Master of the House of Whispers.
No one knows the true name of the Master of Whispers. “Siran” is not a given name, but a title — inherited, assumed, and worn like a mask. To speak it is to acknowledge that you will never know more.
And that is precisely how they prefer it.
Siran Dravenor is a shadow wrapped in silk, a presence that unsettles without ever raising a hand. Their skin gleams like twilight given form — a deep violet shimmer that seems to shift with the light. Their voice is soft, patient, and impossible to forget. To meet their eyes is to wonder how much they already know — and how long they’ve known it.
No one recalls when Siran first took their seat at The Evergild Council table. Some swear they were there during the last war. Others insist they’ve changed faces a dozen times. The truth, if it matters, is carefully buried beneath illusion, misdirection, and very deliberate silences.
They speak rarely in council chambers, but when they do, their words arrive already sharpened — less opinion than verdict. Siran does not argue. They unveil. And those unveiled rarely recover.
Within House Dravenor, their word is law. Beyond it, their influence is rumour and nightmare. Debts settle at their feet. Alliances shift with their nod. History itself has bent beneath their hand, and never once noticed it was being written.
What they want, few can say. But when the lights dim, and the doors close, and the council dares to breathe… it is always with the question:
Is Siran listening?
