The ceiling above was pale stone — unfamiliar, unmoving. It did not weep like the sky in the Dead Zone. The rains were gone. The silence was foreign.
She woke slowly.
Breath came before memory. Sensation followed breath. A dull ache lingered, as if her bones had been forged anew. Her limbs felt weightless, her skin cold and healed, her mind clouded. There was no name to grasp onto. No voice in her head, only the ghost of a scream.
She tried to sit up.
"Careful," came a voice — steady, warm, and commanding.
She turned, wincing at the light, and saw a figure leaning against the edge of a table. Not a medic. Not quite a soldier. Someone else.
Tall and poised, the woman's silhouette held both mystery and command. She wore a fitted storm-blue tunic cinched at the waist with crossed belts holding vials, pouches, and curious trinkets that shimmered faintly under the lamplight. Over this, a dark half-cape embroidered with alchemic sigils draped across her shoulders, fastened by a silver brooch shaped like an open eye — the mark of her guild.
Her sleeves billowed below the shoulder, tapering into tightly wrapped cuffs, and her high boots laced past the calf — rugged enough for rough terrain, yet elegant enough for academy halls. Her skirt was asymmetrical — part wrap, part short — layered with embroidery that resembled arcane roots and constellations, a quiet testament to her dual mastery of fieldwork and theory.
Most striking of all was her hat — wide-brimmed and slightly tilted, with a ribbon bound around it like a spellseal. It wasn't just fashion. It was reputation.
Her amber-gold eyes, sharp and watchful, missed nothing.
"You're lucky to be alive," the woman said. "Most don't walk back out of the Dead Zone. And none wake up with the Matron's Bloom in hand."
The girl blinked. Her mouth opened. But nothing came.
"I'm Arana," the woman said, stepping forward. "I'll be your guide through this mess of recovery, training, and… whatever secrets you brought with you. You don't remember much, do you?"
The girl slowly shook her head.
"That's expected. Alchemy doesn't give without taking."
Arana leaned closer, studying her with a softened gaze. "But it chose you. And now, so have we."
In the distant halls of the rehabilitation centre, bells rang faintly. Outside the stone walls, rain still whispered on the horizon. But within this room, it was dry.
Warm.
And waiting.
Soft linen rustled as Arana gently helped the newly awakened girl onto her feet. The unfamiliar weight of her body, still re-learning existence, made every step feel surreal. Her boots — new, firm — pressed against the polished stone floor, and her eyes drank in the bluish glow of the infirmary: a mix of alchemical lanterns and ever-burning herbs suspended in glass orbs.
She said nothing as she followed Arana through winding halls. Each corridor was adorned with artifacts, scrolls, and hand-painted maps of the island — the Dead Zone always looming at the edge, a quiet Specter watching from afar.
The room they entered was circular, filled with books stacked high in asymmetrical towers, and tables cluttered with crystal vials, crushed herbs, and brass instruments. A breeze drifted in through a stained-glass window depicting the moon cradling a lily in bloom. The scent of lavender and scorched incense clung to the air.
Seated at a desk was an older man. His robes were layered with faded sigils of protection and wisdom. His long, silvery hair was tied back, and his eyes — kind and immeasurably tired — lifted to meet hers.
"You're awake," he said softly, rising to greet her. His voice was calm, laced with warmth and quiet reverence. "Come, sit. You've walked more than you should."
She obeyed without a word, sitting beside Arana, who lingered protectively at her side.
"I am Chief Alchemist Caelen," he said, folding his hands atop the desk. "And I was present when you were brought back."
There was a moment of stillness. The air felt heavy with something unsaid.
"I know you must have questions. But let me ask first — do you remember anything? Anything at all?"
The girl shook her head. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. Shadows of sound, flickers of light, sharp flashes of pain… and a cold emptiness. But no names. No faces.
"Discomfort? Pain?" Caelen asked gently.
"…Only silence," she said, her voice quiet and new.
He gave a slow, understanding nod.
"That's alright. You're not expected to recall everything. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Your body was broken when we found you. Your soul — nearly gone. But something kept you tethered. The relic, perhaps. Or your will."
He leaned back, his voice lower now, more solemn. "You weren't alone. There were others with you on that expedition. Friends. Companions. But you were the only one we could bring back. In time, you may remember them. Or you may not. It's cruel, but… that is the way of the Dead Zone."
The girl lowered her gaze, her hands clasped tightly together.
"There's something else," Caelen said after a pause. His voice had taken on a careful weight. "Here, we follow an old belief — that names carry power. Power that others might wield against you through spells, hexes, bindings. So, you must choose two names."
She blinked, uncertain.
"One that the world will know — that can travel freely from one tongue to another. And one that is yours alone. A true name, shared only with those you trust with your soul."
She looked to Arana, who nodded with quiet encouragement.
"You don't have to choose right away," Caelen added, offering a faint smile. "But when the time comes, be sure it feels like you. Not who you were… but who you will become."
The girl exhaled slowly. Her journey, it seemed, was not over.
It had only just begun.
"For now," Caelen continued, "I want you to rest. Walk the halls. Speak to the others. Let your body remember how to live. And when you're ready — return to me with your names."
He stood and gently pressed a polished charm into her palm. A sigil of quiet protection.
"No rush, child. The Dead Zone may have taken something… but you're here. And we'll help you find the rest."