Archetypes 1: Veritas in Velvet
She arrives late, of course. Not because she is unpunctual. She is simply immune to clocks.
The hallway hushes as she walks in, her heels muffled by years of dust and neglect.
The velvet hangs from her like old royalty, the kind that has survived a hundred coups and still sits with her back straight.
She does not announce herself.
She does not need to.
Everyone feels it—the air pulling tighter, waiting to be named.
A man across the room laughs a little too loud.
She turns her head. Just once.
He forgets what he was saying.
She raises her right hand.
In it—an ornate knife, not gleaming, but heavy with intent.
The kind of blade that’s never been used in violence, yet everyone instinctively fears.
Not for what it has done, but for what it knows it could do.
The room braces.
But Veritas doesn’t cross to the man.
She walks to the wall.
Slowly. Deliberately.
And with a careful, deliberate pressure, she begins to carve.
Not a threat.
Not a sermon.
Just her name.
A single word, etched deep, beneath layers of paint and silence.
By the time the knife leaves the wall, no one remembers what they were talking about.
But they remember her name.
The scene begins to fracture.
First the wall, then the light, then the air itself—
splintering like glass,
fading like old scent,
falling away like memory that was never quite yours.
Veritas in Velvet does not stay.
She is not of the room.
She is the moment that leaves its mark
and then dematerialises.
What remains is the name…
etched, undeniable,
forever.
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