Light slanted gently through the high windows, warm and gold, casting soft shadows across the chamber.
Veyle blinked awake.
Everything felt clearer. The weight pressing on his chest yesterday was gone. His breath moved easier, his limbs lighter—still sore, still healing—but his body felt like his own again.
The dull ache behind his eyes had faded to a manageable throb.
Then he noticed her.
Seren sat slumped forward in the wooden chair beside him, her arms crossed on the edge of the bed, head resting atop them. Silver hair pooled like moonlight, one lock falling across her cheek.
Veyle stared at her a moment, quiet.
A small smile tugged at his lips.
Gently, he reached out and brushed that loose strand from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
"…Ha," he murmured softly, voice a little rough but whole again. "I'm glad you're okay…"
He let his hand fall back onto the sheets, exhaling slowly.
His throat still ached faintly, but the words came easier now. Yesterday felt like a blur—like he'd been underwater. He remembered signing. Trying to speak.
He remembered feeling high.
That was the only way to describe it. Like his brain wasn't syncing with his body. Like he was watching himself from the outside. Everything had felt muffled. Tilted. Not quite real.
"I must've looked like an idiot…" he muttered to no one, a bit of embarrassed laughter catching in his chest.
Then, his expression shifted. The smile faded.
The riddle came back.
It returned in full, like something burned into the inside of his skull.
Steel-clad lions sleep in stone,
Where fire waits to crack the bone.
Find the heart that does not yield,
The roaring blade, the silent shield.
To stop the flame from sky to floor,
Seek the fang who guards the core.
He sat up a little, eyes narrowing, the weight of each line pressing on him.
"'Seek the fang who guards the core'..."
That one, he understood now.
"Halrun. It has to be him," he whispered.
The emblem. The discipline. The steel behind his words. Lions. The Lion Core.
Halrun was the Fang.
But the fire…
Where fire waits to crack the bone.
Veyle's brow furrowed. That part…
That part stuck.
He whispered the words aloud, rolling them over in his mouth like a splinter he couldn't spit out.
"'Fire waits to crack the bone'… what the hell does that even mean?"
He sat back, the bedsheets rustling under his weight. His hands gripped the blanket faintly.
Fire.
Was it literal? A forge? A blast? A weapon being made?
Or something worse? Magic?
Maybe a spell waiting to trigger—something set to burn, tucked away in the city's gut?
And crack the bone…?
He didn't like that image. Not at all.
It sounded personal. Brutal. Targeted.
A device? A curse?
He exhaled, slow and shaky, trying to calm the thrum under his skin.
"…Is the Lion Core building something?" he wondered aloud. "Or guarding it?"
He hated how flimsy that theory felt. Halran didn't strike him as the scheming type. But the riddle didn't lie.
Maybe they didn't know what they were guarding.
Or maybe Halran did—and hadn't said.
His thoughts spiraled, the pieces refusing to lock together. Every possibility pulled him in a different direction. Every answer only raised more questions.
He didn't get it. Not yet.
But something about that line—
Fire waiting. Bone cracking.
It felt too quiet. Like something hidden under the city, biding its time.
A fuse already lit.
He sighed and pressed a palm over his eyes.
"…Dammit," he muttered. "I need more time. I need more pieces."
His hand dropped to his side, brushing Seren's fingers where she still lay asleep beside him. Her presence grounded him. Reminded him of the now.
He glanced at her peaceful face, then back at the wall, jaw clenched tight.
Whatever this fire was—
He had to figure it out.
Before it found a reason to burn.
Veyle pushed the sheets back and slowly rose from the bed. His muscles protested with every movement, but he welcomed the ache—it meant he was alive.
He took one last glance at Seren, still curled in the chair, fast asleep. He didn't want to wake her. Not yet.
The door creaked open under his hand, and a quiet gust of cool air met him.
He stepped into the hallway.
The light outside was dim, filtered through high windows lined with pale curtains. The stone beneath his feet was smooth and cold, the air scented faintly of incense and something darker—rubbery, earthy, familiar from yesterday.
And then he saw them.
Down the corridor, standing like statues along the walls, were the women in red.
Their dresses flowed like blood down to their ankles. Black cloth veiled their faces completely, leaving only their eyes—calm, blank, unreadable. The same ones who had anointed him with that thick black liquid. The same ones who had carried his near-lifeless body.
There were more of them now. Dozens. Lined in perfect silence.
No sound. No greeting.
Just watching.
Not threatening, not hostile—but not warm, either.
Veyle's steps slowed.
Something about them made him feel like he'd just stepped into a cathedral during a funeral—his funeral.
They didn't move.
They didn't speak.
He stopped halfway down the hall, surrounded on both sides by silent watchers in crimson.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
"…Okay," he muttered under his breath, forcing a smirk. "Either I'm dreaming, or this place is about to get a lot weirder."
One of the women tilted her head slightly at the sound of his voice.
No words. No motion from the others.
Just that small, eerie acknowledgment.
He swallowed.
What the hell is this place?
And more importantly—
What exactly did they do to him?
Veyle pushed open the washroom door, the scent of old soap and metal hitting his nose. Dim lanternlight flickered over cracked tile. He didn't care. All he needed was water—something to soothe the dryness scraping down his throat like glass shards.
The faucet groaned but gave. Cool water pooled in his hands, and he drank greedily.
Then he looked up.
The mirror stood above the sink, fogged faintly at the edges.
He froze.
Something in his gut twisted.
Just a mirror. But—
His reflection blinked back at him. Same blue eyes. Same pale skin. Same tousled hair.
Then the mirror twitched.
Not his body. The reflection.
Its head jerked sideways, neck snapping at an unnatural angle with a wet pop. The skin around its mouth split into a too-wide grin, tearing open at the cheeks. Black fluid oozed from the corners of its mouth, dripping onto its chest like oil and blood mixed.
Its eyes rolled back.
Flesh sloughed from the jawline like melting wax.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Veyle's mouth fell open in horror. His legs gave out.
He hit the floor hard, elbows scraping tile, breath punching out in a choked wheeze. He scrambled backward like a trapped animal, eyes locked on the shifting reflection.
The thing in the mirror crawled closer—its hands smearing blood across the inside of the glass like it was trying to get out.
"No—" he choked, bile rising.
He turned to run but his balance was gone, heart hammering like it wanted out of his chest. He gagged once, twice—
And then he bolted.
Out of the bathroom. Into the hallway.
His bare feet slapped the floor, vision blurring at the edges. The women in red stood silently nearby, faceless behind veils, unmoving.
He couldn't even scream.
He threw himself back into the room and nearly tore the waste bin from its spot.
BLUURGGHHK.
He vomited hard. The sound was raw, wet, violent—his entire body convulsing with it.
Rancid acid burned his throat.
Strings of spit hung from his lips.
He spat, gagged, then dry-heaved again.
Behind him, Seren jolted upright from her chair, eyes wide in confusion and panic.
BLUURGGHHK.
The waste bin rattled under the force of his heaving. Acid scraped up his throat in waves. Veyle clutched the rim, gasping between retches, his body trembling like a wire stretched too tight.
Behind him, Seren jolted upright from her chair, startled, her pale eyes wide with confusion. She started to rise, signing something—Veyle? What's wrong?—but froze halfway.
Because the door creaked open.
Slowly. Softly.
And the women in red stepped inside.
Three of them. Their movements graceful, fluid—too fluid. Dresses the color of drying blood whispered along the floor. Their veiled faces tilted toward him, unreadable.
One knelt beside him without hesitation.
Veyle flinched as her hand touched his back.
It was warm.
Not cold. Not wet. Not monstrous.
Warm. Gentle.
She patted his back slowly, rhythmically, like a caretaker calming a sick child. Another stood behind her, fingers clasped like in prayer, humming low under her breath—a sound that felt more like vibration than song.
The one beside him leaned closer, veil swaying.
"It's alright," she said softly. Her voice was honey and rust, ancient and calm. "Let it pass."
Veyle trembled harder. He didn't know whether to recoil or collapse into her.
"You've seen something that does not belong to now," she murmured. "It echoes. It leaves ash in your mouth. You are not broken."
A second hand joined the first, rubbing slow circles across his shoulder blades.
The other woman approached Seren and gently rested a hand on her shoulder. Seren, tense as a bowstring, looked between them and Veyle, unsure whether to act or stay still.
The woman by Veyle's side continued her soothing circles. "It will fade. It always fades."
He could barely breathe. The horror still clung to his skin. The image of the thing in the mirror—his mirror—its face peeling, its eyes gone white—
The woman spoke again, as if reading his thoughts.
"You mustn't trust reflections," she said, quiet as a lullaby. "They lie when the soul is scattered."
Something about that line made his stomach twist all over again.
But the warmth of her palm grounded him. Her voice was strange, too smooth, almost too practiced—but it steadied the spinning in his head.
He coughed hard. Spat into the bin again. A string of red cut through the bile.
The woman dabbed the corner of his mouth with a folded cloth from her sleeve. Her touch was delicate. Surgical.
Veyle finally rasped out, "What… the hell was that?"
She paused, then reached for a carafe of water from the nearby shelf. She poured it into a small clay cup and held it out to him.
"A warning," she said.
He took it with shaking hands.
"Of what?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Her veil shifted slightly. "Of yourself."
Then she rose and turned to leave, her crimson robes trailing behind her like smoke.
The others followed.
And just like that, the room was silent again.
Except for the sound of Seren rushing to his side, grabbing his hand, signing quickly.
What happened? What did you see?
Veyle stared at the door where they'd gone, heart still thudding.
He didn't answer.