The first thing Veyle noticed was the smell.
Rubber. Clean, stale, artificial — the sterile tang of somewhere untouched by wind or weather. He stirred slightly. The sheets under him were stiff. The air too still. Light filtered in through high, latticed windows, pale and humming. Somewhere distant, water dripped once. Then again.
His eyes fluttered open.
Two women stood beside the bed.
Dressed in identical crimson dresses, their faces veiled in layers of black cloth so thick he couldn't see even the shape of their noses. They moved silently — not like people, but like clock hands. One was seated, gently rubbing some viscous black liquid along his arm. The other dabbed a similar smear along his temple, her movements slow, reverent.
Veyle twitched, unsure if it was from confusion or instinct. The one by his head noticed first.
She paused.
The other followed, and they both straightened at once — synchronized like twin dolls.
Then, without a word, they reached under his arms and lifted him to sit upright.
Veyle tried to speak but his throat burned. A ceramic cup touched his lips — cool water spilling onto his tongue. He drank, not out of understanding but because his body needed it. Swallowed. Coughed a little. Drank more.
Then they set the cup aside.
And just as silently as they'd appeared, the women turned and left the room. No explanation. No acknowledgment. The heavy wooden door clicked softly behind them.
Veyle sat there, back against stiff pillows, blanket bunched at his waist. His body ached like it had forgotten itself. Limbs heavy, breath unsteady, heartbeat too loud in his ears.
He blinked slowly at the far wall. It was carved stone. Ivory tiles. A basin sat in one corner with dried herbs hanging above it, wilting.
"…Seren…" he murmured, but even as he said it, the word felt wrong in his mouth — stretched and hollow, like he wasn't sure what he meant by it
---
Knock.
The door opened again.
He filled the room like a bear wearing iron.
Tall. Broad. Hair pulled into a golden ponytail streaked with early gray. His beard was short, rugged. His armor bore the scuffs and scars of too many wars, with the lion's jaw crest stamped boldly over his chestplate—sharp teeth gleaming like they'd been freshly polished.
Beside him—
Seren.
She stood out like a ghost in the sun.
A pure white kimono, unadorned, flowing softly around her small frame. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders in gentle waves, catching the hospital light like morning frost. Her bare feet padded silently over the tiled floor.
She clutched Harun's coat at first, eyes wide but quiet. When she saw Veyle awake, her fingers twitched, and she ran to him.
Climbed up beside the bed.
Her hands began to sign—fast. Urgent.
"You just stopped. You let go of my hand. I thought— I didn't—"
She paused, breathless. Her silver lashes trembled as she continued:
"I was so scared."
Veyle looked at her. Wanted to say her name. But the words sat on his tongue like foreign dust.
Veyle opened his mouth, but still—nothing.
Harun folded his arms. "Three hours with no pulse. No breath. We were preparing rites when your heart started again. Healers are calling it a miracle. I call it something else."
He stepped forward and lowered his voice.
"You were gone, Veyle. I've seen death a thousand times. You weren't unconscious. You were absent."
Seren looked between them, unsure what was being said, but sensing the weight of it.
Harun glanced down at her, then back at Veyle. "She never left your side. Tried to bargain with the gods. Signed at every priest, every healer, even me."
He exhaled sharply. "She's got spirit. I see why you care."
Silence.
Then Harun knelt beside the bed, eye to eye with Veyle.
"I don't know what happened to you, son. But I've seen magic tear through a battlefield like wildfire. And I've never felt anything like the silence that fell when you collapsed."
He stood, steel in his voice.
"So. Rest. Drink. And when you're steady enough to speak again—"
He glanced toward the window, where the city skyline trembled in the wind.
"—You're going to tell me everything."
---
The door shut with a soft clack as Harun stepped out, leaving a quiet stillness behind him.
Veyle blinked slowly, his vision adjusting as the room around him began to come into focus.
The whitewashed walls felt sterile.
The faint light filtering through gauze curtains cast a soft glow.
It all seemed too calm for everything he had felt.
Too… perfect.
He couldn't reconcile it with the weight on his chest, the heaviness in his mind.
But Seren was still there.
She hadn't moved.
Her presence was the only thing familiar in a room that had turned foreign.
Her silver hair was neatly tied back, and she stood by his bedside as though she had never left, watching him with quiet intensity.
She didn't breathe loudly.
Didn't fidget.
Just present—as if carved into the space itself, a constant amidst the storm inside his head.
Veyle raised his hand slowly, as if it belonged to someone else.
A tremor ran through his fingers.
It felt like a gesture he had done a thousand times, but now it was strange, foreign.
He reached out and patted her head—gently, once.
Twice.
Seren's eyes widened, surprise flashing through her face.
But she didn't pull away.
Her shoulders relaxed, and the faintest warmth touched her pale cheeks.
Veyle motioned, his hand shaking, as he signed.
"You okay?"
She signed back, quick and fluid.
"I should ask you that."
Veyle's fingers twitched.
He looked down at them, the sensation of the simple movement almost too much to process.
He gazed at his hands for a long moment, then up at Seren again.
"I feel… heavy. My voice is gone. My head's…"
"—loud," Seren finished for him, her voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips.
"You were out for a day. I stayed. I thought you'd…"
She stopped, her hands pausing mid-air, as if considering her words.
Then she signed again, slower, with careful precision.
"I was scared."
Veyle gave her a weak half-smile, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes.
"Me too."
The silence between them stretched, soft but thick with unspoken things.
Of what had been and what was still to come.
Seren's eyes dropped to their hands—his resting against the sheets, hers in her lap.
Then she looked up again, meeting his gaze.
"Did something happen?" she signed, her brow furrowing. "Where did you go?"
Veyle's hands trembled.
His breath came in shallow gasps, the room suddenly closing in on him.
The quiet held like a breath.
Seren sat beside Veyle, still in her white kimono, her small frame barely disturbing the bed. Her eyes were on him — always on him — watching every blink, every twitch of his fingers.
Veyle's throat still burned dry. Words wouldn't come. But she seemed content to sit in silence with him.
Then—
A voice, calm and steady, broke through.
"I never did give my name," the man said.
Veyle looked up.
Harun stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded over his chestplate. His armor was weathered, worn smooth by time and battle. A lion's open jaw — fangs bared — gleamed faintly on the metal.
"Harun," he said. "Captain of the Lion Core."
That name.
That emblem.
Something shifted.
Not in the room — in Veyle.
A cold thrum, like a drumbeat in his bones. The riddle rang through his mind again, unbidden.
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.
His fingers twitched.
Eyes widened, just slightly. Not fear — not shock — but something else. A pressure behind his temples, a slow understanding forming in mist.
"...Veyle?"
Seren had noticed. Her hand gently tapped his.
But he didn't answer.
His eyes remained locked on the sigil.
He didn't know what it meant yet. Not fully.
But he knew this: the gods hadn't been speaking in riddles for nothing.
The Fang.
The Core.
And now—
The Captain of the Lion Core stood three feet away, watching him with calm, unreadable eyes.
---
Harun narrowed his eyes.
Not in suspicion—
But in understanding.
He stepped forward slowly, metal boots quiet against the floor.
Then he crouched slightly and gave Veyle a solid, careful pat on the back. Not hard. Not soft. The kind of gesture only a soldier would know how to give — steadying, grounding.
"Hey," he said.
"You okay, son?"
The word hit gently.
It wasn't paternal.
Just… real.
A lifeline offered across silence.
Veyle didn't answer.
Not with his hands.
Not with his voice.
Because his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Steel-clad lions sleep in stone…
Where fire waits to crack the bone…
His eyes twitched slightly, unfocused.
Find the heart that does not yield,
The roaring blade, the silent shield…
Harun's voice had triggered it. Not just the name.
The insignia.
The core.
To stop the flame from sky to floor,
Seek the fang who guards the core.
Steel-clad lions.
The Lion Corps.
The core.
Was it a warning?
A guide?
A puzzle?
His fingers twitched against the blanket — not signing.
Just thinking.
Feeling.
"Son?"
Harun's voice brought him back a little.
Veyle finally looked at him.
His face was pale, unreadable.
But his eyes had a glint again.
He didn't speak.
Didn't sign.
Just nodded, once.
Still trying to make sense of it.
Still holding the weight of something only he had heard.
Veyle's throat burned.
Dry. Cracked. Useless.
But the silence was worse.
He needed to try.
To break it.
His fingers hovered in the air, uncertain between signing or not.
Then slowly dropped.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing.
Then again.
A faint rasp, like wind through ash:
"…Ha…"
Seren turned to him instantly.
Her eyes wide.
Hopeful.
Harun took a small step back, giving him space.
Veyle swallowed hard.
His body trembled with the effort.
"…Har…un…"
It came out jagged.
Like a name forced through broken glass.
Harun's brows lifted in surprise. "You don't have to—"
"…Loin… core…"
Another swallow.
Each syllable scraped raw.
But he kept going.
"…Steel…clad…"
His voice cracked there.
Too weak to continue.
Seren quickly reached for the cup on the bedside table, helping him sip—tender, careful.
He drank.
Only a little.
But enough to breathe again.
Harun leaned closer, puzzled but listening.
Veyle looked at him—eyes now burning with something just beneath the surface.
"…Do you…"
A beat.
"…know riddles?"
Harun blinked. "You're asking me that now?"
But he saw the seriousness in Veyle's face.
"…Need help," Veyle rasped.
"Something's… wrong."
Then he fell back against the pillows, coughing—weak, spent, but awake.
Seren reached for his hand, signing quickly:
"You shouldn't push it—rest."
But Veyle didn't rest.
Not fully.
Because the riddle still twisted behind his eyes—
And somewhere in it…
was Harun.
Veyle's eyes met Harun's, the weight of the unsaid hanging in the air. His body was still too weak, his voice still too broken. But the question in Harun's gaze—the probing, persistent stare—remained.
Veyle swallowed hard. His throat burned with the effort, but he steeled himself. Seren's hand remained in his, a steadying presence.
"…I'll… tell you everything I can," Veyle rasped, each word forced through dry lips, "…after I recover."
Harun's brows furrowed, but he didn't press. Instead, he exhaled slowly, as if accepting the unspoken truth in Veyle's eyes.
"Fine." Harun's voice softened, more understanding than before. "You'll get the time you need."
Seren looked between them, her eyes wide, concern still written across her face. She signed quickly, the movements sharp and precise.
"You're sure?"
Veyle nodded, weak but resolute.
"Yes." He signed back to her, his fingers trembling but steady enough. "Rest first. Talk later."
Seren didn't seem convinced, but she gave a small nod, accepting his decision for now. She stayed close, her presence as quiet and constant as ever.
Harun glanced at her, then back to Veyle, and straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Alright then, Veyle. I'll make sure you get the care you need." His voice took on a quieter, more serious tone. "But once you're ready, you'll have to tell me everything. Whatever's going on… it doesn't sound like it's over. I need to know what you saw, where you've been, and what's coming next."
Veyle met his eyes again. His body may have been fragile, but the resolve in his gaze was strong.
"…I will," he said softly. "Once I'm ready."
Harun nodded, a look of quiet understanding crossing his face. He turned toward the door. "Rest, Veyle. Take care of yourself."
He paused before stepping out, glancing back. "And take care of her too." His words hung in the air, aimed at Seren, who blinked but didn't respond.
The door clicked softly shut behind him, leaving Veyle and Seren alone in the still room.
Seren squeezed his hand gently, signing once more:
"Do you think you can sleep now?"
Veyle hesitated, his body still pulsing with exhaustion. But something about the simple question made him want to close his eyes, let the weariness take over.
"I think so."
Veyle whispered, his eyelids heavy as the weight of his exhaustion threatened to pull him under. He turned his head slightly, the pillow beneath him cool and inviting, as the rhythmic pulse of his breath began to slow.
Seren didn't let go of his hand, her touch a soft anchor in the encroaching darkness. Her presence felt like a shield, something he could hold onto as he drifted, a quiet reassurance amidst the storm of his thoughts.
She signed again, her movements fluid and careful: "I'll stay with you."
Veyle nodded faintly, barely conscious of his surroundings as his body settled into the bed. The exhaustion, the pain, the stress—everything seemed to ebb away for just a moment. All that remained was the steady pressure of Seren's hand in his.
"…Thank you…" he murmured, his voice barely a breath. His mind wandered, half-aware, tangled in memories and questions he couldn't yet answer.
Seren watched him for a moment, her eyes softening. Then, with a final gentle squeeze of his hand, she leaned back slightly, sitting silently beside him, her presence constant, waiting.
As the world around him faded, Veyle's last thought was of the burden still hanging over him—of the answers he had yet to give, and of the promise he had made to Harun.
But for now, there was only the quiet peace of sleep.