The Grand Meeting Hall of the Chain Family was a relic forged in reverence and ruthlessness.
Pillars carved with iron-etched chain motifs rose to a vaulted ceiling veiled in shadow. Along the walls, ancestral relics glinted beneath soft magical light: chain-wrapped staves, rusted shackles from fallen tyrants, scrolls penned in blood-forged ink. Between them, ancient chains hung like veins from the rafters, pulsing faintly with latent magic.
At the heart of it all stood the Oval Table.
A massive, darkwood construct inlaid with silver filigree, its interlocking chain patterns mirrored across every seated member's bracelet. Chairs aligned in strict hierarchy. At the head sat Marcaella Artem — branch leader, tactician, and executioner.
One by one, the family members took their places.
Gesture-controlled holograms flickered to life above the table — blueprints, communication logs, mission failures. But none of them spoke. Not until Marcaella did.
> "In my absence," she said, her voice cold iron, "Henriech — traitor — breached our vault."
A murmur rolled through the chamber.
> "He was aided by Basen and Carl — the siblings. Defectors, both. There are more among us, hiding like maggots in rusted links. Selling information. Bleeding our craft."
Silence tightened. Somewhere, a chair creaked.
Crept Artem, seated low on the table's right flank, said nothing. But he noticed what Marcaella did not say.
> She didn't mention Artem in Henriech's name. His father.
Marcaella went on.
> "Vice Commander Markarov fell defending the Obsidian Loop — an ancient chain relic sealed within Vault 17. He fought with his aides. Died along with them."
Someone gasped. Another lowered their head.
Crept closed his eyes.
He had never liked his uncle. The man had been stern, humorless — the kind who saluted in gardens and corrected posture during funerals. But he was loyal.
> A chain that never bent.
Crept clenched his jaw.
> And still, we never spoke properly. Never once.
Marcaella's tone turned lethal.
> "The traitors will be found. They will be bled. And before they are granted death, they will watch every link of their betrayal melt in front of them."
The air chilled. Even the ambient acoustics dimmed.
Then came a quieter suggestion from an official:
> "Should we begin the funeral rites?"
Marcaella nodded.
---
✦
The funeral flames licked the sky like whispering teeth.
Outside, the courtyard was windless, held in ritual stillness. A great pyre had been raised — seven bodies, wrapped in dark cloth embroidered with chain sigils, laid gently upon the ironwood platform. Beneath them, enchanted timber crackled with blue fire.
Crept stood before them, head bowed.
> Markarov. The last real soldier in this family.
He stepped forward and placed a single chain-link pendant on the pyre. It flashed once — and then disintegrated in light.
Around him, the family linked their ceremonial bracelets — chain to chain, link to link — forming a vast, living circle around the pyre. When the wind finally came, it carried not ash — but memory.
> Flickering embers. Dim skies heavy with unshed grief. The smell of burnt metal and earth.
Smoke rose. The chains hummed.
Crept whispered the invocation:
> "What breaks, returns. What bends, remembers. What burns… becomes one with the Chain."
Marcaella remained silent, but her clenched fists trembled.
Far off, a bell tolled thrice — low, echoing, final.
> Even the chains mourn today.
And somewhere in the silence, the old blood began to stir.
---
The world returned as breath — shallow, slow, and scented with antiseptic.
Atiya opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar — matte beige panels curved slightly into the walls, soft lines glowing faintly with integrated warmth. A screen on the sideboard blinked silently, displaying his vitals. Thin IV lines threaded into his arm, feeding clear solution. His head rested on a firm, pressure-adjusted pillow, and from the slight hum of stabilizers beneath the bed, he could tell the platform adjusted automatically with every shift of his spine.
> "A hospital," he muttered. His voice was hoarse. Dry.
His yellow eyes scanned the room — efficient, quiet, clean.
The lighting was soft. Curtains half-drawn. The room divided neatly into three zones — equipment clustered near the entrance, patient in the middle, and a visitor chair tucked beside the window.
And in that chair—
Zelaine.
Fast asleep, head tilted awkwardly against her arm, a blanket draped haphazardly over her legs. She snored once, quietly, then shifted.
Atiya blinked slowly.
> So… she carried me. Through Ellejort. Through the cold. Through all that.
> With those damn petals of hers.
He exhaled. His face barely moved, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
> "Tch… annoying."
And yet… his fingers curled slightly against the bedsheet. The warmth of the blanket. The muted beeping of the monitor. The silence — not the suffocating kind, but one of pause.
For the first time in a long while… he didn't feel like he had to run.
---
The room's whiteboard displayed notes in clean block text:
Patient: A. Yaisha
Attending Staff: S. Lerna | R. Iwasa
Goals: Hydration, Rest, Orientation
Status: STABLE
Below it, someone had drawn a smiley face in marker.
Atiya stared at it blankly.
Then turned his gaze back to the sleeping girl beside him.
Her fingers had cuts on them. Shallow — like thorn nicks from too much conjuration. Her coat was slung over the back of the chair, petals still curling from the pockets like half-conscious snakes.
> "Did she really…?"
He shook his head once.
A strand of long black hair fell across his vision. He brushed it aside with the back of his hand — slow, deliberate.
In the polished metal of the diagnostic panel, his reflection stared back.
Dark hair. Skin paler than usual. And eyes — golden, distant, barely interested.
> He looked like someone lost in thought.
Or someone too tired to care anymore.
---
A nurse passed by the window slot, glanced in, and made a note on her device.
He didn't bother acknowledging her.
> Even now, surrounded by warmth, machines, light… he felt the hollowness.
The kind that never left. Not really.
Too many memories. Too many ghosts.
The Belt. The fire. The betrayals.
And him — the Yaisha who wasn't supposed to survive.
---
Zelaine mumbled something in her sleep. Her brow furrowed. Her hand twitched once, then fell still again.
Atiya stared.
He wasn't sure why.
Then, very quietly, he said—
> "I didn't ask you to save me."
But he didn't wake her.
He didn't pull away.
---
His body still ached. He could feel the drain in his chest — that hollow burn from overextending his Shinsu capacity. The threads he used. The interference. The mansion's maw.
His fists clenched. The IV stand rattled slightly.
> "Next time," he whispered to himself, "I won't collapse."
Because monsters didn't have the luxury to fall.
Especially not him.
Not anymore.
---
In the reflection across the room, his eyes flickered.
Not just gold. Something older beneath.
A brief shimmer — like chains in water.
Then it was gone.
Atiya Yaisha leaned back against the bed.
The silence didn't bother him.
In fact—
He welcomed it.
---
---
Zelaine stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open, lips slightly parted as if caught mid-snore. A second passed. Then another.
She blinked rapidly—realizing where she was, who she was next to, and what she had done.
> She'd fallen asleep. While guarding Atiya Yaisha. The Recluse of Flame. The Boy-Who-Collapses. Yaishna's top-rated complaint.
Her gaze met his.
Atiya, already awake, stared back flatly. Yellow eyes half-lidded. Expression unreadable. Breath steady.
Zelaine stiffened, suddenly feeling like she'd been caught committing a federal crime.
> "Ah," she thought. "I'm going to die."
Atiya tilted his head faintly, lips twitching into something vaguely amused.
> "Sleeping Beauty awakens," he said dryly. "I missed you, dear vampy."
Zelaine blinked. Then snorted softly.
> "Tch. At least now Yaishna can't murder me."
She stretched her arms lazily, cracking a joint without shame. The blanket slipped off her lap, revealing petals still coiled faintly around her belt like semi-conscious snakes.
Atiya didn't comment. But he knew. She'd been thinking of Yaishna. That her greatest fear wasn't him dying—but her being blamed.
He sighed through his nose.
> "So," he asked, "what happened after I blacked out?"
Zelaine stared at him.
Long.
Too long.
Her expression didn't change. She looked like someone deciding whether to explain geopolitics to a fish.
Eventually, she leaned back, tucked her arms behind her head, and exhaled dramatically.
> "Don't wanna."
Atiya blinked.
> "What."
"I'm conserving energy," she mumbled. "Optimal recovery conditions. Mind still under strain. Soul exhausted. Please consult your local reality interface and come again later."
She turned her face toward the ceiling. Closed her eyes.
Atiya stared.
She was definitely awake. Just choosing not to participate in the conversation.
A brief silence settled.
Then he muttered—
> "You want my bed, don't you?"
Zelaine didn't answer.
But the way her shoulders shifted slightly, betraying the tiniest hint of guilt, was answer enough.
---