Honilla. Sweet honilla. But even its gentle fragrance couldn't hide the sharp tang of metal, the scent of the infirmary. Cling. A tiny chime escaped her bell, a silent plea as her fingers tightened around its worn leather. Each touch a prayer: for strength, for courage... for peace.

The air inside was thick, heavy. Grunts and coughs, the sharp scent of blood—each inhale was a punch to her belly. Her shoulders slumped, each rasping breath, a thorn piercing her own chest. How oft must her soul endure this grievous sight?

A sea of pale faces, bandaged limbs blurring into a tapestry of suffering as her gaze swept across the rows of cots. Must she bear witness to such suffering every new shine of Light? Her bell chimed a somber note, a reflection of the dread twisting in her gut. Turn away? Never. A faint tinkle of her bell, a vow echoing in the hushed tent. Their pain is hers to mend. To soothe... to heal... is this not her purpose?

With a gentle chime escaping her bell, she approached the first cot, a silent promise accompanying each step. This pain, too, shall know her touch. Her fingers twitched, aching to heal.

To mend their pain... to grow in strength. The Friedenguard, Arguilla's words echoed in the chime of her bell: Strength grows from compassion. Cool elemenium embraced her skin as she drew the glove onto her right hand, a grounding weight against the ever-present tide of suffering.

Energy twining, warm and soothing, like waning light through a garden trellis. The wound closed, knitting together under her aid. The lines around the patient’s eyes, etched deep by moments of agony, slowly smoothed away. Now, each breath came easier, gasps replaced by steady rhythm. Yet his chest still moved with shallow breaths. Tis not enough.

Her gaze lifted to the canvas roof, fingers dancing across the rope. Waning light filtered through the newly opened hole, falling across the soldier's wound. Bathe in the Light, and may his strength return.

The wounded soldier sighed, his tense muscles uncoiling beneath the Light. His lips curved upward, just a little, and her chest ached with something like hope. Perhaps even in the heart of this terrible war, small kindnesses could still bloom.

Her fingers tightened on her bell, the gentle chime doing little to soothe the sigh that welled up from deep inside her. How many more sighs? How many more wounds? She imagined a world bathed in the Light, not stained with blood. A world where the only sounds were the laughter of children and the sweet melodies of birdsong, not the harsh clang of her bell announcing more suffering.

Her gaze drifted to the symbol of the Miers Empire adorned on the soldier's tunic. The Empress… Another life offered at her feet. Each healed wound... another body back to the bloodbath. Was this peace?

Her steps dragged her toward the corner. Away from the rows of pain. Fingers traced the rough edges of bandages and herbs, the cool touch of salves a balm against the throbbing ache in her left arm. She prodded the bruise. Still tender. Each chime of her bell, a beat of defiance. So it is… To mend, to soothe, to defy the sting of pain.

That soldier from earlier. A brute. He dared... Her fingers tightened around a roll of bandages. Did fear of the Vorst Warden’s wrath not grip his heart?

"Kyura..."

Her bell chimed, a startled cry. The voice… wrong, yet...familiar?

"Kyura, is it really you?"

Her fingers froze on the bandages, the sudden silence heavy in the air. The chime of her bell faltered as her head snapped up. Her skin prickled, every hair on her neck standing at attention. The name reverberated in the silence. A voice, both foreign and strangely unsettling, like a half-remembered dream clawing its way to the surface. Who was this, daring to speak her name with such familiarity?

"Do you remember me?" His voice, low and a touch hesitant. "Hirua."

This vexatious knave returns! A sharp clang escaped her bell, the sound jarring against the steady rhythm of her pulse. His voice... each word prickled, a thorny vine twisting around her lungs, stealing her breath. She gripped the bandages tighter, the rough fabric chafing against her palms. But beneath the fear... a flicker. A memory, faint but warm, like the diffused Light through the infirmary tent's roof.

Silence stretched, each breath a hammer blow against her skull. Heat bloomed on her cheeks. This knave… The memory danced just out of reach, a wisp of smoke. Faces swam before her eyes – soldiers, patients, their features melting like wax. But nay... none of them him. A breeze rustled the canvas overhead, the faint sound momentarily masking the soft rhythm of her own breath.

He edged forward, one foot dragging slightly behind the other. Vermillion eyes, like hot coals, held her gaze. Gooseflesh prickled across her arms, even beneath the linen of her sleeve. Back, knave! her thoughts screamed, but her bell remained silent. Why did those eyes seem familiar, pulling at her like a half-forgotten lullaby?

His hand reached out, a breath of warmth against her hair. Nay! Her chest constricted, a strangled chime escaping her bell as if trying to force out the word.

The pressure lingered on her scalp—two quick, featherlight taps.

The warmth... it pulled something from deep inside her. Not words, but... there. A boy, small like she was then. Not a clear picture, more like light through leaves... dappled. But the way his mouth crooked up on one side... that was there.

"Protect each other," the boy’s father had encouraged. Small, like always then. And shaky. Cloth of his tunic, rough under her fingers, she held on tight. Who? Her eyes darted back and forth. The father... and the one coming closer.

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The boy moved. Closer. His eyes... like when a bird wouldn't leave a bug alone, that focused. “No one will ever hurt you." Not loud like the big voices, but strong. He stood taller then, even a little closer. “They'll have to go through me first.”

His hand reached out, two gentle taps against her head. A strange warmth spread through her, chasing away the chill that had settled in her bones. His gaze met hers, steady and sure. A steadiness that made her chest tighten. A silent vow echoed in that gaze, a weight heavier than words.

The years dissolved. For a heartbeat, she was a child again, small and trembling, the weight of the boy’s father’s command heavy in the air. And then, the warmth of a hand against her hair, a familiar touch from a time thought lost. A gasp caught in her throat, a silent cry trapped beneath the weight of years. Her fingers tightened around her bell necklace, seeking its familiar comfort as a frantic rhythm pounded against her ears, each beat a whispered echo of impossible.

The warmth of his hand lingered, a brand against her skin. A shiver wracked her, a discordant chime escaping her bell. Gone. He was supposed to be gone.

Hirua…

Tears blurred her vision, the canvas walls swayed, a dizzying dance. A single choked chime from her bell necklace, and she lurched forward, burying her face against his chest. Gydroot and sweat, a tang that usually stung her nose, now offered a strange comfort. The world shrunk, the clang of metal and distant shouts swallowed by the frantic drum of her own pulse. But as he held her, the frantic beat calmed, each thud a tiny echo of peace.

His embrace tightened against her body. Heat, a comforting wave, flowed from him, chasing away the chill that had settled deep within her. Hirua. Alive. A sob caught in her throat, a prayer of thanks echoing with every chime of her bell.

"Don't cry, Kyura," he murmured. "We'll get you out of here later, at nadlight."

Flee? Her bell chime turned frantic. But the Dizen Knight… From nearby cots, a soldier coughed, a wet, rattling sound. Her gaze fell on the row of bandaged soldiers. So many needing her.

Hirua's bandaged arm brushed hers. His wound. Even Hirua, now bearing the Empire's cruel mark… Yet could she abandon Hirua’s…

“My brothers will help us," His words, though quiet, were strong. "Just be prepared to make a break for it. I'll be back later at nadir light of midnight, when the lichtwyrt leaves turn to lemon yellow.”

Betrayal, sharp and cold, pierced her like a shard of ice. The soldier she'd healed just this waxlight... she pictured him now, back on the battlefield, his mended wound a fresh target. A tool. That's all she was—a tool to mend and send them back to the slaughter. Her stomach churned with the realization, bile rose in her throat. Another chime. Another life patched up to be broken again. Was this all she was meant for?

The truth was like the slow seep of poison, paralyzing her from the inside out. This, too, is violence. Her fingers, once gentle healers, now balled into fists. No more! Each beat of her heart against his chest was a refusal, a tiny rebellion against the vast machinery of war.

Her fingers tightened around his vest, a wild, impossible hope blooming in her chest like a single honilla flower pushing through dry, cracked earth. His warm embrace was a lifeline, the thought of escape, so bright and terrifying it filled her with a chime she couldn't silence.

A scrape of leather on the floor. "Best I head out," Hirua mumbled. "Don't want anyone gettin' a whiff of what's cookin'."

She nodded, her face pressed against the comforting warmth of his chest. Each shuddering breath, a muffled cry against the fabric. A gentle pressure against her back, a whisper of a smile.

As Hirua turned, canvas rustled, snapping her gaze towards the flaps. A giant of a man. A gash, stark against his cheek, drew her gaze to eyes as cold and sharp as a viper's.

"What happened to you, boy?" The soldier's voice. Rough, like gravel. "Why the tears?"

The corners of Hirua’s lips tugged upwards in a strained imitation of cheer. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. They glistened, bright against the harsh lines of his face.

Fingers tightened around the bell. Thump-thump. The soldier's gaze felt heavy, like the gydroot sacks piled by the tent flap.

Hirua’s smile faltered, his shoulders stiffening under the weight of the soldier's unwavering gaze.

No… Please… One chime, then another, sharp and clear. She needed to do something... She tasted bile at the back of her throat. But what?

"Nothing, sir," Hirua’s voice light. "Just an aching wound from long ago…”

Her chest tightened, a bud pushing through hard earth, yearning for the Light. Hirua… He stood taller now. Not a boy anymore. A chime echoed in the quiet tent – a sound full of pride.

"...was finally healed." Her bell chimed again – relief, sharp and clear.

Fingers tight on her bell’s cord. Each chime was a prayer: steady, Hirua, steady… The soldier’s gaze shifted. A shiver, cold and sharp, ran down her back. He saw something…

Hirua's right arm rose towards Solus’ Tower, fist clenching. He dipped his head, hand sweeping in towards his chest. His hand opened, palm up, as if cradling an ember from the Tower. His fingers spread wide, an offering. The familiar gesture of the Miers. "May the Light shine peace upon you, Sir," he offered.

The soldier's left hand, a roadmap of old scars, rose to meet Hirua's gesture, as if accepting the offered Light. With a sweep of his arm, he gestured outward as though scattering seeds. “And may our peace nourish the gardens,” he replied.

The tent, moments ago filled with tension, now held a fragile quiet. A peek through lowered lashes. Just a glimpse of his retreating back as he slipped between the canvas folds. Gone. Her fingers tightened around the bandage roll. Warmth, like a light beam, at the memory of his touch. Then the soldier's presence, a draft of ice down her spine. But his eyes... those sharp, assessing eyes lingered where Hirua had stood.

The bandage roll, clutched to her chest, felt suddenly damp. Had her hand trembled? Escape. The word bloomed like a forbidden flower in her mind, its fragrance tinged with both hope and terror. Amidst the fear, a fragile tendril of hope. Could such a boon be granted?

The soldier's retreating footsteps echoed in her ears, each clang of his boots a hammer blow on her heart. Hirua and his brothers… Should they be taken, should this escape fall short... She gripped the bandage tightly, the uneven texture of the gauze scraping against her fingertips.

A single shake of her head sent a sharp chime through the tent. Nay! Hirua's touch... she could still feel it, the warmth of his hand against hers. Hirua risks all for her sake… Another chime, this one stronger, more certain. Now is not the time to falter!

The bell's chime lingered in the air, a whisper of sound in the quiet tent. Her hand went to the small pouch at her waist, checking its contents. He needed her to be ready.