Itoro swung her massive brush through the air, scattering droplets of ink around her before striking the ground with force. The black liquid traced shapes on the stone, seeped into the cracks, stained the cobblestones, and from these obsidian strokes sprang countless soot sparrows. They flapped their wings—pulsing masses of dark pigment—before flying off into the distance, each carrying a message, a summons. The calligrapher watched the birds' languid flight until they became tiny dark specks lost in the vast sky. She shook her brush one last time to clear the remaining residue, then sheathed it.
‘Do you think they will answer the call?’ Itoro turned to Esmeralda, who had joined her on the narrow ledge. The Eidolon gazed towards the horizon, her eyes clouded with uncertainty. The Inkcaster sighed deeply.
‘They will go where the Wind carries them. But I think most of them will.’
‘I hope so’, confessed the Clan Shepherdess.
They were the first among the nine Lyra Clans to elect an Eidolon as the head of their Saraband, and the nine Matriarchs of the Faction had not appreciated this break from tradition. Only a mortal could become the vessel of their voice, they had declared. Faced with their wrath, the tribe elders had remained steadfast when asked to reconsider, convinced Esmeralda was the one to lead the caravan for the Clan's good.
In the face of this obstinacy, the Nine Sisters had no choice but to exile them, a dishonor they had to endure forever.
From where they stood, they could have taken in all the splendor of Arkaster, admired its lake districts or the bustling merchant port. But the city, nestled within the lagoon, was shrouded in the first fogs of the Season of Mist. Like a blanket, the clouds hid much of the capital. Only the Asterion Palace, perched on a protrusion of the island of Kuna, pierced the veiled cover.
Across the fjord, the rows of the Foundry’s wind turbines droned lazily, their blades spinning above the clouds. Itoro watched them pivot for a moment before turning her eyes to the distant, shimmering sandy expanses of the Muir Concordia, visible here and there through breaks in the clouds.
‘Our Sahanka has become unrecognizable’, the Inkcaster remarked offhandedly.
Esmeralda also turned towards the Ouroboros, the gargantuan flying fortress seemingly resting on the sea of mist like a Titan from another age. The Axiom's makers had worked on its hull to protect it from the Tumult, making it a mobile outpost for the exploration forces. The Sahanka, which had been their home for centuries, now had the air of a flagship under their guidance.
Admiral Temera Singh had taken residence within the Ouroboros, along with her staff. The Clan had been forced to build numerous other barracks to accommodate them. Fortunately, they were not asked—thankfully— to touch the casino, taverns, and entertainment halls of the flying Kasirga city. Surely, this was to maintain the troops' morale once far from Asgartha.
Their Sahanka was almost deserted now. All the Lyra had scattered with the Wind while the work was completed. But she did not resent them. It was in the Kasirga Clan's nature to drift, like seeds carried by gusts of wind.
Some had settled in the Ruzzante district, passing the time in taverns or performing in the capital's theaters. Others had tried their luck further afield, in other cities of the Peninsula or had isolated themselves in bucolic chalets. In a way, she understood them. Soon, they would leave Asgartha behind. They needed to capture the memory of their home one last time...
The Ouroboros' ring spun on itself, with a slight vertical tilt. A serpent trying to bite its tail, much like her own thoughts...
‘Do you blame me?’ the Eidolon asked with a hint of guilt.
‘Why would I? The elders spoke. They appointed you to lead our Saraband, even if I don't understand the choice. You are our Shepherdess. You lead, and we follow. There's no more to say.’
Esmeralda remained silent.
‘I wish I could share your unconcern...’
Itoro shrugged, looking at her ink-stained hands.
‘But it was my decision to join the Expeditionary Corps’, the Eidolon continued. ‘It was my decision to offer the Ouroboros to the common effort. Not the elders’.’
‘And it's not my place to judge you. The Wind takes us where it wishes. It has decided to lead us into the unknown through you, so be it.’
Esmeralda allowed herself a faint smile.
‘If only everyone shared your view.’
‘You are the Shepherdess now. You must also endure the complaints and quarrels.
The Eidolon began to walk towards her mount, her earrings tinkling in the breeze, and Itoro followed. They walked along the outer wall of the Tamrat Quadrant, to the tree where Esmeralda had tied her giant goat. The calligrapher stroked Djali's thick fur, pressing her forehead against the animal's neck, which bleated in contentment. ‘Are we going back to Haven?’
Esmeralda turned to her, her thick brown hair swept by the wind. She thought of the warm hearths of the Bravos Bastion, the limestone caverns where part of the Clan had found refuge.
‘Do you have another suggestion?’
Across the Nishaanfjord, the Acus peak was covered in snow. At its base, the Wright Altiport hosted four airships ready to take off during the day.
‘There's a lake up in the Kemeri heights. I would like to paint it.’
‘The Ayna.’
Itoro nodded.
‘I want to take images of what we leave behind.’
‘Then let's go.’
Esmeralda deftly mounted her saddle and extended a calloused hand to the Inkcaster. Itoro grasped it and climbed behind her without hesitation. Despite their weight, Djali began to move slowly across the grassy, wind-swept heights. The northern breeze had picked up, to their great delight.
Itoro wiped her ink-stained palms.
‘And what do you think of our Exalts? Fen, Auraq, and... what is her name again?’
‘Nevenka.’
‘Yes, Nevenka.’
‘Well... Fen goes with the Wind, but you already know that. Auraq is a maverick seeking attention and fame. Nevenka is, from what I've heard, a troublemaker capable of the best and the worst. I've heard she was banished from her Clan.’
Itoro raised her eyebrows.
‘You’re being honest, I see. Which one, out of curiosity?’
Esme allowed herself a smile.
‘I have responsibilities now.’
The Inkcaster chuckled.
‘Rumor has it she was chased from Mist by its Shepherd’, the Eidolon clarified.
‘Ah, the Ossonoya Clan. Fond of secrets, as usual.’
Esmeralda remained silent for a moment, watching the clouds break on the Acus ridge. She, too, had secrets full in her satchel. And who were they to judge the young defector? They, too, had been banished.
‘Still, I trust them. Our nature is linked to wandering. And the roaming that come with it, of course. But the Wind has always pushed us in the right direction. That won't change anytime soon.’
‘I suppose.’
‘The Wind will push the other Lyra Clans to follow us, I'm certain. Other Exalts, rare as they are, will join us, even if we're not currently in good standing.’ Itoro simply shrugged.
‘Maybe.’
Their banishment had sounded like a thunderclap. Even now, Esme didn't know if she had reacted correctly by accepting this condemnation without protest. It meant forcing her entire Clan into exile. But at the same time, this forced expulsion opened up so many possibilities... She had spoken to her people, revealing a wild hope: to find the Lost Tribe of the Tumult Nomads. With any luck, they would accept them into their fold, this time with the world as their playground instead of a closed Peninsula. The Eidolon refused to reveal to Itoro—or anyone, for that matter—what she suspected deep down. Amahle Kalu, pariah among the Eidolons, had gradually regained some influence. It was clear he had convinced the Clan elders to vote for her as Shepherdess. But to what end? It was as if... as if they wanted to voluntarily detach themselves from the Matriarchs' influence.
‘Hold on.’
The Inkcaster clung to her as the goat began to descend the slope.
They quickly crossed the dizzying bridge spanning the Nishaanfjord. At a breakneck pace, Djali climbed the steep heights of Kemeri, adopting the appearance of an ibex for the occasion. They sped like the wind, leaving behind the craggy ravines of the Kerf Canal. The goat leapt from rock to rock, its hooves dislodging clumps of earth with each bound.
But Itoro's grip gradually loosened as it slowed its pace.
Before them, a body of water appeared between the soft rocks: the Ayna, the high-altitude lake overlooking the capital... Djali bleated, stamping the ground with her hooves. Their mount had decided she had carried them far enough for her liking. As the goat began to graze nonchalantly, the Eidolon and the Inkcaster slid to the ground.
The lake resembled a mirror reflecting the sky. Just like thoughts...
Esme knew that its waters irrigated the whimsical gardens of the Kadigir, as well as the tireless watermills of the Axiom. In the distance, she could also see the heights of the Yeni Isle, where Haven, the Bravos Bastion, sprawled.
Itoro settled on the grassy ground and unfurled a scroll of paper. She retrieved her brush and, with some Alteration, summoned ink as black as coal. With precise movements, she began to paint her elaborate print, and Esmeralda watched her without daring to disturb her.
The Eidolon began to think of Cayrat. The former Caravan Shepherd had been respected by all. Over a lifetime, they had loved each other. She had seen him grow and become an idealistic man, always keeping his feet on the ground. He courted her, despite their different natures—he a mortal, she a simple Eidolon in his reality. Whenever he could, he called to her, speaking of his dreams, his aspirations. He had set his mind on finding Mnemosyne, the mother of the Muses. Only she could hold the memory of the world, shed light on all that humanity had forgotten... Esme loved to listen to him speak so. And with time, they began an affair, as had been the case at the dawn of the world...
But time continued to work its way. Age had marked his face, lines around his eyes at first, then deeper lines on his forehead... His hair and beard had gradually turned white. She was there when he took his last breath, holding his hand as she felt his strength wane... She was there on the other side when his soul joined the dark shores, to finally welcome him into the realm of memories and dreams.
But now, time was running out for him.
His image would wither, and nothingness would eventually prevail. The memory of humanity was what allowed beings to endure in the world of imagination... Forgetfulness, on the other hand, caused them to fade and disappear. For Cayrat to withstand the march of time, his memory had to persist in the world. But he was just a simple Lyra Shepherd, distinguished only by the tranquility of his office. And peace, unfortunately, was not an idea deeply etched in minds...
To her great surprise, the elders had summoned her to announce that she had been chosen to take his place. They had revealed to her that she was the most capable of ensuring the continuity of the previous Shepherd.
Continuity...
Did they know that for her, this meant finding Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory? To rediscover the memory of a world that the Age of Tumult had seen fade away? This was what he had always wanted. It was a goal she could achieve. One she had to achieve. For him. For both of them.
Strangely, she had also heard Fen talk about her recently. But that wasn't surprising. She had always paid attention to every one of his stories...
Thanks to the goddess, Cayrat might be able to free himself from the grasp of nothingness, not be forgotten by his peers, and thus remain with her. For all eternity.
A rustling of wings suddenly pulled her out of her reverie.
From the distant horizon, numerous ink birds flew in their direction. A swarm of dark feathers cooed, swirling around them. With a graceful gesture, Itoro unfolded a large parchment scroll, spreading it out on the ground before her. The birds darted toward the strip of paper, dotting its surface with bursts of black pigments.
On the parchment, where they had splashed their ink, letters formed, shaping words, then sentences. Through these winged messengers, the Kasirga Clan had answered the call, announcing they would soon migrate westward after all.

The Lyra are primarily a heterogeneous gathering of diverse Clans. Nine Clans, each with its customs, peculiarities, beliefs... but united by common tradition and organization. Each Lyra Saraband is led by a Shepherd or Shepherdess, tasked with representing the daily authority of the Clan's Matriarch. It is they who work tirelessly to channel the unruly temperament of all the artists who make up a caravan. And it must be said, there is much to do to maintain cohesion, given their natural tendency towards the most blatant anarchy. If one were to compare a Shepherd to a specific role, it would be that of a conductor—intended to create a melody amidst all that cacophony—or a Ringmaster—administering the community's operations as a whole. Logistics, human management, showing the way, and keeping to deadlines... all these tasks fall under their purview. While Shepherdesses and Shepherds are the official faces of a Clan, the Matriarchs, behind their masks, are the ones pulling the strings from behind the scenes.