The Holy Order's camp was set just beyond the Scar, nestled against the cliffs. White tents dotted the ground like pieces on a game board. Nathan sat outside one of them, leg bandaged, ribs tightly wrapped, a mug of something hot and bitter in his hand.
He hadn't spoken much since they dragged him out. The paladins gave him space. Maybe out of respect. Maybe because they knew.
He stared at the fire, the crackling embers catching in his vision more than once.
He should've won. Four years of nonstop training, bleeding and burning and breaking just to be tossed aside like that. One mistake. That was all it took.
"You're lucky they were nearby," the healer from before said, sitting beside him with a sigh. She didn't look at him, just sipped her drink. "Most don't walk away from Scarspawn."
Nathan didn't answer. Just nodded.
"You've got power," she continued, "but you lack patience, and you let your emotions lead too much."
He finally turned. "Thanks."
"Not an insult." She shrugged. "We've all been there. Thinking strength equals power. It doesn't."
"I know," he muttered, eyes flicking back to the fire. "Doesn't mean it hurts less."
For a while, neither of them spoke.
When she left, Nathan was alone again.
The Order didn't question him much. They assumed he was a lone hunter, maybe a wandering mage. He didn't tell them otherwise. He didn't want their pity—or worse, their mentorship.
He wasn't ready to be a student again.
Later that night, he stood on a hill above the camp. The Scar still festered in the distance, glowing faintly like a wound that wouldn't heal.
He didn't feel fear.
He felt… quiet.
Like part of him had been torn out and replaced with a silence he didn't know what to do with.
This wasn't like the losses during training. Those came with lectures and bruises, not shattered bones and soul-deep exhaustion.
He hadn't just failed the mission.
He'd failed himself.
Nathan exhaled and looked down at his hand. The thread pendant Jynn had given him pulsed faintly, responding to his thoughts. The magic was still there—dormant, waiting.
Just like him.
"I'll get stronger," he said to no one. "Next time, I won't screw it up."
But the words didn't quite ring with the fire he expected.
They just sat there. Heavy.
Like everything else.
"You've got skill," came a voice behind him.
Nathan turned slightly. A tall man in white and gold armor approached, helm tucked beneath one arm. His hair was cropped short The sigil of the Holy Order—a radiant sword encircled by wings—shone on his chestplate.
"I've seen enough fools rush into danger," the knight continued. "But you? You are different. You can win. You can survive.
Nathan scoffed. "Barely."
The knight smirked. "Sometimes that's the only test that matters."
He stepped closer and extended a hand.
"Sir Caldan. Knight-Captain of the Holy Order. And I'm offering you something most don't get."
Nathan raised an eyebrow. "A invitation?"
"A purpose," Caldan corrected. "You've got potential. Magic. Reflexes. That strange glow you wield—Nova, was it? Combine that with what we can offer… You could be more than a lone wanderer chasing monsters. You could be a shield. A sword. A force that matters."
Nathan looked at the hand for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he shook it.
The journey back to Aramore was quiet. Caldan didn't press for details about Nathan's past, and Nathan didn't offer them. There was an unspoken agreement between them: what mattered was ahead, not behind.
They rode on horseback through fields tinged with gold, through crumbling towns clinging to old borders, past broken watchtowers and still-burning ruins. The aftermath of unrest was everywhere.
Yet the Holy Order moved with purpose. Always helping. Always vigilant.
Nathan took note.
By the fifth day, Aramore rose on the horizon.
It was nothing like Bellmare.
Massive stone walls towered above the trees, shimmering with embedded enchantments. Massive gates opened to wide, spiraling streets lined with vendors, lanterns, and guards. The sky itself seemed brighter over the city, as if the sun respected this place more than the rest.
As they passed through the gates, Caldan leaned toward him.
"Welcome to Aramore. Home of the Grand Spire, the Lightforged Vaults… and the trading center of the world."
Nathan's eyes narrowed. There was power here—raw, refined, ancient. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, something deep in him stirred.
Not peace.
Not relief.
But a sense of momentum.
The kind that comes before something big.