Long before The Evergild Fae gilded crowns and councils — before even the name Esmarion was spoken — they had another home, one untouched by greed, nestled in a glade the world had not yet named. Its true name, shaped in the first language of the land, is now lost — unspeakable, untranslatable, remembered only by wind and water.
In the days of Esmarion, the forest was known as Sylvessaire (sill-vess-AIR) — “Sanctuary of the Living Wood.” A place of reflection, of sacred power, and of harmony between magic and root. It was said the trees ruled there, not the fae — their slow, deep wisdom shaping the glade’s rhythm in ways no court or crown ever could. But as the Evergild rose and Esmarion was renamed to Gildraen (From Esmarion to Gildraen), so too did the names of places change. The forest became Vaevessaire (vay-veh-SAIR) — a softened, stylised echo of what came before. Vae, evoking both “fae” and “vain,” and vessaire, a memory of Sylvessaire’s old grace. Some say it was the nobles who named it so, others that the land whispered the name itself in mourning.
When the Evergild tried to reclaim this place — to raise it in their image — Vaevessaire resisted. Foundations cracked. Magic recoiled. Even their signature shimmer faded in its reflection. It was this rejection, some say, that led them to build Lindral Citadel— forged not from moss and memory, but from order, brilliance, and stone. Vaevessaire had refused to become the heart of their empire. So they built another, one that would obey.
Still, the memory lingered.
One quiet branch of the Avenloré line — lovers of history, not politics — returned later, not to conquer, but to remember. They built a cottage with moss-soft walls and windows wide to the trees. It was a place to read, to reflect, to breathe. Some say the land welcomed them — not because of their blood, but because they came not to take, but to listen.
In time, others followed.
A village formed around the cottage, delicate as lichen at first — scholars, herbalists, artists, and wanderers drawn to the echo of a purer past. Among them were lesser relatives of the Evergild who no longer wished to walk the halls of power, Lesser Fae who had slipped from the grip of the The Evergild Council, and Humans and other beings who had heard whispers of a place untouched by dominion. It was not perfect — nothing ever is — but it was real. They built with respect for the land, weaving their homes between trees and meadows rather than over them.
Though not technically beyond the reach of the Council, the village was protected by the quiet but firm presence of the Avenloré branch who had first returned. This shield of legacy allowed Vaevessaire to remain a place of soft defiance and slow wonder.
And then, as so often happens, another Avenloré sought to make it more. What began as a simple expansion — an extra room here, a guest chamber there — soon grew. Wings were built to house visiting relatives, then more to accommodate their extended stays. As seasons turned, the gatherings grew, and with them, the desire for elegance. A ballroom was constructed, its windows arched and wide to let in the green-gold light of the forest beyond. Musicians were invited. Dances were held. What had once been a quiet cottage grew into a small palace of books, balconies, and murmured music.
In time, the eyes of Lindral turned toward Vaevessaire. Whispers of its beauty reached the marbled halls of the capital, and nobles — Evergild and otherwise — began to visit, drawn by the rumour of untouched grace. The palace’s midsummer and winter balls soon became a cherished part of the social season, known not for their extravagance, but for their strange, enchanted elegance — a place where the old ways stirred beneath the silk and song, and for one shimmering evening, even the most gilded could feel something wilder waking beneath their feet.
With this expansion came need. Cooks and caretakers were drawn from the village. Gardeners tended the hedges that framed the wild. Seamstresses mended silk under candlelight, while archivists dusted scrolls in sunlit alcoves. For a time, the palace and village moved as one — not in hierarchy, but in harmony.
But balance is delicate.
What began as a shared rhythm slowly shifted. The palace grounds crept outward, ivy-trimmed walls pressing into once communal spaces. Well-to-do visitors, charmed by Vaevessaire’s allure, began to settle. Homes were built — grander than the cottages, finer than the glade had ever known. Businesses opened to cater to the elite. The original villagers, who had once come seeking freedom and quiet, found themselves pressed toward the margins.
It seemed so gradual, so natural, that few realised it was happening at all. The shift from harmony to hierarchy crept in like ivy through cracked stone. When the mill closed, or the herb garden no longer needed tending — when the children of craftspeople found no commissions to fulfil — the promise of stable pay and warm food within palace walls felt like a fair price. Soon, they became the help. Seamstresses became maids. Gardeners answered bells instead of birdsong. The children of those who once fled servitude found themselves in livery once more, pressed into the very roles they had hoped to leave behind.
Though it had never been built to rule, Vaevessaire was no longer a quiet refuge. As the palace and town grew in splendour and reputation, the main branch of the Avenloré family took notice — and eventually, took control. What had begun as the retreat of a quieter lineage was folded back into the domain of the House of Scholars.
Today, the palace belongs to the head of House Avenloré, though it is viewed more as a part-time residence — a place for ceremony, reflection, or retreat, rather than governance. Their duties keep them bound to The Library and the council halls of Lindral Citadel. Still, Vaevessaire is never empty. Distant relatives dwell there year-round: cousins and kin too minor for politics but too noble to fade entirely, curating the halls and gardens, hosting events, and guarding its legacy — or what remains of it.
The palace has no single name. Formally, it is called the Palace of Vaevessaire. But to many — especially those who grew up nearby — it will always be the Cottage. Some say it with irony, a knowing wink at its sprawling halls and gilded galleries. Others say it softly, with a kind of inherited affection. Among the Evergild, calling it “the Cottage” is fashionable, a way to pretend the grandeur hasn’t overtaken it. Guests don soft linen cloaks and sip tea in flower-ringed courtyards, murmuring about the ‘wild quiet’ as servants tend the roses just beyond the hedgerows.
But for some, the name is more than an affectation. It is a story. A memory. A way of saying: we remember. We remember the moss-soft walls, the first fire in the hearth, the books stacked in corners. We remember when this place listened back.
Every stone had once been laid to honour the past. Every corridor once whispered of what came before. But remembrance, too, can be rewritten.
And beauty built by ambition walks a fine line. The gardens grew more elaborate. The rooms multiplied. The halls began to mirror the palaces of Gildraen.
And though it still looks like a sanctuary, Vaevessaire remembers what it once was. The ground still shifts under too-heavy footsteps. Wildflowers sometimes grow in patterns no gardener recalls planting. And the mirror-lakes still reflect more than what stands above them.
Though it is common to say “blessed Vaevessaire,” some whisper it is not blessed at all — but cursed, and waiting. Waiting for the day the trees take back what was once theirs.