Each dynasty bears a crest forged from its purpose in the restoration. Their sigils hang in the Spires beside the faces of those who sit upon the Circle of Nightglass.

Masters of the patient long game. This house directs generational infiltration of human courts through Ascended agents who pose as scholars and prophets, keeping surface powers divided while the Circle advances the restoration of stolen immortality.
A crescent moon veiled in silver threads and bone tokens — concealment worn as nobility, patience as a blade drawn across centuries.

Keepers of decisive motion in the great work. They command Ascended networks among orc tribes as forest shamans, steering sacred rites toward hesitation and division while pushing the Circle toward swifter turns of the Wheel.
An hourglass split down its center, autumn wind pouring through the fracture — time accelerated, chaos welcomed when prophecy demands it.

Voice of time and prophecy within the Spires. They advise the Circle on metaphysical ritual, oversee sanctum archives of the old empire, and weave veiled prophecies that shape every surface conflict toward elven restoration.
Ancient roots encircling a field of silver stars — memory buried beneath the world, futures read in the stone below.

Wardens of the deepest sanctums and the Hollowed who guard them. They oversee the Ritual of Veiled Ascension, ensuring pain-forged zealots remain fanatical servants of what was stolen and what must be reclaimed.
A still eye at the heart of a contained storm, hairline cracks glowing with starfire — suffering held in perfect, sacred silence.

Coordinators of surface integration. They evaluate returning Ascended agents, rotate leadership by impact, and maintain the web of influence that turns every human schism and orc war into an elven seed.
Twin masks beneath a constellation of pale stars — many faces, one purpose, moonlight on borrowed courts.

Handlers of Forest Elf Ascended in the wilds. They steer orcish sacred rites toward delay and distraction, crafting deceptions that feel like the tribes' own ancestral wisdom.
Wind threading through cavern cracks and forest leaves — counsel that arrives as breeze, never as command.

Strategists of bold acceleration. They advocate for moves that hasten surface conflicts — guiding orc expansions and imperial responses so both bleed without direct elven conquest, honoring manipulation as sacred and crude force as beneath the Deep.
Layered veils parting to reveal a burning crimson eye — the game seen whole, the strike timed to the fracture.
The faces behind the crests. Each house speaks through one voice upon the Circle — and many more upon the surface.