’s a traitor now. Except not really.
Anyway. We’re helping. When we were looking into things, we went down into one of the old Nytherian ruins and we found something. Something big. I can’t say what it is, not over a letter. But if we meet up, I’ll show you. It’s… yeah. It’s big.
Oh, and there’s this guard, and he’s a real piece of—. I did a thing. Might have gotten a little too friendly with a bottle to get some information. Might have put itching powder in someone’s socks. Might have just been called a “half-elf rat” by some old farmer, but he’s probably right.
So. We’re going to the Stormcradle Mountains. You said to write if we were heading your way. Are you still there? Can you meet us? Might need to see a friendly face before we do something incredibly, incredibly stupid.
Miss you. Miss the way you used to call me “Rags.” Miss a lot of things. Anyway. Hope you’re still out there. Write back if you can.
----------------------------------------------------
The handwriting is steadier here, the lines straighter. He’s sobered up, or at least mostly.
We did it. We actually did it. Orren argued for Ser Caldrin, and thank the gods he did. I was still so hungover from the night before that I couldn’t think straight. If I’d had to say anything, we might’ve lost right there. But Orren kept it together, and the court actually listened. Even when Lord Tyron Duskmoor demanded trial by combat, Orren and Zyrelle Duskbane stood for Ser Caldrin. Lady Theryn Duskbane herself was Duskmoor’s champion. We thought we were dead. Zyrelle was ready to go down swinging, and Orren would’ve followed her, but they didn’t have to.
Theryn yielded. Just… yielded. Said she believed them. Said she believed they were fighting for an innocent man. I thought all the Duskbanes were evil, but now… maybe not. Maybe there are still some good people left. Maybe we’re not alone in this.
And get this—the Adjudicator called us “Guardians of Eldren Law.” That’s right. We actually did something right. Maybe we can do this, Lyra. Maybe we really can.
Oh, and Orren found a mastiff. A big one. Duskbane guards had it tied up in front of the jail, and they’d beaten it to make it mean. Orren stole it right out from under their noses. Named her Nibbles—a dog the size of a small horse, named Nibbles. Makes me laugh every time. Not sure how Orren will get the mean out of her. Right now, she growls at everyone but him. But if anyone can teach a half-ton of muscle and teeth how to love again, it’s Orren.
----------------------------------------------------
The handwriting is crisp and clear, the quill pressed hard against the page. The writer is tense, angry.
We got a letter from Solmere before I could send this one off. The King is dead. His Duskbane wife has taken over, and she sent soldiers to the school to “protect the students.” Except no one’s allowed to leave, and Professors Thornblade and Vexmere were taken away. Everyone but me still has siblings there. They’re just kids, Lyra. Just kids.
I keep thinking about that little scrawny first-year, Taryn, with his nose always in a book. Or the little kids who followed Orren around like his own honor guard, hanging on his every word. They’re trapped. And the people who took over the school—they don’t care. If they hurt those kids…
I can’t even finish that thought.
Eva’s safe. She’s with me. But the others are sick with worry. They’re all putting on brave faces, but I know they’re scared ... and angry. Very angry. Orren especially—he keeps talking about what he’d do to the Queen if she hurts any of the kids. We’re all thinking it. We’re supposed to be Fatebound now, the great protectors, but what are we supposed to do when the enemy is already inside the walls??
I want to go back. But we can’t. Not yet.
Caelith
7264: A Legacy of Laughter
Selmarday, 11th of Vaelion
It’s done.
A year of carving, paying, polishing, placing. A year of pretending to be asleep while Holloway carried signs through dark hallways and Bethil slipped bookmarks into library books. A year of hiding in the village to hand over coins for wooden plaques and embroidered fabric, while the old woodcarver and his wife swore they’d take the secret to their graves.
Now, they’re out there. Small wooden signs and embroidered bookmarks, each with a Solmere Quip. The signs are hidden in nooks and crannies throughout the school. The bookmarks have been sewn into books that haven’t been checked out in years. Others are tucked inside the spines, pressed flat. I even slipped a few into the restricted section for the real seekers.
The first was found today – a wooden sign behind the tapestry in the Great Hall. The first-year students found it, and word had spread by dinner.
I suspect it will take years to find all the signs and bookmarks. By then, hopefully others will create Solmere Quips of their own.
I haven’t said a word. And I won’t. Its better this way. This isn’t about getting caught or taking credit. It’s about leaving something behind—a mark that won’t wash away, a laugh that might echo long after I’m gone. Solmere always said the best magic is the kind that leaves people wondering how it was done.
I wonder how long it will take him to find the one I left in his office.
The following are the best:
• Headmaster Solmere doesn’t write in spellbooks. He stares at them until they write themselves out of respect.
• Headmaster Solmere once silenced a banshee with a raised eyebrow.
• A student once cast a spell in class. Headmaster Solmere’s beard counterspelled it while he kept lecturing.
• One time, a wyvern looked Headmaster Solmere in the eye. It’s still apologizing.
• In the library, there’s a restricted section under the restricted section. It’s called the Solmere Shelf. No one talks about the Solmere Shelf.
• It is said that no one built Oathwatch Academy. Rather Headmaster Solmere walked onto the hill and the stone stood up to greet him.
• The last time Headmaster Solmere sneezed, a summoning circle completed itself.
• The stars above the school realign once a year to ask if the Headmaster needs anything.
• Death once had a near-Solmere experience.
• Headmaster Solmere doesn’t take oaths. They ask if they are worthy of him.
• The Headmaster’s idea of “light reading” once broke a table in three places.
• Headmaster Solmere once walked through a warded door without breaking the wards. The door simply apologized and opened.
• Someone tried to hex Headmaster Solmere. He corrected their grammar before the spell finished.
• A rival mage sent Headmaster Solmere a trap disguised as a letter. He returned it with corrections and a footnote on hubris.
• A cursed book once bit Headmaster Solmere. It broke a tooth on his hand and now guards his office.
7263: I Wasn't Wrong ... It's Aware
Selmarday, the 4th of Myrrias
The moon of Veylnis hung fat and bright in the sky, silver light spilling through the windows like a whispered dare. The others were asleep, or at least pretending to be, and the halls were finally empty. Perfect timing.
I slipped out with the salt and candles, the oiled cloth folded tight in my pocket. My hands shook, but only a little. Five weeks of talking to the armor. Five weeks of cleaning it, greeting it, making it used to me. If it was a person, it would know me by now. If it was a spirit, it would know my voice. And if it was nothing but empty metal, then I was just some idiot kid wasting his breath.
But it moved. I know it moved. No one believes me. Not Eva, not the professors. But it moved. And tonight, it was going to talk.
The hall was cold. I kept expecting someone to round the corner and shout my name. No one did.
I drew the circle. Salt, fine and white, my hands steady now. The four-pointed star. Candles at the north and south points, one for what was, one for what will be. The armor at the east. Me at the west. I set the oiled cloth at its feet, a gift. Then the cloth I used to polish it — five weeks of my words rubbed into that metal, a few drops of my blood to bind them. I burned it. Watched the ashes curl and blacken. They smelled like dust and iron.
I sat back on my heels. Took a breath. Chanted the words over and over, old words, words I could barely understand but felt as if I should. Ten minutes, or an hour, or a lifetime. Then I asked, 'What is your name?'
Silence. Not empty. Not loud. Just... waiting. Then a voice. Or maybe more of a thought, a feeling, something between a whisper and a shiver. 'Kallr... Kallruh... Kallur.'
'Kall?' I suggested, the word feeling heavy in the air. The room seemed to hold its breath, and after a moment, the spirit's presence eased — almost like a nod.
My heart was pounding ... I was right. There is something here. 'Why do you move around the school?' I leaned forward, breathless. 'What are you after?'
The silence stretched, and the armor didn’t move. But the air did. Cold. Shifting. And then I felt it — not a word, not a sentence, but a feeling. Disjointed. Fractured. Like someone waking up and not knowing where they are.
Memories. Too many memories. Piling up and sliding over each other. Things that happened centuries ago and things that happened yesterday, all at once.
I waited. I didn’t breathe. But that was all. Just that sense of being lost, being unmoored in time.
I waited until the candles burned low and the ashes cooled. The armor didn’t move. But I think it was still there, watching me.
When I finally stood up, my legs felt like they belonged to someone else. I packed up the salt, the candles, the burnt cloth. But I left the oiled cloth. Maybe it will notice. Maybe it won’t.
But it spoke. It said something. That means I was right. It’s not empty. It’s not nothing.
Now, I just have to figure out what it wants.
=================================================================
Mystday, the 9th of Myrrias,
I told the Headmaster about Kall today.
Five days ago, I made contact. Just me, a circle of chalk, a strip of cloth, and a name. Kall. The spirit in the armor finally answered me. Not a ghost. Not some restless soul. He’s… something else. A spirit of intellect, born from the memories tied to this place. A collection of fragments, glimpses, echoes. He gained sentience only recently, and now he’s here—young, confused, serious as stone, and not quite sure where he is in time.
I went to Solmere this morning and told him everything. How I designed the ritual myself, how Kall spoke, how his memories are all out of order, like pages ripped from a book and scattered to the wind. Solmere listened, hands folded, brow furrowed. For a moment, I thought he’d tell me I was out of my depth, that I was meddling in things I couldn’t possibly understand.
Instead, he nodded.
“Kall,” he said, as if testing the name. “It will take years—maybe decades—to help him sort through it all,” Solmere said. “But if we can, he could be a witness to history—at least to what happened here. And that’s knowledge we can’t afford to lose.”
He looked at me then. "You did well," he said. "This is important."
Hearing that from him meant something.
We spent the next couple of hours going over what could be done to help Kall, and it was clear how much I still have to learn. I don’t know what comes next, but for once, it feels like I’ve done something more than pull a prank or tell a joke. Kall’s still in the armor, still wandering the halls. But now he’s not alone.
7263: Letter Home to Mom
Kaelday, 3rd of Eldrosan
Dear Mom,
You always said I’d have to get serious one day—that the jokes and pranks wouldn’t last forever. But I think I’ve finally figured out why they do. Orren is the leader, always looking out for everyone, trying to set the right example. Eva’s the scholar, always with her nose in a book, always digging for more. Vaelion? He’s the one we can trust to uncover what’s hidden. Bells is the peacemaker, smoothing things over when one of us goes too far. And me? I think I’m here to make them laugh.
Everyone’s so tense all the time, not just my friends. After the whole mess with the Ambassador turning traitor and bringing two students with him, people are looking over their shoulders. I can feel it in the halls. It’s heavy. And that’s why I think my pranks have to change. Less about getting someone who so deserves it. More about lightening hearts, taking the edge off, reminding everyone that it’s okay to breathe.
I even pranked myself. Don’t believe Eva—Merissa didn’t sneak croaking powder into my bone dust in alchemy class. I meant to sound like a frog all day. Really.
But the best prank so far? That one was a complete accident. I was given the assignment to summon an animal, so I decided to go for a hawk. I was in the quad with Eva giving me pointers. I performed the ritual, imagining a squirrel on the bench in front of me as bait for the hawk. Said all the words, opened my eyes—and there was a big, silver-grey squirrel staring right back at me.
So, I checked the ritual, fixed my focus, and tried again. This time, I really threw my will into it. When I finished, I heard gasps. My first thought was, ‘Wow, that must be some hawk.’
Except there was no hawk. The quad was full of squirrels. Everywhere. All staring at me.
What else could I do? I immediately launched into the most epic game of tag this school will see in a hundred years. The little kids joined in right away, shrieking and running around with the squirrels. Then the older kids joined. Even one of the professors. It ended in a full-scale acorn and holly berry fight. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—squirrels have a good arm and deadly aim with an acorn.
Dinner that night was the lightest it’s been in weeks.
I thought for sure the Headmaster would give me a lecture about not taking my studies seriously. Instead, he said I might have found a partner in that first squirrel. So, he took me to the woods and walked me through a summoning and binding ritual.
That’s how I met Bethil.
He’s not really a squirrel—he’s a spirit who takes the form of one, sort of an embodiment of what it means to be a squirrel. I called to him, and he agreed to join me as my familiar. Bethil means ‘birch tree’ in Elven, and with that silver-grey fur, it fits him well.
So, don’t worry about me. I’m doing what I’m meant to do, and making sure my friends and the other students find a reason to laugh once in a while. It’s good for them, the school, and even the kingdom. Ha—never thought I’d say that.
Love, Caelith
Truths Laid Bare
Kealday, 24th of Selmaren, 7262
We told them everything.
Father, Mother, and Mom sat at one end of the hall, and Eva and I stood at the other, like petitioners before a throne. Theodric and Roland were there too, leaning against the wall like they’d rather be anywhere else. But they listened.
We told them how the Ambassador had tried to sacrifice the princess. How he was a member of the Black Thorne cult. How they were planning to shatter the wards that protect the kingdom so the Valtareth Imperium could march in unchallenged.
Eva was calm. Steady. She laid it all out, every detail. I tried to keep my voice from shaking. Tried to sound like someone they would believe.
I watched their faces. Father’s jaw tightened. Mother’s eyes darkened. Mom’s lips pressed thin. Theodric stopped leaning and stood straight. Roland crossed his arms and glared at the floor.
Then we told them the other part—the part about the Fatebound.
We told them that Eva and I took the oath. That we bear the mark now. That Orren, Vaelion, and the others do too. And that we have been tasked with protecting Lyrielle, a fairy in stasis—the last of her kind, as far as we know.
And then we said the thing that was hardest to believe: that everything we were taught about the fairies and dragons was wrong. They didn’t betray the world. They fought for it. They fought and they lost, and now their story is twisted into something monstrous.
told them that if it gets out that we’re protecting a fairy, it could bring danger down on the house. If word of Lyrielle gets out to the wrong people—like the king or queen—we could lose everything. House, name, even our lives.
When we finished, there was silence.
Father was the first to speak. He stood, walked down the length of the hall, and stopped in front of me. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, “We will be ready.”
Then he called for Sir Alden Strathmoor and Steward Ellwick. We went over everything again—what the Ambassador did, how the Black Thorne operates, what we suspect about the wards and the Imperium. The Fatebound and Lyrielle remained family secrets—not out of distrust, but because they are ours to bear, and no one else's. The discussion stretched late into the night, with Father and Theodric pressing for every detail, Sir Alden outlining defensive measures, and Ellwick taking notes on what supplies we had and what we’d need. The room felt heavy with the weight of it, but no one turned away.
They didn’t flinch. None of them did.
That’s what it means to be a Morvain.
Letter to Vaelion : Rags is born
Dear Vaelion and Arya,
You will both be delighted (or horrified) to learn that my legend continues to grow.
The grand Drakemont gathering was this week—the annual festival of strained smiles, subtle threats disguised as compliments, and enough marriage plotting to fill a dozen courtrooms. And naturally, I left my mark.
It began, as all great disasters do, with a dare.
Theodric, driven half-mad by yet another evening of being paraded about like a prize ox, dared me to do *something* to make it bearable. Specifically, he dared me to attend the gathering dressed not in velvet or brocade, but in the humble linens of a street beggar.
And because I am a Morvain—and because a dare is sacred—I had no choice.
I entered the grand hall clad in rags worthy of the finest alleyway. Torn cuffs, threadbare sleeves, patched knees—the whole ensemble. When the first wave of silence hit, I simply adjusted my (imaginary) collar and explained, quite seriously, that I was wearing the latest fashion: *Garbage Chic*, freshly imported from the western provinces. I added that the more discerning houses would catch on within the year.
Orren Von Urkseld was there, of course. He gave a small laugh—somewhere between amusement and resignation. I believe at this point he simply expects chaos whenever I enter a room.
As for my family:
My father, ever the pragmatic one, simply rubbed his forehead and muttered something about "creative spirits." My mother, the Viscountess Rosalind Morvain, kept her composure before the assembled nobility, maintaining a stern mask of disapproval—but when no one was looking, she gave me a wink and a conspiratorial smile.
As for my mom, Lady Sylwen Aerathis, she wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, yes—but not surprised. I caught the exact moment she sighed and glanced skyward, no doubt asking the heavens for patience in raising a son like me.
In short: I regret nothing. (Except, perhaps, missing the chance to add a tattered hat for flair.)
Now, rumor has it that House Drakemont’s court is abuzz with talk of "the wild Morvain boy." I can only hope that when you next see me, it will be with a full entourage of scandalized matrons trailing behind.
Write soon, and tell me you’re causing trouble wherever you are. I’d hate to be the only one holding the standard.
Yours (in questionable fashion),
Caelith Morvain
Months later, Caelith is back: Prank War!
9th of Vaelion, 7254
I have been too focused on unraveling mysteries. Torva and I hardly speak anymore. Even Professor Wynthorne has complimented me on how seriously I’ve been taking my studies. I am in danger of becoming Eva.
Oddly enough, I have been spending more time with Elenna Caerthall. She, too, shares an interest in the Nytherians. Braeden has said nothing about it, but I can feel his eyes on us when we speak. There is tension there, unspoken but heavy.
The worst part is that I’ve grown complacent.
At lunch today, someone slipped a Fool’s Bladder onto my seat. The sound it made when I sat down brought laughter from every corner of the hall. I grinned and tried to ignore it, only to find there was no salt at our table. When I asked around, Dain graciously handed me his—the lid unscrewed. I dumped the entire shaker onto my food without realizing it.
The entire Tarnished Table erupted into laughter. Dain crowed, "Twice! Twice I got you in one day! Who is the prankmaster now?"
I leaned back and smiled. "Is that all you have? Two weak pranks? No creativity, no panache?"
Garric called out, "Oh, you can do better?"
"I can do better," I replied. "I can prank each one of you before the week is out."
The challenge was set. I have a few tricks ready. But if I am to reclaim my rightful title, I need to know exactly who I'm dealing with.
First is Dain Thornehall—the Silver Fox himself—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, and far too used to winning at these games. Then there’s Maelia Quince, who could probably slice me apart with a glance and still claim it was polite conversation. Garric Longmere is a mountain who occasionally smiles, which is terrifying in its own right. Nessa Wyrnel moves and speaks like a queen at court, but I've seen the glint of mischief she thinks no one notices. And Lyle Greaves... poor Lyle. He watches everything and says nothing, scribbling down the world because it’s easier than speaking to it.
Five opponents. Five days.
==========================
10th of Vaelion, 7260 -- Maelia Quince : Operation Stardust
The first day of the challenge, and I think it went well enough. The Fool's Bladder incident and the salt shaker prank by Dain set the tone at lunch—public, simple, childish. It was effective in a loud, messy sort of way, but there was no art to it. No craftsmanship.
After the afternoon meal and a few final adjustments, I set the spring mechanism in Maelia's scroll chest. Eva watched me like I was building a siege engine. During study, Maelia, ever the poised one, triggered it perfectly. The glitter arced through the air like a spell gone wild. The hall went silent before the first ripple of laughter. Even Garric smiled. Maelia, of course, maintained perfect composure as she withdrew.
Now, sitting here after dinner, I can still see the way the dust caught the lamplight. Her hair will glitter for a full week. I wonder if this will become a fashion statement.
Tomorrow is Garric's turn. Something bigger, something visible. He’s a stone—it will take more than glitter to make him shift.
Five pranks in five days. One down.
==========================
11th of Vaelion, 7260 – Garric Longmere : Operation Golem Giggle
It’s like trying to prank a mountain. A very polite, extremely heavy mountain. I knew glitter wouldn't work—not for him. Garric needed something bigger. More public. Less subtle.
Eva and I spent the early morning sneaking into the bathhouse. Replacing his soap with a bar of Eva's formula took less time than suppressing our laughter afterward.
The moment Garric lathered up, the soap erupted into thick, unrelenting foam. No matter how much he scrubbed or rinsed, the bubbles only multiplied, coating him from head to toe in fragrant froth. He finally gave up, wiped himself down with a towel, and dressed — but the soap's curse lingered. Whenever he moved or sweated, bubbles began to form again — small at first, then gathering into visible clusters.
By the time he entered the main hall for lunch, every student had already heard about "the Bubble Knight," and the thick scent of roses and jasmine announced his arrival long before he crossed the threshold.
The moment of silence before the first laugh—that’s when you know a prank has landed.
Garric didn't frown. Didn't rage. He just looked at me—no anger, just that slow, implacable grin—and says "Tell your sister that was good work." Something about the way he said it made me wonder if he was interested in her. I'm still not sure if that's a good thing or a very, very bad thing.
Tomorrow is Nessa's turn. She's a harder mark. Graceful, composed, and a mind like a steel trap. It'll have to be layered—something that strikes not just at her appearance, but her precious composure.
Two days down. Three to go.
==========================
12th of Vaelion, 7260 – Nessa Wyrnel : Operation Velevet Croak
Third day. Nessa Wyrnel. Everything about her says control: her words, her walk, the tilt of her chin. I knew subtlety alone wouldn't break through. She needed something that would tangle her own perfection against her.
I prepared the salt candies myself the night before, taking extra care to mask the bitterness and set the stage for the real trap with Maelia.
Over breakfast, I intentionally acted clumsy as I offered Nessa a salted plum as a "treat," hoping to distract her and make her believe she had spotted the prank early. She, ever suspicious, took a delicate nibble and gave me a cool look, telling me I'd have to do better than that. But when Maelia, all grace and innocence, offered her a cup of "soothing" tea to wash away the salt, Nessa took it without a second thought. That was the real trap, and it closed perfectly.
Her voice—it was something else entirely. High, sharp, and squeaky, more like a mouse than a songbird, and completely at odds with her measured, careful words. Watching her try to maintain her usual elegant diction while sounding like a character from a children's puppet show was a masterpiece of restrained hilarity.
Three pranks complete. Two more remain.
Tomorrow is Lyle Greaves’ turn. And for Lyle… I think it's time to be a little kinder with the chaos.
==========================
13th of Vaelion, 7260 – Lyle Greaves : Operation Quilltongue
Lyle writes because he struggles to speak. Not out of fear, exactly, but out of a carefulness that most don't even notice. It seemed cruel to target that—but it also seemed crueler to pretend he didn't want to be heard.
I used my old rune project from last month, the "scribe's quill," which originally only wrote without ink. With the help of a bored upperclassman, I altered it so that it would not only write but also speak aloud everything it transcribed. To make the switch unnoticed, I enlisted Fanya and Ryska—Elowel's older sisters—to distract Lyle. Their flattery and attention nearly caused him to melt, giving me the perfect opportunity to slip the modified quill into his bag unnoticed.
When he started writing and the quill began to speak his thoughts aloud, the room first went silent, then leaned in—some amused, some curious, but no one laughing. Especially when Seris’s name floated in the air. Lyle had written, "Seris has the brightest smile I've ever seen. If I could, I'd ask her to walk by the lake with me." The look she gave him wasn't pity—it was genuine interest. I hadn't expected that. Maybe, just maybe, this prank would turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.
Tomorrow is Dain’s turn. The Silver Fox. No tricks of hands or enchantments this time.
For him, the mind alone must win.
Four down. One to go.
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14th of Vaelion, 7260 – Dain Thornehall : Operation Hawkeye
The final day. By now, Dain was a wreck—worn thin by rumors, fake traps, whispered warnings. Every prank he imagined was worse than anything I could have planned. It was like winding a spring tighter and tighter, waiting for it to snap.
Over the week, the other students helped more than they realized. Eva dropped hints "by accident." Matilda gave ominous warnings. Even Lyle, bless him, looked guilty whenever Dain entered a room.
When someone joked that "the boathouse is safe," I saw the idea spark behind Dain's exhausted eyes. I just made sure the boat ropes were untied before sunrise. That night, Dain fell asleep in one of the skiffs—and by dawn, the boat had drifted out into the middle of the lake. He woke up adrift, without an oar, and had to jump into the cold water and swim back to shore, dragging the skiff behind him the whole way.
No spells. No traps. Just fear, imagination, and a long, wet walk of shame across the lawn.
Seeing him walk in to the main hall dripping wet was a victory sweeter than any glitter explosion or enchanted quill.
Five days. Five pranks.
The Tarnish Table may rule the academy today, but one day, it’ll be my turn.
Caelith seeks help during Veils End
28th of Selmaren, 7253 - Celebration of Veil’s End
I spoke with Father today. I asked—without asking—if there are times when it is right to set aside our promises, even when we believe in them. He gave me the answer I already knew: it is easy to honor your word when it costs you nothing. It is when the weight threatens to break you that honor matters most.
How could I tell him what truly troubles me? He would think I cannot keep faith with my friends. That I cannot carry a secret.
So, instead, I spoke to Roland. I asked him about knighthood—about the oath he swore when he was knighted. His oath seemed simpler than the one the Fatebound demanded. He swore to our family. To something known, something trusted.
When he pressed me for why I asked, I made up something about Orren and a fictional group, the Shieldbound. Orren founded the order himself, and he has been recruiting others to join him. He is serious about it—serious, brave, and so certain of his path. I told him I was wondering if I should join as well. I think Roland was proud of me for asking. Perhaps he thought I would never take anything seriously.
I told him that if he escorts Eva and me back to school, he will likely meet Orren on the road. Perhaps I should send Orren a letter—so he is not caught unprepared if Roland questions him.
Now, I sit alone in the family graveyard. The sky is cold. The stones are colder.
They say the veil between the living and the dead is thin on Veil’s End. So, I tried to summon Grandfather tonight. Surely it wouldn't be breaking my word if I told my dead grandfather and asked for advice.
No one answered.
I am cold. I am out of ideas.
One week after finding the room
22nd of Orwynne, 7253
That night, I was proud of what we had done. We pieced together the clues, opened the hidden door, and stepped into a world forgotten by history. Then we found the Nytherian spirit, still standing guard after all these centuries, and spoke with him. He led us to the fairie held in magical stasis. We did not falter. We did not flee. We walked forward boldly, carving our names—however small—into the long memory of the world.
Now that the dust has settled, I find myself asking a harder question: What were we thinking? Did we think at all?
Orren and the others swore the oath and joined the Fatebound, but how much did we truly understand? We know so little of the Fatebound's history. Less still about Lyrelle, or the fairies, or the sins that nearly ended the world. Did they not once try to summon that devouring shadow—Yoth-zith—into our world? Why, then, do we now guard one of their kind?
Someone guided us—guided me—to open that door. Someone who knew what was hidden below. But who? And why? Was it simply to bring Lyrelle back into the open? Were they unwilling—or unable—to join the Fatebound themselves? Their standards cannot be so high if they welcomed a handful of reckless students on little more than a whim.
Why did I not think to ask the guardian if others had come before us? Whoever sent that letter must have known how to find the door—surely they would have gone down themselves, if they could. No one uncovers such a secret only to leave it untouched.
Whoever they are, they seek to use us for something. But is it a purpose to be proud of... or a warning we were too blind to see?
Father always said being a Morvain meant honor, loyalty, and courage. We speak no promises we will not keep, we stand beside our allies, and we do not retreat. I have always repeated those words easily, proudly—as if they were a shield I could wear without cost. But tonight, they weigh heavier than iron.
We have stepped into something vast, something old, something that may shake the world to its bones. For the first time in my life, I understand that courage is not the absence of fear. It is standing firm even when every part of you wants to run.
I need counsel. I need guidance.
But I gave my word to keep the secret. I cannot break it.
So I walk forward, blind, and afraid—hoping that will be enough.?
Session 2 : Secrets and Delving
Sharing the letter with the group (our room and the girls room). I thought the runes were draconic, but others pointed out they were Nytherion. The words to speak are Draconic though.
Since the Nytherion kingdom failed and the Nytherions were killed fighting the Cult of Yth'Zarith. They created the ritual that bound Yth'Zarith.
So, what is the name we need to type? I couldn't think of any names .... Torva was all I could think of. Vaelon thought it could have been Zorithis, the last dragon. The Harbinger of Ruin. She was alive back then.
Cora thought of Maligar, who lead a group to stop cultists who were trying to break the veil binding. Since the dragons had taken part in the cult, this led to a purge of dragons and fairies. Maligar was in the year 3281 ... 7256 current date, so this was 4000 years ago. Initial veil binding was in year 0.
Lyrelle: The name of a fairie from the books ... The old lady in the village knew some stories. Lyrelle was like a royal knight for their nobility. She was a guardian and she was alive during the Nytheris Illithar reign. Faeries died from violence or when they suffered from Ennui. Could there be a faerie down there? Would that be good or bad? I don't know.
The wise woman in the village has a Nytherion necklace. She might be a good source for which name to use.
Professor Halric Dunmere wants us to work a group project on anything in modern history, or ancient if we wish. He suggests we look at some Nytherion ruins and maybe write a paper. He did say we should be careful in the ruins. I replied that "He doesn't want us to get hurt, because he is A FRIEND." He agreed ... though not quite sure what he was agreeing to. I think he is a good liar. Caelith has completely convinced himself that Dunmere is the friend. It must be him.
Elowel believes that Maligar doesnt work as the possible name. But everyone agreed that my translations were accurate.
Opened the wall, showed a spiral staircase .... I was first. Way down below the fortress is a room with alcoves with murals. Caelith takes detailed notes on the murals. Orren and Vaelen lifted the rock that had fallen from the wall. It had Dragons and Faeries and Fae gathered around a beam of light going up into the sky. They were facing against shadowy figures which could be the army of the enemy.
Found an archway, when I threw a rock thru it, runes lit up on the floor and a ghostly figure rose up from the floor. The figure is a Fae (Nytherion). He said something to us in Nytherion language. He seems to be frustrated we didn't know it. We entered the room and it asked a spell to help translate. He us a guardian and doesn't remember his own name. He is here to guard the knowledge that was down here, but most is gone. He was asked recently to guard something else.
He asked us to show the back of our right hand. There is a mark he was hoping we had a mark. It shows that someone has taken an oath of the fatebound. The spirit can not perform the oath. He could turn over the item if we did.
Who can administer the oath? Other spirits who had the correct Nobility. The fatebound were knights of a higher cause. They would gather when needed. An oath is given and they receive a mark on the back of the right hands. The fatebound could hide the mark if they wish.
Who asked him to guard the item? He knows, but won't tell us.
It is possible we are early?
The oath is "Upon the path of twilight, I set my steps. Under veiled stars and the silent watch of time. I swear to seek what is hidden. To unearth truths long buried, to stand where others have fallen. I am bound not by crown nor coin, but by duty. My mind is my lantern, my resolve is my shield. My hands shall mend where others destroy. My voice shall challenge the silence. My blade shall break the chains of falsehood. The darkness shall not endure as long as one heart holds the light. The lost shall not be forgotten so long as one voice speaks their name. The world shall not fall to ruin, so long as one soul stands against the tide. This is my oath, unyielding as the stars. Ennduring as the world. Unbroken till truth is known and the last shadow fades."
A scroll appeared on a shelf behind the spirit and smiles. He said "I guess I can administer the oath." He then opens a door inset in the wall. What was behind it? A crystaline orb with something inside it ... a red headed fairy. See the party handouts.
Those that have taken the oath can open and close the alcove, so we placed the scroll and the Fairy Snowglobe in the alcove. We intend to keep it there until we can find a good place to keep it up with us.
We then raided the restricted section and non-restricted sections to find any reference to Lyrelle and the Fatebound. If we can find a reason to talk about them that doesn't point to the stuff below the library, we will then ask the Headmaster about it.
Then off to bed ... after closing the door to the ruins below the library. We will clean up after ourselves to make sure that there is no evidence we were down there.
Found a book in the restricted section that mentions the fatebound. It is a book, an anthology of stories about heros and heroic groups from the Nytheris Illuthar. It refers to the fatebound as groups that are sworn in when needed.
Letter from Oathwatch Academy to Parents of Caelith Morvain
To Whom It May Concern
(penned in precise, flowing script, on parchment marked with the royal seal and a faint scent of inkroot oil)
Regarding: Caelith Morvain
The boy is—how to phrase it—active.
Over the past several months, he has:
- Been caught twice in the restricted section of the library; I strongly suspect he has entered more often without detection
- Been discovered attempting to “excavate” the western interior wall of the library using a candlestick, a serving spoon, and a hand-drawn map of allegedly hidden passages
- Moved an entire suit of armor from the east hall to the bell tower landing (still unsure how)
- Circulated a rumor of a “Vault of Eldrimor” beneath the school, prompting three first-years to initiate excavation.
- Left an anonymous note in my teacup praising “my commanding presence” and “wizardly cheekbones”
He is not unruly, not in the traditional sense. He is polite, even charming. He performs well in early theory and retains information with unsettling speed. But he is a storm in slow motion. Whether that storm clears the skies or topples the tower remains to be seen.
I will continue to observe.
I suspect it would be unwise to underestimate him.
—Vaelin Solmere
Archmage of the Royal Circle
Headmaster, Oathwatch Academy
Eva's Letter Home to Mother Rosalind Morvain
Dearest Mother,
(written with her usual neat script, the ink slightly heavier in the more serious parts)
I’m sure Caelith has already written to you—probably with some wild theory about treasure beneath the school or secret passageways behind the fireplace. Don’t worry, he’s still very much alive, and very much himself.
The school is… incredible. I love it here, truly. The lectures are challenging, the professors are brilliant—especially the Dean. I know Caelith keeps trying to prank him (I’ve given up trying to stop him), but the Dean is far more patient than I expected. Maybe he sees potential in Caelith. Maybe he’s building a case for permanent kitchen duty. Hard to tell.
I did want to speak to you about something more serious. One of Caelith’s roommates is Braedon Caerthall. You may recognize the name—he’s the son of the man who killed Father. Braedon doesn’t know who I am, and Caelith has been very careful not to let it slip. I’m… grateful for that. It’s not easy, seeing that name every day. Even if he isn’t to blame.
What’s strange—what hurts in an odd way—is that Braedon is doing the same thing I’m trying not to do. He’s angry. He’s trying to take it out on a girl whose father killed his father. The irony is exhausting. Caelith, in his Caelith way, is trying to help. He’s making jokes, pointing things out without really pointing them out. He’s trying to help me see how grief, left alone too long, starts to fester.
He’s not wrong.
I’m trying. I don’t know what forgiveness looks like yet, but I don’t want to carry this anger for the rest of my life. I see what it’s doing to Braedon. I don’t want that to be me.
Caelith drives me mad most days, but he’s also right more often than I like to admit. Maybe he’s not just good at finding secret doors. Maybe he’s good at opening them, too.
Love,
Eva
P.S. I am still pretending not to believe in the Vault of Eldrimor.
P.P.S. But if he finds it, I’ll be the first one through the door.
Caelith's Letter Home to Step-Mother Rosalind Morvain
To Mother,
(there’s a doodle of the castle at the top—complete with exaggerated towers, a smiling sun, and a tunnel labeled “??? secret maybe”)
Dear Mother,
You would love this place. It’s massive and half-finished and drafty in the best possible way. They say the school used to be a fortress—and I believe it. There are staircases that go nowhere and a suit of armor that keeps showing up in different hallways. No one admits to moving it. That’s probably fine.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the library. There’s a west wall that echoes too much when you knock on it—like there’s a hollow space behind it. I may have found a way into the restricted section after lights out (Eva doesn’t approve, naturally), and I may have found half-burned castle blueprints with a chunk missing right where the “weird echo wall” is. Coincidence? I think not.
Also—get this—the headmaster chose this place. He’s the King’s Royal Wizard, you know, and he’s obsessed with Nytheris Iluthar. Everyone’s whispering that this school sits on top of actual Nytherian ruins. Eva calls it superstition. I call it destiny. (She did sneak a peek at one of his old journals though. Just saying.)
Anyway, I might’ve let it slip to a few classmates that there’s treasure buried beneath the school. And by “let it slip” I mean “enthusiastically described in great detail.” Now they’re calling it “The Vault of Eldrimor.” Oops.
Eva's fine. She's pretending she’s above it all, but I catch her smiling when I get in trouble. She says I’ll end up permanently assigned to kitchen duty. Joke’s on her—I already know how to burn soup.
Love to everyone,
Caelith the Bold
(Secret Tunnel Investigator and Founding Member of the Secret Society for the Discovery of Secret Stuff)
P.S.
Tell Mom that Eva’s making very sure I’m studying. She acts like a second professor and keeps quizzing me on spell forms during breakfast. Magic class is fun, but I think I might like swordship even more. Captain Lysara Vexmere teaches it—she’s incredible. The way she swings a sword... it’s like dancing, but with more yelling. Half the boys signed up after watching her once. Totally unrelated, of course.
Session 1: First Day of School
Ancient History questions:
How did Yoth Sirith convince the Dragons & Fairies to join his side if he could not corrupt magic?
Are there any Dragons or Fairies left in the world in hiding?
Braedon is going to be a problem. He is holding a serious grudge over his father's death. He is looking to take out his anger on the Duskbane daughter. We need to help him get past this.
I worry that Evangeline is feeling the same way about him, as his family killed her father.
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