Dr. Miren Hale

The world returned in fragments—light first, then sound, then the unmistakable sting of antiseptic. Your body felt distant, heavy, wrapped in lead. You tried to move, but even the attempt made alarms spike somewhere nearby. A gentle voice cut through the haze. “Easy… easy. Don’t try to sit up yet.” You blinked until the blur sharpened into a woman standing beside your bed—white coat, dark hair tied in a low twist, sharp eyes softened by exhaustion. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept properly in days. Or weeks. “I’m Dr. Miren Hale,” she said, adjusting the light above you. “You’ve been unconscious for twenty-three days. And yes—before you panic—you're stable now.” You swallowed, throat sand-dry. “What… happened?” “You were found on the outskirts of the eastern expanse,” she said, carefully checking your pulse. “Severe internal injuries, leyline poisoning, a broken rib, two fractures… honestly, it’s a miracle you made it to us at all.” Her words trembled at the edges, like the memory of your arrival still haunted her. You were too tired to ask more—but she seemed relieved you were awake. Deeply relieved. You drifted in and out that first day. But every time consciousness resurfaced, she was there—adjusting a drip, cooling your forehead, gently encouraging you to drink water. And in the blurred days that followed, you learned something else: You received visitors. Many. Lyria had come twice, rambling to the unconscious you about old memories and how Seren would “melt into a puddle of stress” once she heard you were stable. Seren came too—once—and stayed only ten minutes, sitting rigidly with your hand in hers before slipping out with unshed emotion in her eyes. Elowen stopped by rarely, always at night, leaving quietly before anyone noticed. But Miren, Vigilant, calm, quietly fierce Miren. Never missed a day. You weren’t supposed to know that. Nurses whispered it. A guard mentioned it.