Meet the Characters
Discover detailed profiles of the many unique and fascinating characters that inhabit the enchanting fantasy world of The Shattered Sphere.
Elaiden
Elaiden is a quiet thread in the weave of the new world—soft-spoken, deeply rooted, and more than he believes himself to be. A Sylvani messenger shaped by loss he doesn't fully understand, Elaiden carries the memory of the Singing Wilds not through words, but through presence. Moss-laced skin, bark-ringed eyes, and hands that know both ritual and repair—he moves through the world like something grown rather than made.
Though young, his grief is ancient. He never knew the Wilds before the Merge, yet they live in him—whispering through his dreams, humming beneath his fingertips. Haunted by what was never his to lose, he seeks meaning in small acts: a message delivered, a blade honed, a promise kept.
Where others lead loudly, Elaiden anchors quietly. And when he meets Solaris, something in him stirs—a fragile, impossible warmth that feels like remembering a song before it’s sung.
He is not chosen by prophecy. He is not forged for war. But in a world unraveling, he might be the one who remembers how to hold it together.
Solaris
Solaris walks like a question the world hasn’t finished asking. A rare white-and-gold Avani born under mirrored moons, they’ve spent their life wrapped in reverence, feared and idolized for a feather pattern whispered of in prophecy—but never chosen by it. In Marrowyn, Solaris is a symbol. To the council, a political tension. To some, a blessing. But beneath it all, they are simply a person trying to exist beneath the weight of stories not their own.
Solaris speaks gently, laughs softly, and carries themselves with a grace born not of training, but of survival. Their quiet curiosity is a flame that doesn’t scorch—but warms. They shine not with command, but with care.
And yet, something inside them resists the roles pressed onto their back. They are not here to be a leader. Not here to save. They are here to be seen—and maybe, for the first time, to choose themselves.
When they meet Elaiden, the world quiets. Not in awe, but in recognition. Something unspoken begins to bloom—slow, steady, real.
Solaris is not the flame the world expected.
They are the ember that endures.
Faelar
Faelar is the quiet hearth at the center of the storm. A Terrian blacksmith from the volcanic world of Terraginke, he carries centuries of memory in his hands and speaks with the kind of warmth that softens even grief. Where others shout to lead, Faelar listens. He teaches not with doctrine, but with presence—and in doing so, becomes the soul of the expedition.
In Eroshaven, he is trusted. Among the younger travelers, he is an anchor. He tells stories like prayers, carves runes into spare wood like he’s coaxing meaning into the world. His forge is more than a place of craft—it’s a shrine to memory. A place where the tools of survival are shaped with reverence and care.
Faelar never asked to be followed. Never sought a seat of power. But the world seems to turn a little more clearly when he speaks. Beneath his calm lies a fear—one not of death, but of forgetting. He remembers for those who no longer can. And when the past begins to slip, when Echo stirs in the seams of the world, it is Faelar who holds the line between memory and myth.
He is not the loudest voice. But when his hammer stills, the silence aches.
Some shape the world through fire. Faelar shapes it through meaning.
Xylo
Xylo is what remains when a forest dies but the wind still remembers its name. One of the last Sylvani who walked the Singing Wilds before the Merge, he carries memory not as burden, but as ritual. He speaks rarely, listens always, and when he does move, the world seems to hush around him—like even the leaves are leaning closer.
To those who’ve forgotten the old ways, Xylo is a mystery. To those who still feel the hum of root and rhythm, he is reverence itself. He walks like moss growing across stone, slow and sure, and every gesture—every plucked herb, every wordless glance—feels chosen.
But Xylo is not untouched by grief. The loss of the Wilds is a wound that never stopped bleeding. He does not weep for it. He becomes it. And in doing so, he holds space for others to grieve—quietly, without shame.
He watches over Elaiden like a guardian spirit, and speaks to Lyra without speaking at all. To the group, he is a guide. A healer. A compass not made of metal, but of memory.
Xylo does not command attention. He tends to it.
And the story remembers because he still does.
Tamma
Tamma is what happens when invention meets defiance. A steambuilder from Tirellen’s fragmented skies, she doesn’t just repair what’s broken—she dares it to become something better. Her hands are always moving, her goggles always askew, and her workshop is a beautiful mess of wind-powered contraptions and half-scribbled dreams.
But Tamma isn’t chaos. She’s precision within it. Under the grease-smudged fingers and manic sketches is a mind sharper than most council blades, and a heart that has refused to harden—even after the world cracked. She builds for those who’ve been overlooked. She remembers the names no one recorded. She keeps things running—not just machines, but people.
Beside Faelar, she is the second hearth: not the flame, but the spark. Their bond is forged in soot and shared silences, in the kind of mutual trust that doesn’t need explanation. To the group, Tamma is invention, direction, and delight—all in equal measure.
Tamma does not wait for permission.
She builds the future with whatever the past left behind.
Peony
Peony doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to. A warrior from a world that no longer exists, she carries herself with a grounded defiance—the kind that doesn’t seek permission to exist. Her sword is well-worn, her silences intentional. She does not fight to conquer. She fights to continue.
Raised in the aftermath of collapse, Peony learned early that protection isn’t always about walls—it’s about showing up when it matters, and holding space when no one else will. She keeps her past close, but not visible. The fragments she carries—names, scars, a blade that once broke—aren’t for show. They’re for remembering.
Peony is no chosen hero. She has no prophecy to fulfill. But in every campfire watch, every sparring match, every moment someone else forgets their own strength—she is there. Watching. Holding the line.
Where others wield fire, Peony is the ember that refuses to dim.
Soft when she chooses. Unbreakable when it counts.
Narnia's bravest adventurers
- Lucy Pevensie
- Peter Pevensie