Medina Madrigal woke up with a quick breath, her mind clouded with confusion. Lying on her back, she looked up at the wooden beams that crossed the ceiling, noticing only one eye would open due to a sticky substance sealing the other shut. She tried to move, feeling an odd resistance, and her gaze landed on an older woman sitting quietly in a corner of the room. The woman, with features suggesting a wisdom borne of many years, seemed to be knitting, her head occasionally nodding forward as if fighting the pull of sleep. 'Hello?' tried to call out but her voice only manifested in her mind. Medina wondered where she was, her mind grappling with the fog of uncertainty before weariness pulled her back into darkness.

When she awoke again, the room was still dimly lit by a sliver of light sneaking past the drawn curtains. A crushing sense of thirst overwhelmed her, drawing her attention to a bowl of grapes beside her bed. The older woman sat slouched over. Medina felt as if she was a thief in someone else's room. But she was hungry. With a trembling hand, she reached out, struggling to pluck a grape from the stem. The flavor burst in her mouth was startlingly delightful, a vivid reminder of simple joys. 'I love grapes!' she thought with a small smile, finding a moment of solace in her confusion.

Next to the bowl, she noticed a vial with contents shimmering faintly in the dim light. On it were words she could not read. Text that seemed to be foreign. None of the letters matched any of the ones she knew. But then thought about the letters she did know and couldn’t remember any. But she was tired and only could think of her thirst. She moved with utmost care, trying not to disturb the seemingly sleeping woman in the corner. The green vial was already uncorked. She licked her lips, trying to moisten them before drinking. On her dried lips, she tasted a pleasant taste. It wasn’t the grape. It was something else. Perhaps this liquid. She pulled the bottle close and drank, the liquid's sweetness flooding her senses, a stark contrast to the dryness of her mouth. But it had the same taste. She had already been drinking this, Medina had thought. Or at least had a sip.
Attempting to place it back quietly, her hand shook, and the vial slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the floor.
The noise startled the woman awake. "Medina!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of alarm and distress as she realized the vial was empty. "Oh Divine above, you drank all of it!" Panic-stricken, she rushed from the room, her cries for help echoing down the hall, leaving Medina to drift back into unconsciousness or death. It didn’t matter. She wanted to sleep, barely registering the chaos her actions had caused and the ensuing tumult.
Moments later, or perhaps minutes, Medina was jolted awake by a pressing force on her chest. She opened her left eye. Above her, a man with a gray beard and hair even grayer was performing chest compressions with desperate strength. Each push felt distant, like the sound of twigs snapping underfoot—her ribs breaking under the force. 'Who are you?' she tried to ask, but felt the air being pushed out of her. She found herself paralyzed, a spectator as if she was another person in the room standing over her with concerned faces.
Sweat poured from the man’s forehead as it dripped down on her chest. Medina could see that whoever was on the bed was nude. Medina felt embarrassed for the girl. If that were her, she would be modified. But then she saw it was her. That is her body. That’s embarrassing, Medina thought and closed her eye as to look away from it. As she faded away, she could hear the man shouting. He was shaking the body, or her, Medina felt the vibrations but it still didn’t feel as if it were her body.
“Stay awake! Stay awake, Medina!”
Medina drifted off again to a scream. It was the old lady again. Those people seemed really sad. ‘I feel bad for them and whoever Medina was.’
Deep within her slumber, Medina was engulfed in a vivid dream, more coherent than any she had experienced. Voices called to her, echoing through the void, "We need champions, Medina. You must remember who they were. We need an army, Medina!"
Medina opened both eyes. Standing above her was a man with thick red hair and a red mustache tapping on a window. He wore a concerned frown. Another man, with graying brown hair and brown skin moved beside him. Medina thought he looked sad. He narrowed his blue eyes and just stood, staring at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. He ran his hand along the window in front of her.
“Hey! Wake up!” The red-head said, tapping again on the window in front of Medina. The man with sad blue eyes raised his hand to stop the tapping.
"Medina. Remember them. We need more, Medina. Start creating your champions." The man with sad blue eyes said.
Confusion swirled within her. "My champions?" she pondered, her voice muffled as if speaking through a thick fog. "Are you sure I’m Medina?" Her doubt remained unanswered as the world around her vision continued to dim. “Who are you?”
“It’s me.”
“Who?” Medina’s voice wasn’t strong enough to finish the question. She wanted to ask who Medina was, who the redheaded man was or who he was, the man with the sad blue eyes.
“Zedrich.”
“The ship?” Medina seemed even more confused now. The man in front of her was certainly not a ship, but he called himself ‘Zedrich’. The point between two stars. The ship of the Eighth sailed the red seas on. I remember that. I like that story.’
“Wake up, Medina, then remember the heroes. We need to fight!” The man calling himself Zedrich was angry at whoever Medina was.
She awoke again, opening one eye. This time to a room bathed in the brilliant light of morning. The window was open, a cool breeze carrying whispers of a world continuing beyond her confined space. The woman from the corner had her face buried in her hands, mourning lost moments or perhaps the fragility of life itself. Her knitting needles lay abandoned on the floor.
‘Why’s she so sad? 'Is this the dream? Or was that the dream?' Medina pondered, her reality and visions intertwining, a tangled web of identity and destiny she could not yet unravel. Medina felt it was too much to consider. Too much to think about when thinking hurts. She just wanted to fall back asleep in her comfortable cocoon.

Medina felt a hand on hers, warm and gentle, grounding her to a reality that seemed to drift between the tangible and the ethereal.
“How long has she been like this?”
“Days. Since we found her.”
He cleared his throat. “Is she going to die?”
A young woman's voice said with resigned acceptance, whispered into the charged silence of the room. "Yes. Or she should. She drank all of it. Even Commander Moon used to only take sips of the substance and he would wander through the night howling, battling phantoms only he could see. And considering his,” she paused, searching for a word, “proportions, the concoction is meant to merely moisten the lips, lull her into rest. Taking sips would, I presume, send anyone into delusion and eventually stop their heart if they consumed too much."
“It had already stopped her heart. I spent hours keeping it beating. I’m surprised that it didn't kill.”
The elderly woman sniffled.
“I see. The fate of the First then?”
“Depends on the boy, I suppose. How is he?”
The stranger’s voice who held her hand spoke, “he will be in no condition to make his way down from the tower for some time.”
“Curse the fates! Sometime? It’s been nearly a week!”
He cleared his throat again and squeezed Medina’s hand. “Lady Kazarian and I are working with him. He is refusing to cooperate. He wants to see his sister and keeps asking about his parents.”
Medina could feel her hand being gripped tighter as the room went silent.
"You haven't informed him yet?" It was the old woman speaking again, her voice tinged with dismay.
"It's a delicate matter. He, too, has endured much," came the cautious reply after a moment of heavy silence. “I, uh, I sympathize with all of your losses. Truly. If there is anything the guild,” he cleared his throat, “the AMS guild can do, we will provide.”
"Appreciated, Arcanarch," responded the familiar voice, its bitterness barely veiled. Medina thought it was his voice yelling at her to stay awake.
“As will our guild. We will be sure to prevent this from happening again. It was an oversight to give that much of the drug.”
A cry burst out from another corner of the room. The same familiar cry of the old woman.
“I didn’t know, I was moistening her lips! I didn’t know she was going to drink it-”
“It’s not your fault, mother. Accidents happen. No one is blaming you. We have plenty of water and her favorite fruit here for her, if she does wake up again.”
There was another silence in the room. It seemed to Medina that they all thought she, or whoever Medina was, was not going to wake up again. Medina felt a final squeeze on her hand and footsteps leaving the room. Only the sound of the crying woman remained from outside of the room.
She could hear the muffled speech in between sobs.
“Is there nothing else?” The man who held her hand asked.
“Final rites. Give her peace. She won’t wake up again.” The young woman said.
Then, there was silence. An eerie sort of silence. The silence observed after a funeral, after everyone had replaced their patch of dirt and left.
'Maybe this is real?' The fragments of conversation, the emotions they carried, hovered at the edge of Medina's consciousness, a puzzle she couldn't yet piece together.

Medina hovered in a liminal state, uncertain if she was ensnared in the throes of sleep or grappling with the murky edges of consciousness. She existed in a void, her identity and location shrouded in mystery.
"In the heart of existence pulses a cycle as ancient as the cosmos itself: the scream of birth, life, decay, despair, and the whimper of death. A rhythm woven into the fabric of eternity, where energy is eternally reborn, transformed, and sculpted into new forms—sometimes grander, sometimes diminished. This cycle, immutable and sacred, dictates the dance of the universe. Dictates my actions. And my power. I no longer have any power, Medina. The sequence has been shattered. Violated by those who dared to defy the natural order. The very essence of life, the continuum of existence, has been disrupted, leaving a void where there once was harmony. You and I stand at the precipice of this fractured reality, you are tasked with an unimaginable burden. We must mend what has been broken, restore the cycle, and confront the chaos unleashed by their hubris. Pull from your memory, Medina. Remember the champions that you once knew. The heroes and the villains. We need them."
The voice was the person who called himself Zedrich. The man with brown skin and sad blue eyes.
Medina suspected that if she did fall back asleep, the dreams would slowly drift off, as they had been. The dreams were just voices now. There was no image. Just echoes in the void. Determination ignited within her as she resolved not to succumb to the darkness again. Opening her eye, she endeavored to truly see her surroundings for the first time. The stark realization that the conversations may have been about her own imminent demise spurred a sense of urgency. The knowledge that nearly a week had passed with minimal sustenance filled her with a grim resolve. Death seemed inevitable under such conditions. Dying without knowing who she was seemed to be a tragedy in itself. She had to muster the strength to rise.
A sharp pang in her chest and along her ribs served as a harsh reminder of her reality. 'This is not a dream,' she acknowledged silently, the pain grounding her in the present.
With effort, she propped herself up, her gaze catching sight of water, several cups, and an abundance of grapes nearby. Despite the discomfort, she began to eat, allowing the simplicity of the action to tether her to life. As she nourished herself, her eyes wandered the room, taking in the details that had previously escaped her notice.
Hand-painted birds adorned the walls, their colors vibrant against the muted backdrop, and a hand-carved wooden gull stood sentinel on the dresser. 'I like those birds. I like all of those birds,' she thought, a warmth blooming in her chest at the sight. The room was an enclave of personal touches and cherished possessions: books lined a shelf, mirrors and various knick-knacks added character to the space. 'Those are nice things,' she mused, a sense of belonging beginning to pierce the fog.
As she continued to consume the grapes, a question surfaced in her mind, 'Are they mine?' Suddenly, memories began to flood back, elusive and fragmented. Her left eye darted from the books to the birds, each fleeting memory slipping away just as she tried to grasp it. The more she focused, the more elusive the memories became. Yet, amid the whirlwind of thoughts and images, a singular truth crystallized.
'This is my room. This is my room!'
“I’m Medina!"

Medina sat quietly in her room, her solitude punctuated only by the delicate sound of grapes being eaten and water sipped. She moved with a deliberate quietness, harboring no desire to summon the old woman back into her space. Solitude was what she craved, a quiet moment to piece together the jigsaw of her fragmented thoughts.
'What was it that I drank?' The question lingered in her mind, echoing the snippets of conversation she had overheard. 'Even Commander Moon used to only take sips of the substance,' she remembered someone saying. The realization dawned on her with a chilling clarity. 'I suppose I poisoned myself.'
Her thoughts wandered, drifting through the bits and fragments of information that had been carelessly spilled around her. Her parents. The knowledge of their death brushed against her consciousness. She anticipated a surge of sorrow, a tidal wave of grief for the loss of people who had given her life. Yet, the expected sadness remained elusive, like a shadow just out of reach. She realized with a jolt that she didn’t know them—or rather, she couldn’t remember them. The attempt to conjure the names of her mother, her father, or any siblings was like reaching into a void; the effort brought nothing but pain. Everything hurts.
In this sanctuary of her own making, amidst the quiet and the pain, Medina faced the paradox of mourning strangers. Her identity, her past, remained shrouded in mystery, each attempt to penetrate the fog only deepening her sense of isolation. Yet, within this solitude, she found a fragile kind of freedom—the freedom to question, to wonder, and perhaps, to start anew.
Medina wanted to stand up. Her back itched. The bedsores were beginning to form. She tried, and failed, surrendering to the warm comfort of the bed.
The sun was rising. She wondered if she had been awake all night, in a strange state of lucidness. The grapes were gone and the water had been drunk. But she was still hungry. She wanted meat. Something heavier. And she also needed to pee. She saw that chamber pots were brought into her room, near to where the old lady’s knitting needles were. But getting there was going to be a challenge.
Medina's determination to stand was met with an immediate challenge; her back itches unbearably, a telltale sign of bedsores forming from too long spent in the same position. Despite her resolve, her first attempt failed, and she found herself yielding once more to the bed's deceptive comfort.
The first light of dawn began to seep into the room, casting a soft glow that made Medina question the passage of time. Had she been awake all night, caught in a peculiar state of alertness. The grapes that had been her sustenance were now but a memory, and the water had been depleted. Hunger gnawed at her, craving something more substantial than fruit—she yearned for meat, for something to fill the emptiness. Additionally, a more pressing need presented itself: the need to relieve herself. She noticed chamber pots had been discreetly placed near the old lady's knitting needles, yet the mere thought of traversing the distance seemed daunting.
With a resilience born of necessity, Medina slowly maneuvered herself out of bed and across the room. Crouching down, she addressed her immediate need, acutely aware of her state of undress. Her search for a nightgown was abruptly halted by her own reflection in the mirror. The sight that greeted her was jarring—a portion of her head enshrouded in linen bandages. Shock widened her eye.
'Oh no! What happened to her! To me!'
Approaching the mirror, she disregarded her discomfort, probing the bandage's edges and then gingerly touching where her eye should be. A sharp pain elicited a flinch, yet the relief that her eye was still intact allowed her to exhale a sigh of relief. With cautious movements, she began to unravel the bandages, each layer revealing more of the dried blood that stained them, escalating the anxiety that tightened around her throat. Layer by layer, the truth was slowly unveiled until a final peel back prompted an involuntary scream.

The old lady was back in the room and sitting on her bed. She had been silent for the last 20 minutes as Medina ran her fingers along the gruesome wound on the side of her head.
‘I’m ugly. Hideous. I should have just stayed asleep. Who would ever love a girl like this?’
The wound was red and oozing. Parts of her skull seemed to be missing. She knew that was the case as her fingers explored the cavity, stopping only when a numbness flushed through her body when her fingers touched a strange texture that Medina could only compare to that of a ripe banana.
“How am I still alive?”
Medina could see the old lady from the reflection of the mirror. Her question seemed to startle the old lady as if a ghost was trying to communicate with her.
“Please Medina, stop touching it.”
“Who’s Medina? I can’t stop touching it!”
The old lady recoiled again at Medina’s shout. Medina had shouted at her before. After the initial scream of confronting her new face.
Medina tried to remember and said the name to herself multiple times. I’m Medina. I’m Medina. She tried to recall her last name but it continued to slip.
Medina returned to the mirror. She recognized her face in the mirror but something still felt disconnected. That it was a close relative as if an aunt. The features were there. Thin lips. Black hair. A small, sharp nose and gray eyes. But Medina’s right eye was bloodshot. Hundreds of tiny blood vessels made her eye a sickly red. But the most concerning thing was her irises were no longer the same colors. One was a gray blue, the other, a gray-white. As if the eye had died. The pupil in her right eye also seemed smaller, revealing more of the gray-white. Her eyebrow was now two parts. An upper portion and a bloody lower portion. The wound began there and reached to the back of her skull. She thought about her hair. She would have to grow her hair out to conceal the scars.
‘No. Everyone will be able to see I’m hiding this. There’s no hiding this.’
Her head had been shaved and the wound stitched by someone's hands, though the craftsmanship left much to be desired.Perhaps there was no time, perhaps the person thought she wasn’t going to live. Whatever the case, she cursed the butcher. Perhaps more for saving her life than the work performed.
“It’s-” The old lady hesitated, “it’s not that bad, Starling. Your hair will grow back.”
Medina wanted to yell and throw something at her, but the thought of moving her arms to lift anything prevented her. Her ribs felt broken. She had bruises all over her body and still yet to put on a nightgown. Medina perched on a stool, hunched over as she scrutinized her reflection, her curiosity tinged with a macabre fascination. The butcher that had stitched her shaved only parts of her head. Several patches of long strands of dark hair hung out wildly, while other parts were shaven nearly to the skin.
Medina looked away, noticing the old lady cupping her face. She then turned, as gently as possible to minimize movement, towards the knitting needles. Aware of her rudeness to the stranger, Medina struggled to find the right words, pondering what a normal person would say in such a situation.
“You knit?”
The old lady lifted her head in surprise, her frown morphing into a cautious smile. "Yes, I do!" she exclaimed. She approached the chair, carefully moved the chamber pot Medina had used, and retrieved her knitting project. She held it up and then began to cry again. Medina’s initial response was disgust and repulsion. ‘Who is this lady, and why is she so sad?’ She held up an ugly hat that was disproportionately long on one side, the right side. It also had an eyepatch sewn into it.
“Is that supposed to be for me?”
The old lady’s smile vanished, and Medina guessed she had said the wrong thing.
“I-,” she stuttered, “if you would like to wear it. I didn’t know—, I don’t know what—”
Medina had a stroke of genius flash in her mind. She wanted the old lady to stop talking.
“It’s nice.”
Medina could see the old lady’s smile return as tears welled up in her eyes.
“When her scars heal, I’ll wear it.”
The old lady’s smile turned to a frown again as her arms drooped down to her sides.
‘Hm. Guess that was the wrong thing to say,’ Medina thought.
“Those are your scars, starling.”
Medina looked back into the mirror and wondered what her name was. Was it Medina or Starling? She tried to remember. Why did everyone call her Medina if this old lady is calling her Starling? She looked up to see the birds on her wall. ‘Oh. She’s calling me a bird. Medina liked birds.’
“Who are you?”
“It's me, Medina. I'm Liora, Liora Yera. You must remember me, Starling. Please, I helped bring you into this world. I knitted that nightgown over there for you; I even held you up while you drew those pictures. Liora Yera’s eyes were now a fountain spewing forth more water. Medina scowled and found the outburst of emotion to be strange.
‘I don’t remember a person named Liora.’ She looked up at the pictures drawn on the wall and then back at Liora. There was something there. She remembered the feeling of being held up by her underarms as she drew crude sketches of the birds.
“Does that mean I’m Medina Yera?”
The cries came even more profusely now. Liora staggered and nearly missed the chair as she sat down, dropping the hat.
Medina was beginning to get angry. This was all some kind of game.
“What’s my name?!” Medina shouted at the old lady.
Suddenly, the door opened. A tall, slender man with a gray beard and even grayer hair stepped in.
“You. You hurt me. Who are you? Did you do this?” Medina tried to raise an emphatic finger to point at her head, but the gesture was slow.
He sighed and frowned, then looked at the old lady sitting in the corner. He walked over to her and placed his hands on hers for a moment. She reached up with both arms and cried profusely.
“I know, Mom. It will get better.” He whispered to Liora.
“Who are you?” Medina asked again. “Get out of her room. You don’t belong here!”
He struggled to pull away from the old lady and reached for a nightgown. Medina scowled and flinched when he draped it over her.But she now felt warmer, no longer exposed and naked.
“Mother, go put on some tea. She will be fine. She just needs some time.”
The old lady got up slowly, picking up the knitted hat. She walked over to Medina. Both of Medina’s eyes widened. She was going to be attacked. Liora bent over and kissed Medina on the top of her head. She placed the hat on Medina’s lap. She left. The door was closed, and the room stayed silent. Medina looked back at the mirror and gently touched her scars, poking the softest parts, and flinching.
“That lady cries a lot.”
“Medina.”
“Leave me alone. Get out of her room. Go drink tea.”
“Medina.” His voice was harder now. “You are Medina Madrigal. Your parents are dead. Madark is being held as some kind of prisoner in the tower. I can’t get him out. The Arcanarch won’t let him leave and,” he coughed, taking a moment to continue, “Mira is dead as well.”
“Okay?” Medina thought she should feel something. She had just been informed that people she knew were now dead. Her parents. Possible siblings, but she couldn’t pull herself away from the mirror, at the strange person staring back at her with disgust.
“Medina, listen. Our Tier is in disarray. We lost many, but thankfully the other Tiers lost even more. We are poised to strike the Sixth. We need to do it now. Currently, they have no Battlemaster. Captain Lane is in the role. We need to remove them, and then we can control the city. Moon is dead. The Second is still in the wilds, trying to rebuild the fortifications. If we strike the Sixth, The Third will ignore it. For now. The Perch is gone, and without it, we can fight close without their height advantage. The Fourth are all either dead, in hiding, or fled with Commander Amir and Avaric Keda. The Guard is but a few troops going house-to-house, looking for those that worked with Keda. The Guard Commander is near death and immobile. The Fifth’s Commander was killed by the Fourth. Keda killed the Administrator of the Seventh and stole hundreds of Warlocks. Illias Ire is now the commander of the Seventh. He is threatening to shut down everything. We will have no communication, no ability to strategize. We need to strike now.”
"I don't know any of those people, so why should I care? And why do you? Who are you, anyway?"
He sighed again and slumped back into the chair, placing his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose.
“I’m Orin Yera, Medina. Captain of the First. Your father’s captain. Your family’s guard.”
"My family's guard? If they're all dead or captured and I've ended up with a giant scar on my head, you've done a poor job at it."
“Medina, you and your mother were attacked and you nearly died. I was told your brains were spilling out onto the floor when they found you. You should be dead. But you’re not. You and I know The First Tier needs a Madrigal. Your brother is still too young. We will free him after we deal with the Sixth.”
Medina shrugged.
Captain Yera swallowed and leaned forward. He pressed both his palms together and sighed.
The sound of a whistle, the boiling water came from behind the door.

Captain Yera rose from the chair. He was slouching and held his head low. Medina thought that someone had placed a weight on his shoulders from the evidence in his weary posture.
"There's more at stake here than personal grievances, Medina. The stability of our Tier—and potentially all the Tiers—hangs in the balance."
Medina, still facing the mirror, paused. The mention of a broader conflict sparked a flicker of curiosity amidst her confusion and resentment. "What do you mean?" she asked, her reflection a stranger probing for answers.
"The Madrigals have always been key to maintaining order and peace within the First Tier. With your parents gone, and your brother too young, you're not just a survivor; you're a symbol, Medina. A beacon of hope for those who fear the collapse of our society," Orin explained, his voice firm yet infused with an underlying plea for her to understand the gravity of their situation.

Medina turned from the mirror to face him directly for the first time, her scar a stark reminder of the attack that had almost claimed her life. "Hope? With this face?" she questioned, a mix of skepticism and a dawning realization coloring her tone. “I don’t even know who I am right now.”

Orin met her gaze, unflinching. "Yes, with that face. It shows you've survived the unthinkable. It will inspire others to fight, to believe in the resilience of the Madrigals, and by extension, the resilience of our Tier. And yes. You will come to remember, I hope."

The room fell silent, save for the whistle of the boiling water growing louder. The pot’s once piercing whine ceased.
“If we act now, we can bring stability, not just to the Sixth but strengthen our position overall. Your voice, your presence, could unite those who are lost, those who are afraid."
Medina toyed with the ugly hat Liora had made.
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Do what?”
“The thing. Why do you need Medina?”
Medina could see the wind being knocked out by the old man.
“What a tragedy.” Orin sat back down. “I’m sorry, Miron. Curse the Fate of the Eight.”