The candlelight flickered in the corners of the alchemist's study as Caelen, the old alchemist, leaned forward, his fingers trembling slightly around the chipped porcelain teacup. His voice was quieter now, more delicate.
"There were six," he began.
Ravine stared at him, lips parted slightly, caught in that space between breath and disbelief.
"We never knew how the explosion began. There were no witnesses. No one survived the blast — except you."
He looked at her, and for the first time, she saw the weight in his eyes.
"We found six bodies. Charred, burned beyond any normal measure. And yet… your heart still beat. The others were unrecognizable. Their personal belongings, melted. But you, you had… the Matron's Bloom."
He gestured gently toward her chest.
Her fingers instinctively found the pendant resting near her collarbone — the only piece of herself that had survived the fire.
The design was striking, delicate, and hauntingly symbolic: a crescent moon cradling a blooming lily, the blossom carved from red moonstone, the arc of the moon wrapped in aged gold thread.
Caelen had once called it the Matron's Bloom, though even he didn't know its full history.
"It was the only thing unburned," he had said, "and it pulsed faintly — like it remembered you, even when we couldn't."
Sometimes, when she stared at it too long, Ravine felt a strange disconnect — as if the pendant's story belonged to someone else.
And maybe it did.
Maybe even this body — her skin, her bones, her heartbeat — was not hers to begin with.
"We stitched you back using alchemy," Caelen continued. "Fragments of memory. Fragments of knowledge. But who you were before…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Arana led Ravine silently back to her room. Neither of them spoke. The corridors felt longer, colder than usual. The silence was not oppressive, but respectful — a quite carved from understanding.
Once inside, Ravine sat by the window. The bed remained untouched.
"I need some time," she said softly, her voice barely audible.
Arana nodded, her features unreadable. "When you're ready, I'll be around."
And then she left.
Ravine didn't move for hours.
Outside, the rain had begun to fall again. It never truly stopped near the Dead Zone. The sky always wept. But this time, it felt like it wept for her.
She stared into the horizon where the blackened lands of the Dead Zone stretched like a scar across the earth. From her window, it looked like a smudged island — devoid of colour, of life. The trees that grew there twisted unnaturally, dark and leafless, like skeletons turned to charcoal. The few plants that dared bloom dripped with blackened sap, and the constant mist veiled the land in an almost ethereal dread.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass.
Is this life truly hers?
Was she ever real to begin with?
Days passed. How many, she didn't count. She ate only when Arana left food outside her door. Her pendant remained cool against her skin, silent and ancient. At night, she dreamed of fire, of hands pulling her out of darkness, of voices she couldn't match to faces.
Then, one morning, she stood.
She couldn't keep moping.
This — this alchemical resurrection, this second chance — it was hers now, whether or not she wanted it. She had to shape it.
She stepped outside and found Arana in the training hall, surrounded by weapons and parchments.
"I want to know," Ravine said simply.
Arana turned. There was no surprise in her expression. Only quiet acknowledgment.
"Give me a few days," she said. "I'll find what I can. There's a place… the Outpost. They keep records. Every expedition into the Dead Zone is noted. Not for licensing or safety — but for memory. So, if a body is ever found, it can be named, buried properly."
She paused. "It's the least we can do."
Three days later, Arana returned — and she wasn't alone.
A man stood beside her, broad-shouldered, quiet, the kind who didn't need to fill silence to be heard. He was dressed in a long, weather-stained cloak, and though his presence was calm, something about him held weight — like stone shaped by wind, steady but never passive.
"This is Maevan," Arana said gently. "He was with the team that found you."
Ravine blinked. "Found me?"
Maevan stepped forward, his voice deep, steady — not unkind, but measured. "I was the one who carried you from the crater," he said. "You were in the ritual cradle. Still breathing. Barely."
Ravine didn't know what to say.
"I don't expect you to remember," he added. "But I remember you. And the fire."
He offered her a folded parchment — the registry.
Ravine took it and opened it with trembling fingers.
Six names. Grainy photographs. Water-streaked. Labelled by region.
Her eyes scanned them, searching for something — anything — that sparked recognition.
None did.
Finally, her voice cracked. "Where is my name?"
Maevan met her eyes. Calm. Solid.
"We don't know who you are.