Legend XXIII – The Seer of Vareth

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In the city of Vareth, where the alleys smell of cold smoke in winter and the towers blur in the mist, stands a house with no windows facing east. It is said that whoever enters it leaves changed—or never leaves at all. In this house lives Elyra, the Seer of Vareth, a woman with eyes in which past and future meet like two mirrors. She wasn't always a witch. Once, she was a scribe in the archives of the High Hall, where she copied the ancient chronicles of the kings. But one night, a page fell into her hands that should never have existed: The Page of the Three Paths. On it was written a prophecy, the ink made of the blood of a star. She read it—and in that moment, she saw everything: the births and deaths, the burning cities, the endless cycle of return. Her mind shattered, but from the shards, something else arose. Something that saw where no eye could see. Since then, she has lived alone in her house of shadows and dust, between shelves full of books whose words move at night. No one knows where she got her cards—the ones she lays on the table to read fate. Some say she cut them herself from the skin of forgotten angels; others believe they are gifts from time itself. Each card bears an image: the Tower of Silence, the Wheel of Ashes, the Child Without a Shadow. When someone enters her house, Elyra welcomes them not with words, but with silence. Then she lights twelve candles, each for one of the twelve voices of the future, and begins laying out the cards. Her hands move as if dancing—precise, inescapable. Whoever sits before her sees in her gaze the end of their own path, but Elyra never says it. She only interprets, shows, hints. For the future, she says, belongs to no one who knows it. Once, so the story goes, a king came to her, robed and crowned, but with the heart of a child. He wanted to know if his kingdom would last forever. Elyra laid down three cards: The Crown of Salt, The Tree of Fire, The Empty Cradle. The king did not understand, but she only smiled—and as he left, rain fell from a clear sky, soaking the pavement in silver. Three moons later, his city burned. Since that time, her name has been feared. And yet, night after night, the desperate, the lovers, the guilty come. They bring offerings—ink, blood, memories—and ask for a glimpse into what may come. Elyra hears, but she does not always answer. Some are allowed to see, others must forget. It is said that when the last card is laid down, all the candles go out, and only the asker's heart beats on—once, twice, thrice—before silence reigns. Whoever wakes up afterward is never the same. For Elyra does not read cards. She reads people. And sometimes, when the candlelight dances across her face, you catch a fleeting glimpse in her eyes—as if reflecting a sky no one else has ever seen.