That night, Roland sat on the edge of his bed, watching as Celeste leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. She hadn’t said much since they left the forge, but her presence in the room worried him. There were plenty of spare rooms in Fraella, yet she had chosen to stay here. He knew there had to have been a reason.

“Not that I mind the company,” Roland said finally, “but you do know there are other places to sleep, right?”

Celeste didn’t respond right away. She stepped away from the door, rolling her shoulders as if shrugging off an invisible weight. “It’s better this way.”

Roland frowned. “Better how?”

Instead of answering, she turned to face him fully, her expression unreadable. “Promise me something.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That depends.”

“Promise me that tomorrow, you won’t wander off. Stay by my side. No exceptions.”

Roland felt his stomach tighten slightly. “You think I’m in danger?”

Celeste exhaled through her nose, not quite sighing, but close. “I think Fraella is safe enough. Mostly.”

That mostly lingered in the air between them.

Roland rubbed a hand through his hair, suddenly more aware of how out of place he was here. Fraella might have been a hidden sanctuary for Motherborn, but he wasn’t one of them. And not all of them would be happy to see a Worldborn walking among them.

Celeste could see the questions in his eyes, and she offered a small, tired smile. “You’ll get your answers, I promise. But not all at once and not now.”

Roland studied her for a moment before nodding. “Alright. How about one question, then?”

Celeste’s lips quirked slightly. “Fair enough.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Why did Sir Geld stop being a Keeper? And if he did all the things you’ve told me about and we are doing now—where’s his gear from that time?”

Celeste’s expression shifted. The playfulness drained away, replaced by something heavier, something more solemn. She lowered herself onto a chair across from him, staring at her hands for a long moment before finally speaking.

“You didn’t hold back I see, it’s complicated but he broke his Oath.”

Roland sat up straighter. “He what?” Roland had been his squire, he was the most honest man he had ever met. He couldn’t imagine he would break his Oath.

Celeste nodded slowly. “He had his reasons, and I agreed with him at the time. But the gods don’t think or act like we Born do. They don’t care about why an Oath is broken—only that it was.” Her voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, something raw just beneath the surface. “And we were both punished for it.”

Roland sensed the burden of time in her voice and the slight, fleeting tension in her hands. He wanted to ask more, wanted to pry deeper into what had happened. But something in her expression told him not to.

After a long silence, he nodded. “Alright.”

Celeste looked up at him, surprised. “That’s it?”

“For now.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then huffed out a quiet laugh. “Thanks, you’re learning.”

Roland smirked. “I’m a fast learner.”

Celeste shook her head and stood. “Get some rest, fast learner. Tomorrow’s going to be long.”

As she extinguished the lantern, Roland lay back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Celeste didn’t leave the doorway, keeping guard over him while he slept. Roland wondered just how safe he was here.

The next day turned out to be far more eventful than Roland had expected.

Celeste stole him away immediately after breakfast, dragging him through the bustling streets before he could even ask what the plan was. The first stop was a tailor. His initial suspicion—had she just wanted a dress-up doll?—faded when he realized she was more focused on getting him practical clothing. Sturdy, reinforced fabric, fitted properly for movement. Not the kind of ceremonial robes or flowing cloaks he had seen some of the other Motherborn wearing.

“There aren’t any Worldborn shops left this side of the wall,” Celeste explained, holding up a tunic and pressing it against his chest before tossing it back into the pile. “So if you want something that actually fits, now’s the time to get it.”

Roland glanced around at the store, noting how nothing seemed to have a listed price. He didn’t see any coin changing hands, either. He frowned. “How are you even paying for all this?”

Celeste smirked but didn’t answer, which only made him more curious.

With a fresh set of gear secured—lighter, yet reinforced with strange stitching techniques that Roland could already tell would hold up in a fight—their next stop was a bakery. Roland had no idea why until Celeste shoved a warm, golden roll into his hands.

“Eat,” she ordered.

He didn’t argue. He took a bite, and his eyes widened. The bread was buttery, impossibly fluffy, and melted on his tongue with a rich, slightly sweet flavour.

Celeste grinned. “That, my friend, is a Caxsilla. The pride of Fraella.”

Roland took another bite, then another, savouring the flavour. “I’m starting to think I like this place.”

Celeste chuckled. “Good, because our next stop is just as important.”

The alchemist’s shop was different from the rest of Fraella’s smooth, crystalline buildings. It was smaller, cluttered, and smelled overwhelmingly of crushed herbs and something sharp, like lightning trapped in a bottle.

Behind the counter stood an Orderborn—a being of normal human proportions, but his skin gleamed like polished gold, and intricate hexagonal carvings covered his arms and neck. The lines pulsed faintly with divine energy, shifting as if they were alive.

Roland had seen Motherborn with strange features before, but this was something else. The divine markings gave the alchemist an ageless quality, as though he existed halfway between mortal and something more. Which made the juxtaposition between him and his store even stranger.

Celeste greeted him with an easy familiarity, and soon enough, they were handing over some of the more... unusual materials from yesterday’s hunt. Roland watched as the alchemist examined the Veil-ling organs with sharp, analytical interest.

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“These are still potent,” the alchemist murmured, his voice smooth and precise. He plucked up a small, dark gland and held it to the light, the golden carvings along his fingers glowing faintly. “Good harvest.”

He set the materials aside and, in return, handed Celeste a small collection of vials.

“What are these?” Roland asked, holding one up to the light. The liquid inside shimmered, almost shifting colours when he turned it.

The alchemist smiled faintly. “A reaction enhancer. Not a true speed potion—you won’t move faster—but your reflexes will sharpen, your thoughts will clear.”

Roland rolled the vial between his fingers. “That sounds... useful.”

Celeste smirked. “That’s why we’re here.”

With their trades complete, they stepped back onto the streets, Roland still adjusting to the strange flow of life in Fraella. It wasn’t what he expected—less like a lost civilization, more like a hidden piece of history still moving forward, unseen by the rest of the world.

Roland hadn’t forgotten Pystria’s offhand comment about explosives, so before they left the alchemist’s shop, he turned back and asked, “What about the explosives?”

The alchemist’s golden eyes gleamed, and for the first time, his carefully composed smile widened into something far too excited. “Ah, now that is a fascinating subject! You see, when divine energy is unstable—”

“Nope.” Celeste grabbed Roland’s arm and hauled him toward the door. “Not happening.”

Roland barely had time to glance over his shoulder at the alchemist, who looked personally offended at being cut off.

“I liked him,” Roland muttered as Celeste dragged him back into the streets.

“That’s the problem,” she shot back. “You’ll like him right up until you’re on fire.”

The whirlwind tour of Fraella continued. Roland was certain Celeste was deliberately keeping him too busy to ask more questions—not that he had much time to dwell on it. They wove through markets, side streets, and hidden alleyways, stopping just long enough for her to point something out before they were moving again.

Finally, the streets opened into a large circular plaza with tiered seating built into the surrounding stone. It was a small arena, but an arena nonetheless.

And standing inside it, waiting for them, was Winz.

The massive Starborn waved them over, holding up Roland’s newly crafted shield along with several small pieces of armor. “Figured you’d be here soon,” Winz said. He handed over the shield, then gestured to the armor. “Not enchanted—no divine reinforcement. But it’s solid. Better than nothing.”

Roland took the pieces and strapped them on, noting how they fit snugly but still allowed for free movement. The shield felt right in his grip—balanced, familiar, yet enhanced in a way he could already sense.

Before he could thank Winz, a voice boomed across the arena.

“So this is the Worldborn.”

Roland turned to see a towering figure step into the ring. His skin was dark purple, a shade deep enough to almost seem black, and his arms and chest were covered in thick, bone-like plates that gleamed under the sunlight.

A Flameborn.

Of course, the arena boss would be a Flameborn.

Celeste grinned, already moving toward the registration board. “It’s time for more training.”

Roland sighed. “Of course it is.”

She scribbled his name onto the next available slot, and the moment the crowd saw Worldborn listed, a wave of noise erupted through the stands. Some of it was excitement. Some of it was less friendly.

Roland caught snippets of conversation—muttered bets, half-spoken hopes that he’d be beaten senseless, if not outright killed.

He exhaled slowly. “Not exactly a warm welcome.”

Celeste leaned against the stone railing, unbothered. “Don’t worry. You’ve got everything you need to win.”

Roland glanced at her. “You sound very confident.”

She smirked. “You have reaction enhancers, your soul gaze, and your new shield. That’s more than enough to take down anyone here.”

Roland eyed the massive Flameborn waiting for him in the ring.

“…You are aware of how big he is, right?”

Celeste just patted his shoulder and grinned. “Don’t think. Just react.”

Roland exhaled and rolled his shoulders. Fine. If Fraella wanted a show, he’d give them one.

The arena floor was packed dirt, scarred from countless bouts. Heat shimmered in the air, not just from the midday sun but from the anticipation radiating from the gathered crowd. Word had spread fast—a Worldborn was fighting today. Roland could feel their stares, some curious, others hungry for him to fail.

Across from him, his opponent stepped into the ring. A young Flameborn, maybe only a little older than Roland, but taller and broader. His dark purple skin gleamed under the sun, bone-plated armor naturally fused into his body. The plates along his shoulders and forearms were cracked and scuffed, signs of past battles. His burning amber eyes fixed on Roland, and a slow, sharp-toothed grin spread across his face.

The Flameborn rolled his neck, letting out a low, rumbling chuckle. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to fight a Worldborn,” he said, flexing his clawed fingers. “Don’t worry, I won’t break you too badly.”

Roland smirked, adjusting his grip on his sword. “That’s kind of you.”

Celeste stood just outside the ring, arms crossed, looking completely at ease. “Remember, reaction enhancer first,” she called. “Then see him, Roland. Use your gift.”

Roland uncorked the vial and downed the shimmering liquid. A cool, electric sensation spread through his veins, sharpening his senses. His heartbeat slowed—not from sluggishness, but from clarity. The world came into focus with a crispness he had never felt before.

The Flameborn lunged.

Roland’s soul-gaze flared, and in that moment, he saw his opponent. Not just his stance, not just his movements—he saw the flicker of his intent. The way his weight shifted, the tension in his legs. He was going to feint left, then drive his blade low.

Roland didn’t fall for it.

The moment the Flameborn cut right, Roland pivoted smoothly and raised his shield. The dull-edged sword crashed against it, sending a shock up his arm, but he held firm.

His opponent blinked in surprise.

Roland countered instantly, stepping forward and slamming the shield into the Flameborn’s chest. The impact sent the other fighter stumbling back.

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd.

The Flameborn recovered fast, snarling as he adjusted his grip. This time, he advanced slower, measuring his steps. Roland watched, soul-gaze still open, reading the subtle shifts in energy.

The Flameborn struck again, aiming for Roland’s exposed side.

Roland twisted, raising his shield to absorb the blow. As the Flameborn’s blade connected, Roland stepped in close and hooked his foot behind the other warrior’s ankle. With a sharp twist, he sent the Flameborn sprawling onto the dirt.

The crowd roared.

Roland didn’t press the advantage. He stepped back, keeping his stance balanced. The Flameborn growled, flipping himself upright in one fluid motion. His grin had faded, replaced by something sharper.

“Not bad,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s see how you handle this.”

The Flameborn slammed his free hand into the ground. A surge of heat erupted beneath Roland’s feet—his opponent’s natural magic, calling fire through the Veil. Roland leapt aside as a small burst of flame cracked the earth where he had been standing.

Stay calm. He had no magic, no natural armor, no unnatural strength. But he had his sight.

The Flameborn charged, his next attack coming faster. He wasn’t feinting anymore—this was raw instinct, sharpened by battle. Roland’s soul-gaze flickered—high swing, forward momentum, left foot unsteady.

Roland stepped inside the attack, his shield bracing against the Flameborn’s swinging blade. Instead of just blocking, he turned the momentum, twisting his body to shove the Flameborn off balance.

This time, when his opponent staggered, Roland brought his dull-edged sword up and cracked the pommel against the Flameborn’s armored ribs.

The Flameborn grunted, falling hard onto one knee.

The crowd roared. Some cheered, others cursed.

Roland took a step back, lowering his blade. The Flameborn stayed down for a moment, then exhaled sharply and laughed. He wiped a hand across his mouth, looking up at Roland with something that almost resembled respect.

“Well,” he said, pushing himself back to his feet, “guess the Worldborn can fight after all.”

Now, standing outside the ring, catching his breath, Roland flexed his fingers, the last remnants of the potion still humming in his veins. He had felt unstoppable.

“Good fight.”

The deep, gravelly voice pulled his attention upward.

The old Flameborn stood before him, arms crossed, his dark purple skin marred with old battle scars. Close up, Roland saw the years etched in his eyes—a depth of experience no divine power could replicate.

“That was like watching a young Deathborn fight,” the elder mused. “Fast. Efficient. Reading your opponent before they can move.” His gaze sharpened. “But don’t get too comfortable.”

Roland wiped the sweat from his brow. “What do you mean?”

The Flameborn tapped a clawed finger against the vial still strapped to Roland’s belt. “Potions are useful in tight situations. But don’t rely on them. Divine gifts can fail. Prayers can be interrupted. And if you dull your instincts by leaning on crutches, one day, they won’t be there to save you.”

Roland felt Celeste watching him from the side, but she didn’t interrupt.

The elder’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he grunted. “You’ve got potential, Worldborn. Just make sure it’s your skill that keeps you alive, not something in a bottle.”