Trista Athiane
A Warm Light Amid Shadows
Laan Lay – Healer
Born into a lineage of warriors, Trista was meant to wield weapons, not salves. But a single, fateful injury—and the healing hands of a stranger—set her on a different path. Now marked by the eye she lost and the truths she found, she wanders the underground world as a healer with a warrior’s instinct, drawn to magic she doesn’t yet understand. Gentle in voice, fierce in soul—Trista is not what the Empire expected, but she might be exactly what it needs.
“Not every legacy is carved in stone. Some bloom in silence.”
The Weight of a Name
In the Empire’s hidden veins, where stone cradles generations and tradition hardens like bedrock, names carry weight. Some are spoken with reverence, others with dread. The name Athiane echoes like a war drum—sharp, proud, unyielding. A house of discipline. A lineage of strength.
Born into such legacy, Trista Athiane should have been a weapon. Should have been like those who came before her—flawless in stance, relentless in battle, shaped for war and nothing else. And for a time, she was.
But some stories begin in defiance of their roots.
Steel in Her Hands, Silence in Her Heart
The Blow That Broke the Pattern
When she rose from her bed, she was no longer the same. Her body was mended, but her left eye was gone—a wound Siegmar could not heal. A scar she would carry forever.
She returned to her family changed. And when she confessed her choice—to follow Siegmar, to study the healing arts, to abandon the path carved for her—her lineage responded as expected.
Coldly.
A one-eyed warrior was no warrior at all.
Her mother, Raveya, understood. Quietly. Gently. She helped Trista pack. Gave her what she needed to leave.
Her father, Kaelaril, said nothing.
Not until she was already gone.
The Stones in the Pouch
Days into her journey, Trista found a pouch she didn’t remember packing. Inside: a few coins. Four colored stones. And a letter—creased, unsigned, but unmistakably his.
“We do not say goodbye easily.
We are warriors, not poets.
But you were never just a warrior.These stones carry your name. And ours.
Keep them. Let them remind you:
You are still Athiane.Go find your truth.
And if one day you return—
I hope to meet the daughter you became.
Not the one I expected.”
Each stone bore a name.
Blue – Raveya.
Red – Kaelaril.
Green – Trista.
Orange – Nile, her aunt.
She held them against her chest. And for the first time in days, she cried.
Not for what she lost. But for what she still carried.
The Healer and the Hidden Flame
Trista parted ways with Siegmar soon after. Her path, she decided, would not be borrowed. It would be hers.
She travels now through the Empire’s forgotten arteries. From fungal markets to silent shrines, from crumbling strongholds to ghost-lit tunnels. She studies. She heals. She listens. She learns.
She is seen as gentle. Soft-spoken. Even childish, at times.
But those who’ve seen her in battle—when her instincts take over, when the old training rises like a ghost from her bones—know better. Her defense is reflexive. Her strikes, precise. Her aura, strange and magnetic. Magic seems drawn to her, though she barely understands why.
She is a paradox. A healer forged by violence. A legacy bearer who walks without a banner. A soul wounded, yet unbroken.
Legacy in Her Own Hands
Trista does not seek revenge. Nor greatness. Nor validation.
She seeks understanding.
She does not walk to prove herself to those who abandoned her path. She walks to prove—to herself—that healing is not weakness. That compassion does not undo strength. That softness, chosen, is its own kind of power.
She wears no armor. Only scarves to cover the eye she lost, and a satchel lined with salves, stones, and letters.
But where she walks, people whisper.
Of a girl with a gaze that sees too much.
Of a healer who fights like a trained warrior.
Of a warmth that glows in the coldest tunnels.
She is not legend. Not yet.
But she is becoming one.
Final Words
Trista Athiane was born into war, but she chose peace. Not the peace of silence, nor the peace of surrender—but the kind that must be fought for, breath by breath, wound by wound.
She is not what the Empire expected.
She is something far rarer.
She is becoming herself.
Characters
Garlak
Trista
Willow
