They moved closer to the fortress, and the same scene played out over and over. Each time, Roland felt the unease settle deeper in his chest.

  The undead weren’t attacking.

  The first few had been little more than husks—half-rotted, empty remnants that barely held together. But the closer they got to the fortress, the less decayed the bodies became. These ones moved with purpose.

  A knight stood at an old watch post, staring blankly into the distance, his fingers twitching near the hilt of his sword. A pair of soldiers walked a slow, deliberate patrol, their rusted armor clinking as they moved in practiced formation. Further ahead, a woman knelt in what had once been a garden, her damaged fingers pressing into long-dead soil, as if tending to plants that no longer grew.

  Roland swallowed hard. “They’re still… trying to live.”

  Celeste, walking a few paces ahead, didn’t look at him. “Yes.”

  That single word sent a chill through him. There was an edge to her voice, a quiet fury simmering beneath the surface. Roland had noticed it growing stronger the closer they got, her silence stretching longer, her movements sharper. She hadn’t spoken much during the walk, but now her body language carried a tension that hadn’t been there before.

  When he first heard they were heading to a Deathborn laboratory, he had expected a battle—had braced himself for a desperate fight to force their way inside, to cut down whatever horrors lurked within, defeat whoever was controlling this place, and close the gate.

  But there was no resistance.

  As they drew closer, the air shimmered, a faint distortion rippling across the stone. Then, like a curtain being pulled away, the ruined walls and crumbling towers shifted—the decay vanished, replaced by pristine black stone and towering archways untouched by time. The fortress was whole.

  Roland’s breath caught. What had once been a ruin was now a living stronghold, its gates open, its halls waiting.

  The path was clear.

  The fortress wanted them to come inside.

  The feeling in Roland’s gut twisted, but he forced himself to move forward. They had come too far to turn back now.

  And so, in silence, they passed through the gates.

  Waiting for them at the door stood a Deathborn, his red skin stark against the deep black of his finely tailored suit. His wiry hair was carefully groomed, slicked back in a way that gave him an air of effortless refinement. Every detail of his appearance—from the polished cufflinks to the measured stillness in his posture—spoke of nobility. A man who carried himself not just with confidence, but with the certainty that he belonged above others.

  Yet it wasn’t his bearing or his attire that made Roland hesitate. It was his aura.

  Of all the Motherborn he had met, this one terrified him. It wasn’t the cold presence of the undead knights, nor the unnatural silence of the fortress itself. This was something else entirely—an overwhelming sense of power, ancient and controlled. Standing before him, Roland felt like a child barely able to grasp the depths of what it meant to carry a Deathborn gift.

  The man offered a slow, measured smile. “Welcome. You may call me Nallensen,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, carrying the weight of experience. “Veil Keeper, scholar, and—as you may have gathered—master of this fortress.” His crimson eyes flicked between the two of them, lingering on Roland for just a second longer. “You have come a long way. It would be a shame to continue this conversation at the doorstep. Won’t you come inside? I insist—we share a drink.”

  He gestured toward the open doors of the fortress, where the dim glow of candlelight flickered within. The invitation hung between them, both polite and absolute.

  Celeste accepted his invitation with a respectful nod. “Thank you for your hospitality, Nallensen,” she said smoothly. “I am Celeste, Veil Keeper of Viridara, and this is my partner, Roland— Veil Keeper of the Worldborn.”

  Nallensen’s gaze shifted toward Roland, and for the first time, something flickered behind his composed expression. A brief moment of recognition, maybe even regret. Roland caught it, but before he could dwell on it, the Deathborn’s noble bearing returned, unreadable once more.

  The inside of the fortress was nothing like the decayed ruins he had expected. Instead, it resembled a noble’s estate, pristine and untouched by time. The air carried the faint scent of fresh flowers, carefully arranged in polished vases along the hallways. The floors gleamed, reflecting the flickering glow of elegant chandeliers overhead. Dozens of paintings adorned the walls, each depicting scenes of old battles, distant landscapes, and regal figures whose names had likely been lost to history.

  They were led into a lavishly furnished sitting room, where a long table had already been set with an immaculate tea service. Steam curled from delicate porcelain cups, the rich aroma of spiced tea filling the air. Roland’s eyes flicked toward the source of it—a living servant, standing off to the side, waiting silently.

  The whole scene felt surreal.

  He had braced himself for a graveyard of horrors, a cursed laboratory filled with failed experiments and restless dead. Instead, he found himself seated in the home of a man who had prepared tea for them like they were honored guests.

  And that, somehow, was far more unsettling.

  Celeste set down her teacup gently, her fingers lingering on the delicate porcelain. “Your hospitality is appreciated,” she said, her tone measured, “but I have to ask about the ones outside.” She didn’t press immediately, instead watching Nallensen carefully, waiting to see how he would respond. “The ones still walking the fortress grounds. They seem… lost.”

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  For the second time, something in Nallensen’s polished exterior wavered. His expression softened, the sadness in his eyes unmistakable. “Yes,” he murmured, looking toward the far wall as if he could see them even from here. “They are my failed experiments.”

  Roland, who had been gripping his cup without drinking, set it down. “Failed experiments?”

  Nallensen sighed, but there was no shame in his voice, only determination. “I am trying to extend the lives of the Worldborn,” he admitted. “Not just slow their aging, but truly extend it. And if they should fall? To bring them back.” He turned his gaze to Roland, and there was something almost hopeful in his expression. “I want to replicate the resurrection abilities of the gods.”

  Roland felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “And… can you?” He had become a follower of Mortana to try something similar but he had determined it was impossible. But maybe a Motherborn could do it.

  Nallensen smiled, but it wasn’t triumph. It was frustration. “Not yet. I have perfected the method of anchoring the soul—as you have likely seen. That was my first success.” He gestured toward the room as if inviting them to take in his surroundings. “I was even gifted an artifact, one that allows me to reanimate the body.”

  Roland glanced at Celeste, expecting anger, but she remained calm, only watching. Finally, she spoke. “That is not the natural order, Nallensen,” she said, her voice suggesting something deeper. “The dead should stay dead.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Nallensen tilted his head slightly, as if considering her words. Then, his smile returned, not cruel, not mocking—just understanding. He reached for his own cup, taking a slow sip before setting it down with perfect precision.

  “Then tell me, Celeste,” he said softly, “if the dead should stay dead… why are you here?”

  Roland stiffened.

  Celeste remained expressionless, but something in her posture shifted.

  Nallensen’s crimson eyes gleamed, and his gaze drifted just slightly—to her. Not the surface, not her body, but something beneath. “I recognise those cracks on your soul,” he murmured. “You wear them well.”

  Roland’s breath caught.

  Celeste didn’t react with anger. She sat still, her fingers resting lightly on the rim of her cup, her gaze dropping just slightly. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but the heaviness in it was unmistakable.

  “I wish I hadn’t been brought back,” she admitted. “I understand what I am. A mistake. A sin against the natural order.”

  Roland turned to her, surprised at the regret in her tone. He had always known she carried the burden of her past, but he had never heard her speak of it with such finality.

  Nallensen regarded her thoughtfully, tilting his head just slightly. “Gods cannot sin against the natural order,” he said. “They are the order. They create it, define it. If they will something, then it is natural.”

  Celeste finally lifted her gaze to meet his. “No,” she said, firm but still quiet. “The gods did not create the order. The Mother Tree did.”

  Something shifted in the air between them.

  Nallensen’s smile remained, but the room grew tense, an unspoken challenge hanging between them. Roland tensed, sensing the conversation slipping into dangerous territory. But before it could go any further, Nallensen leaned back and folded his hands together.

  “Tell me, Celeste,” he said, changing the subject with deliberate ease, “how many other Worldborn partners have you had?”

  Celeste blinked, caught off guard.

  She hesitated, but there was no point in lying. “Roland is my fifth.”

  Nallensen nodded, as if confirming something to himself. He lifted his cup once more, letting the pause settle before he finally spoke.

  “I have watched forty-seven,” he said.

  Roland inhaled sharply, and even Celeste stiffened slightly.

  “Forty-seven Worldborn partners,” Nallensen continued. “Each one I trained, fought beside, called my friend.” His crimson eyes darkened. “And I watched every one of them grow old and die.”

  He exhaled, the weight of those words hanging between them. “Each one left a scar. Some of them were the best I had ever known.” He looked to Celeste, then to Roland. “And you would tell me that the natural order is just? That it is fair?” His voice remained composed, but there was an edge to it now, a controlled grief buried beneath centuries of practised nobility.

  “How is it not perverse,” he said, “that one race should walk the worlds forever, while the other lives but a handful of breaths?”

  Celeste tensed, her grip tightening around the edge of the table. When she spoke, the measured restraint she had carried throughout the conversation snapped.

  “You should be careful,” she said sharply. “You’re starting to sound suspiciously like Edward the Rebel.”

  Nallensen let out a soft chuckle, unbothered by her anger. “Or perhaps he was Edward the Revolutionary,” he mused, swirling the tea in his cup before taking another slow sip.

  Roland glanced between them, sensing something deeper in the exchange. He didn’t know who Edward was, but he could guess. Someone who had tried to rebel against the gods, someone who had likely shaken the foundations of the Veil Keepers themselves. And from the way Celeste reacted, it was clear his name was not one spoken lightly.

  His thoughts should have been focused on the danger, on the fortress full of the undead, on the Deathborn noble before him who had anchored souls to rotting bodies. But instead, something shifted in his perception.

  When he had first laid eyes on the walking corpses outside, he had assumed Nallensen was a monster. A necromancer, twisting death into something grotesque for his own gain. But sitting here now, listening to him speak, Roland wasn’t so sure anymore.

  Nallensen was not some power-hungry sorcerer raising an army of the dead. He was a man who had lived too long and too close to the Worldborn. A man racked with guilt, grief, and regret.

  For the first time, Roland wondered if he even had the right to judge him.

  Roland could see the tension in Celeste’s posture, the way her shoulders had drawn tight, the anger barely held in check. She was close to losing control. If he let this continue, it would spiral into something neither of them could take back.

  So he did the only thing he could—he stepped in.

  “What about you, Nallensen?” Roland asked, keeping his voice even. “Why are you here? What’s your purpose?”

  The shift was immediate. Nallensen’s sharp features brightened, the quiet sorrow in his expression replaced with genuine excitement.

  “I was beginning to think you’d never ask,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “I am searching for a way to restore the body, to repair the damage that time and death inflict upon it. Anchoring the soul was only the first step, reanimating the body, the second. But neither of these things fix what was lost. What I need—what I have spent lifetimes searching for—is a way to regenerate the flesh itself.”

  Roland’s mind pieced together the logic before Nallensen even finished.

  “This is a world of the Lifeborn,” Nallensen continued, gesturing subtly around them. “The domain of Viridius. If such a thing exists anywhere, it would be here.”

  Then, his gaze turned toward Celeste.

  “And you, Celeste. You are a Lifeborn priest. You wield Viridius’ power. Tell me—can you help me?”

  For the first time since they had arrived, Celeste hesitated.

  Roland turned to her, watching the conflict flicker across her face. He expected her to dismiss him outright, to tell him his research was blasphemy and that she wouldn’t entertain the idea. But she didn’t.

  Instead, she took a slow breath and met Nallensen’s gaze.

  “I need to think about it,” she said finally.

  Roland’s brows furrowed. “Celeste—”

  She held up a hand, silencing him before he could argue. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was steady when she spoke.

  “Healing something that is alive is one thing,” she said. “But restoring something that Mortana has already claimed… That is something else entirely.” She exhaled, the weight of her own words settling between them. “I do not believe it is possible. Not unless one were a god themselves.”