The closer Hirua got to the infirmary, the less the Miers camp sounded like a war camp. He stopped. That sound… A soft chime? Familiar, somehow. Inside, the canvas roof glowed, the waxing light of Solus’ Tower filtered through openings.

Gydroot. Honilla. The bitter, sweet tang of Miergartian herbs filled his nose. He shifted, impatient, his own scratch from yesterday's skirmish – throbbing in time with his irritation.

A faint jingle announced the arrival of a young medic. She moved with an efficient grace, her touch light despite the grimness of the infirmary. Unakite green energy creaked around the elemenium glove on her right hand, and he felt the sting of the wound ease as she worked.

He couldn't help but notice the bruises. Blue-purple, they stood out starkly against her pale arm. His brow furrowing as his eyes darted from one bruise to another. Were those the marks of a fist, or something worse? “What happened?” The words were out before he could think, his fingers twitching as if wanting to reach out, but he held back.

The girl flinched, her breath catching. Her hand flew to her sleeve, tugging it down as if to hide the bruises. He saw a flash of fear, bright and sharp as a knife, in her eyes before she looked away. The girl's silence pressed down on him, heavy as a stone. He heard only the faint jingle of her bell, a delicate sound against the backdrop of rasping breaths around them.

A frown pulled at his brows. As the girl's touch soothed his wound, his gaze remained restless. Bloodstains mottled the canvas walls. On a rough-hewn table, a tattered ledger lay open, its pages filled with scrawled notes. Each cough, each ragged breath, a piece of the information he absorbed – troop numbers, supply shortages. But a different curiosity snagged his attention: a flash of gold swaying gently at the girl's neck.

The silence, thick as honey after the girl's flinch, was broken only by a tiny, persistent sound. He found himself staring at a buttercup yellow glint at the base of her neck. A bell the size of an apricot; it held an unfamiliar pattern, the engraved patterns alien to his eyes. Each time she shifted, it chimed—a melody both foreign and...familiar, like a half-forgotten spice on his tongue. The tune it played seemed to cut through the groans and gasps of the infirmary.

She finished tying the bandage, and the sudden stillness made him realize how much he'd been focusing on that bell. A strand of hair, dark as pine needles, had come loose, plastered to her forehead by sweat. Her hand, stained red at the fingertips, brushed the bell, and for a moment, it was like she meant to touch him instead. With a clipped nod, she turned away before he could speak.

"Wait." The word tumbled out before he could form a proper thought. "I haven't thanked you yet." He flinched, a surprised reflex mirrored in his hand, which shot out to rest on her left shoulder, a gesture meant to be grounding.

The girl recoiled, sending a jolt through his own arm. A gasp, sharp and ragged, escaped her lips. The bell on her necklace clattered, a frantic rhythm against the taut skin of her neck.

She whirled, her eyes widened, the color draining from her face. Her lips moved, forming soundless words, her breath hitching in her throat. But even as her chest heaved, her chin came up, a spark igniting in those wide eyes. Her hands, trembling, clenched at her sides. The fear didn't vanish, not entirely. It simmered, like a broth about to boil over, ready to scald anyone foolish enough to get too close.

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"S-sorry," he stammered, the word catching in his throat like a poorly swallowed mouthful. The furrow in his brow deepened. Could a smile, uncertain and hesitant as it felt on his face, right this wrong? "I just..." His gaze flitted across her face, searching for... for what, he couldn't quite place. Her reaction, like hot oil splashed on a calm fire, had startled him.

"Where’d you get that bell?" He couldn't look away, his eyes drawn to the pendant like it held a flame, its surface whispering a tale he couldn't quite grasp.

Her fingers curled tighter around the necklace, a movement as familiar as his own hand instinctively going to his amulet. The bell chimed again as she turned away, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. Questions peppered his mind, each one a chili flake burning on his tongue, demanding an answer.

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding like peppercorns against a mortar. He straightened, breath hitching as it escaped him. He could still see her eyes, the way they’d flickered away from his touch. A taste like metal coin coated his tongue, cold and wrong.

The girl's flinch, the sharp chime of that bell—it stuck with him like a burr on his tunic. Confusion soured in his gut, turning his stomach over. A shiver, colder than it should be, ran down his back. The tinkle of the bell... he knew that sound. A whisper of a memory, a tune almost forgotten, but not quite. Why did it set his teeth on edge?

A hint of honilla whiffed through his nostrils. Not the bitter bite of the infirmary's stores, but a sweetness like... like warm bread he used to eat with his parents. The canvas flap brushed his hand, and there it was again—that same darn bell.

The chime ripped through him, yanking a forgotten scene to the surface: a field of purple honilla rippling in the breeze, his father's grin a warm hearth against the sultryshine sky. There she was—a little girl, a flash of knobby knees and a shy grin, a glint of buttercup yellow peeking from behind his father's leg. Her eyes, hesitant yet curious, met his for the briefest of moments.

"Father?" The word caught in his throat, the memory of his father's voice a whisper in the wind. A familiar warmth bloomed in his chest, like the embers of a dying fire stirred back to life. "...protect her..." The words echoed, fragmented, a bittersweet melody from a forgotten song. The world blurred, each figure in the bustling camp a watery smear against the backdrop of the waxing light.

His hands shook, each tremor a bitter herb against the sweetness of the memory fading like smoke from a dying fire. A flash of violence seared through his mind, leaving a cold sweat on his skin like a bad spice. The familiar camp buzzed in his ears, warped and strange, like a feast gone rotten.

"...you're alive," he choked out, the words a dry crust in his throat.

He spun, a hungry ache in his gut, yearning to hold onto the fading echoes of the past. But the girl with the buttercup yellow bell was gone, vanished into the teeming camp. His lungs constricted, each breath a ragged gasp. A bitter taste, like burnt bread, filled his mouth as his heart pounded a panicked rhythm. Had he imagined it all? The memory, spiced with the sweetness of honilla moments ago, now grew stale, as if left too long in the sun.

Kyura…

His breath snagged, each word a struggle to break free. “How? I saw with my own eyes...that day…” The words caught in his throat, a burning ember of memory – the crackle of flames, the coppery stench of blood.

"But...here you are…" His hand reached out, as if to touch the phantom from his past, only to grasp empty air. It was real. A single ember glowing against a suffocating shroudlight.

Alive…