What She Told Me About Valdorra

Let me start by saying that most of what I know about my only client, Nana Vix, comes in pieces. Pieces that she offers freely when she’s feeling talkative or wine-drunk, or, in this case, while dunking biscuits into her cappuccino at an absurdly expensive cafe I didn’t realize she had charged to my company card.

She didn’t mean to tell me any of this.

At least, I don’t think she did. Maybe she did. Maybe she wanted me to write it down. Maybe it was all for show. I never know with her. But what she told me that day has haunted me since. And if you’re going to follow Nana, or try to understand her, or even just send her another flame emoji under her latest thirst trap reel, you should probably know where she came from.

This is what she told me about Valdorra.

Valdorra: A Magical Land, If You’re the Right Species

Imagine the kind of fantasy world people write cheesy high school novels about. Valdorra is beautiful. Towering crystal trees, rivers that sing when the moonlight hits them, and entire cities made from enchanted stone. It sounds like a dream.

But dreams, Nana said, are for creatures who matter.

Fox spirits don’t matter in Valdorra. At least, not in the way you’d hope.

“We were ornamental,” she said, with that same half-smile she uses when insulting people to their faces. “Like jewelry. Or pets.”

She told me they weren’t allowed to own land. Couldn’t vote. Couldn’t even leave certain designated areas without a written pass from a local satyr lord. There were no schools for fox spirits. No guilds. No official records. Just labor.

“And when we weren’t useful anymore,” she added, looking out at the street like she was remembering something, “they sold us.”

The Satyr Who Took It All

Valdorra used to be ruled by the Fairies — elegant, intelligent, overly theatrical creatures with a flair for democracy and ribbon-wrapped decrees. The last queen was Tiana.

“She wasn’t perfect,” Nana said, “but she wasn’t a monster.”

That monster came later — her son, Balthazar. A satyr, born of some scandalous liaison (Nana wouldn’t say who the father was, only that it “wasn’t someone Tiana could publicly admit to”). Balthazar was a populist. Loud. Charismatic. Handsome in a knife-to-your-throat kind of way. And he hated the idea of a fairy queen sitting on what he saw as his throne.

So he took it.

According to Nana, Balthazar staged a coup in broad daylight. No blood. No war. Just a dozen magical contracts signed under duress and a Council charmed into obedience with promises of “a new order.” A week later, Queen Tiana was under house arrest in her own palace, and all of Fairykind was banned from leaving their homes.

“For their safety,” the decree had said.

And with them fell the fox spirits.

The Forgotten Ones

Under Balthazar’s rule, fox spirits became… what’s the word she used?

“Currency.”

They were bought and sold like magical livestock. No rights, no freedom, no names — just catalog numbers and auction paddles.

Nana said her fate had already been decided by the time she was seventeen.

“They thought I was pretty,” she said flatly. “That was enough.”

She was being groomed — not for court life, but for the courtesan market. Educated just enough to flatter and flirt, trained to move like silk and speak like poetry. No freedom. No future. Just expensive perfume and the kind of dresses that look like they were made to be torn off.

“I was going to be sold,” she said, “on the Spring Equinox. To a collector.”

I didn’t ask what kind of collector. I didn’t want to know.

The Forest and the Portal

Valdorra has a place called the Whispering Grove. It’s not on any map. Fox spirits aren’t allowed there. Which, naturally, is why Nana went.

“I didn’t plan it,” she said. “I just walked. For days. Until the roads ended.”

She told me the trees there were ancient — older than the kingdom, older than magic. And in the heart of it all, she found a gate.

Not a physical gate. A shimmer. A rupture. A portal that pulsed like a heartbeat and hummed with something that felt alive.

She didn’t know what was on the other side. She just knew it wasn’t Valdorra.

So she stepped through.

Now She’s Here

I found her six months ago, asleep in the waiting room of a coworking space I rent by the hour. She claimed she’d booked a consultation. She hadn’t. She also claimed she had money. She didn’t.

But she was interesting. Too interesting. And I, stupidly, was curious.

“I’m going to be famous,” she told me, stealing my coffee.

She’s well on her way. Or maybe she already is. I can’t tell anymore. But I remember looking at her and thinking, “She doesn’t belong here.”

Now I know why.

What This Post Isn’t

This isn’t a plea. Or a promo. Or some sad attempt to go viral by manufacturing trauma.

It’s just what she told me. And maybe I’m not supposed to share it. Maybe she’ll hex my socks off when she finds out I did. But I think people deserve to know that the woman in the slow-motion thirst trap video was almost sold like property — and only made it out because she was braver than anyone ever gave her credit for.

So yeah. That’s Nana Vix.

Fox spirit. Escapee. Client from another dimension. And the only reason I haven’t quit this job.

Yet.