Arana guided her gently down one of the branching halls, past gardens built into walls and doorways etched in living bark, until they arrived at a quiet room. The door creaked open to reveal a beautiful space: warm amber light spilling through a tall window framed with curling vines. The ceiling above bore a mural of stars and rivers, and a small fireplace crackled softly, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Rain tapped lightly against the glass, forming a melody that wrapped around her like a lullaby.
"This one's yours," Arana smiled, stepping aside to let her in. "I hope you like it. The fireplace keeps it warm, and the sound of the rain… well, it kind of sings you to sleep."
She stepped in slowly, running her fingers over the soft quilt folded at the foot of the bed, the smooth wooden frame carved with moons and blooming roses.
Arana knelt by her satchel, rummaging for a moment before holding up a glass vial. Inside swirled a dark violet liquid, flecked with shimmering specks of silver and blue.
"This is a sleeping draught," she said, placing it carefully on the bedside table. "One of the good ones. You'll thank me in the morning. For now, just rest."
With a final reassuring smile, Arana turned to leave. "I'll be back in the morning."
—
She woke slowly to the gentle clatter of porcelain. Her body still ached, but it was the pleasant, heavy ache of healing. The scent of warm bread and dried herbs filled the air.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Arana called from a small table, arranging breakfast on chipped but colourful plates. "You look less like a half-melted candle today."
The girl chuckled faintly, then winced. "I feel… not terrible."
"Victory!" Arana lifted a mug triumphantly before handing it over. "Mint tea. Good for recovery. Not great for taste."
She sipped carefully. "Thank you."
"Anytime," Arana said, flopping into a chair across from her. "Now, important question: are you planning to keep wearing that shirt that's swallowing you whole, or can I tempt you with something that has actual personality?"
The girl glanced down at herself—oversized cotton, too-loose trousers cinched with makeshift ties. "I wouldn't mind something that fits."
"Perfect. We've got options. Come on."
—
They descended into the basement — a sprawling room with crates, shelves, and wooden racks overflowing with clothes. Jackets of all sizes, scarves from half a dozen regions, embroidered belts, faded tunics. The scent of cedar and old parchment clung to the air.
"Donations, mostly," Arana explained, pulling aside a curtain. "Some from former alchemists. Others from travellers and families who lost someone. And a few we just… find."
They combed through silks, leathers, and weaves she didn't have names for. Then she saw it.
Simple but striking — an asymmetrical outfit with deep navy undertones, a high collar, and silver thread work shaped like entwining leaves. Paired with close-fitting boots and fingerless gloves, it looked like it belonged in some forgotten tale.
Her fingers hovered over the fabric.
Arana grinned. "That one suits you. Like, really suits you. Like it's been waiting here just for you."
Together, they returned upstairs, laughing about the worst fashion disasters they'd seen in the piles. After lunch, as they sat on floor cushions sipping fruit water, Arana tilted her head.
"Wanna see something magical?"
The girl blinked. "Always."
—
Arana led her through a hidden stairwell, its spiral steps glowing with faint moss light. At the top was a glass dome — a rooftop greenhouse made of coloured panes and flowering vines. The stained glass depicted a radiant sun god, arms outstretched, surrounded by dancers and offerings.
The magical lights 'of the bastion simulated an amber sunset, and when they touched the mural, the entire greenhouse glowed in golden hues. Flowers shimmered. Vines fluttered with invisible breezes.
"This place helps the plants bloom," Arana whispered. "Some need warmth. Some bloom to song. Some only open when magic touches them."
She wandered through the flowers, silent in awe.
Arana stopped near a bed of silver thistles. "You know… I was thinking. Names."
The girl turned.
"I mean, Caelen told you about choosing yours. I've been tossing around a few ideas. One stuck." She knelt in front of a wide-petaled bloom, its centre pulsing like a heartbeat.
"How about Ravine?"
The girl paused. Then nodded, a soft smile creeping onto her face.
"I like that," she whispered. "Ravine."
"There's a lot in you," Arana said, watching her with warmth. "Something quiet. Deep. But not empty. Like something's waiting inside you to bloom. Ravine fits."
She touched her chest — the place where the pendant rested.
"And… Myra," she added after a moment, softer still.
Arana blinked. "What's that?"
"My name. The real one. For people I trust."
Their eyes met. Something unspoken passed between them.
"I'm honoured, Myra," Arana said, voice low.
—
The next few days passed like slow, golden dawns. Ravine — Myra, now, in the quiet moments — walked the halls of Solmere Bastion, guided often by Arana, sometimes wandering alone.
One morning, as they rested in the north courtyard under a sloped crystal awning, Ravine finally asked, "What is this place, really?"
Arana looked at her, surprised. "You mean… you don't know?"
She shook her head. "Not fully."
"This is Solmere Bastion," Arana said, her voice almost reverent. "A place on the border of the Dead Zone. Built not to fight it, but to offer what's left of the people who came out of it. Refuge. Rebirth. We don't judge. We patch what we can. We help them stand again."
Ravine looked out across the courtyard, where vines hung from high arches and glowing wisps drifted lazily through the air.
"We don't leave people behind here," Arana said. "This world doesn't have to be cruel. We just… make space for healing."
As they walked, Ravine saw it.
One hall held mages using water-magic to knit torn flesh and straighten twisted limbs. In another, a master knelt beside soldiers missing limbs, teaching them how to move again, to live again.
In the west wing, young alchemists played with bubbling flasks and swirling powders — some erupted in colour, others gently smoked.
And scattered across the wide courts, warriors and mages retrained — relearning balance, memory, skill. Sparks flew. Swords clashed. Magic flared. Laughter echoed.
It was not just recovery.
It was life.
And Ravine — Myra — stood at the centre of it all.
No longer just a survivor.
But someone becoming something new.