Ron blinked a few times, trying to fully wake from the haze of sleep. The sunlight filtered through the palm leaves above, casting dappled light across the sand. The gentle rustling of the wind and the sound of water still lingered in the air.
The girl by the oasis stood up slowly, brushing a few strands of short black hair from her face. Her golden-yellow eyes caught the morning light, sharp yet serene—like the first glint of dawn on untouched sand. Her skin was a warm brown, sun-kissed yet smooth, and there was an effortless strength in the way she carried herself.
She wore a white dress—simple, light, and flowing gently in the breeze. The fabric moved with her as she approached, soft and clean despite the dust of the desert. The contrast between the white of the dress and her skin made her presence even more striking, like a vision that didn't quite belong in this harsh landscape.
She was just a little taller than Ron, but the way she walked made her seem even more composed, more grounded—like she'd been walking through this desert for far longer than he had.
"You've been asleep for a while," she said casually, hands resting on her hips. "I was starting to wonder if I'd found a statue instead of a person."
Ron pushed himself up to a sitting position, still trying to wrap his head around everything. "I... wasn't expecting company," he murmured.
"Well, neither was I," she replied with a shrug. "But this place doesn't seem the type to let people pass by without a reason."
Her smile lingered, just enough to soften her sharp gaze. Ron couldn't tell if she was being friendly or just amused by his confusion—but for the first time in days, he didn't feel completely alone.
"Got a name?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, a curious glint in her golden eyes.
Ron hesitated, his mind stalling as the question echoed in his ears. It should've been a simple thing—just say his name. But in this world, where nothing felt familiar anymore, even something as basic as identity had become complicated.
Should he give his real name? The one from his old life—the life of a normal boy playing games in a cramped bedroom? Or should he use the name tied to this body? The name of the one who was supposed to live this life?
He lowered his gaze for a moment, the cool morning breeze brushing gently across his face. There was no clear answer. But deep inside, he felt that calling himself "Ron" here was like clinging to something that no longer existed. This body… this face… this world… they belonged to someone else. Someone called Robin of Loxley.
After what felt like an eternity packed into a heartbeat, he finally spoke, his voice quiet but certain. "Robin… of Loxley."
The girl's expression shifted subtly. Her eyes flickered with recognition, her brow arching ever so slightly.
"Robin?" she murmured, almost to herself. Her tone wasn't surprised, exactly—but it carried a weight, as though the name had stirred a distant memory or confirmed something unspoken.
She didn't question him further right away. Instead, she just looked at him for a moment longer, as if reevaluating what she thought she knew.
Ron—no, Robin—felt the name settle on him like a mantle. Heavy at first, unfamiliar. But not entirely wrong.
And for a fleeting second, he wondered if she somehow knew the truth—or if she simply recognized the legend behind the name.
Robin cleared his throat, the name still lingering on his tongue like something freshly forged. The silence between them stretched—not awkward, but charged, like the calm before an arrow is loosed from its string.
He looked at the girl again, noting the way the light danced in her golden eyes, the way she seemed both present and distant, like a dream half-remembered.
"And what about you?" he asked, his voice steadier now. "You asked for my name. Seems fair I ask for yours."
The girl tilted her head again, that ever-present trace of a smile touching her lips. She turned away from him slightly, gaze drifting to the glistening pool of water beside them.
"For now," she said, "you can just call me… Caster."
"Caster?" Robin echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Like… a Servant class?"
She turned her head slightly, offering him a sidelong glance. "Exactly like that."
Robin stiffened a little. The term wasn't unfamiliar. He'd heard it before—somewhere between faded memories and fragmented dreams, between moments of waking and sleep. The Holy Grail War. Servants. Masters. Warped echoes of a game he once played now haunting the edges of reality.
"You're actually a Servant?" he asked carefully.
"Mm-hmm," she hummed with a small nod. "Summoned by this world—or maybe by something else entirely. Hard to say." She stretched her arms above her head lazily, like she had all the time in the world. "But yes. Caster, as in the one who weaves the unseen threads."
Robin frowned, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a silent challenge.
"Then… where's your Master?"
The girl's golden eyes met his, and for the first time since they'd spoken, the playful glint in them faded. Her smile fell away, replaced by something quieter—tinged with loneliness, or perhaps resignation.
"There isn't one," she said, voice soft but unwavering. "No Master. No command seals. No orders to follow."
She paused for a moment, watching his reaction before continuing with a half-shrug. "You could say I'm a… rough Servant. Unrefined. Unclaimed. Just drifting along until something worth following comes along."
"Rough…?" Robin echoed, puzzled by the phrasing. He opened his mouth to question it, but before he could, her gaze flicked downward—scanning his worn leather armor and the dark green cloak that not far from where he was sleeping earlier.
"That yours?" she asked, her tone casual, but her eyes sharp.
Robin glanced at his armor and cloak instinctively. "Yeah," he replied. "Feels like it is, anyway."
"Mhm." She nodded, but there was a trace of amusement in her voice now, as though some invisible puzzle piece had just clicked into place in her mind.
Her eyes returned to his face, and the corners of her lips curled up in a sly smile.
"So… Robin of Loxley, was it?"
He nodded once.
"Any chance," she said slowly, almost teasingly, "that you're the Robin of Loxley? You know… the legendary outlaw? The noble thief who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor? The archer who turned the forests into his own kingdom?"
Robin stiffened at her words. There it was again—that name. Not just the name, but the legend attached to it. A myth carried through centuries, romanticized and reshaped, until it was more story than truth. Yet now, it wasn't just a story. It was him. At least, that's what this world wanted him to be.
The identity people expected from him.
And yet, despite the confusion that churned in his chest like a storm, something deep inside responded.
A pull—not of memory, but of instinct. He could almost feel it: the tension of a bowstring drawn tight, the weight of a quiver slung across his back. The whisper of the wind through trees, and laughter echoing in a forest clearing. Echoes of a life that didn't belong to him… and yet now was him.
So he answered, slowly, the words tasting strange in his mouth.
"…Yeah. Maybe I am."
Caster watched him with those sharp golden eyes, then gave a faint smile, as if she'd expected the answer long before he said it.
"Huh," she murmured, brushing a few strands of black hair from her face. "No wonder I could sense your mana… Looks like you're a Servant too. Just like me."
Robin blinked. "Wait, what?"
She crossed her arms with an amused tilt of her head. "Come on. You're practically radiating magical energy. It's faint—probably unstable—but it's there. And that cloak… that aura... I'd say you're most likely a Servant of the Archer class, no?"
"Uh… yeah? Maybe?" Robin replied, wincing at how unconvincing he sounded.
Caster narrowed her eyes slightly, the amusement in her voice shifting toward concern. "You guess? That's not really the kind of thing most Servants are unsure about."
Robin scratched the back of his head, eyes darting away. "It's… complicated."
"Hm. I'm starting to think everything about you is," she said, only half-joking. "You've been hesitant since the moment you opened your mouth. Like every word has to pass through a dozen layers of doubt."
She stepped closer now, studying his face as if searching for cracks in the mask he wore. Then, gently, she asked, "Is there something wrong?"
Robin hesitated. A long pause. His heart beat a little faster. Was this the part where he told her the truth? That he wasn't a real Servant at all—just a regular guy who'd somehow ended up in a world of heroes and magic, trapped inside a legendary figure's body?
No. Not yet. He wasn't ready for that. He barely understood it himself.
So he lied.
"…Maybe it's because I lost my memory," he said quietly. "As a Servant, I mean."
Caster's expression softened, concern flickering across her face. "Oh… Amnesia, huh?"
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I woke up here with just a few fragments. Feelings. Instincts. Like I know how to fight, how to move, but… not much else."
It wasn't the whole truth. But it was close enough to believe.
Caster looked away for a moment, her voice dropping into something quieter. "That… actually explains a lot. It happens, you know. Not often, but sometimes a Servant can be summoned improperly, or under unstable conditions. Memories get lost in the transfer. You lose who you were."
Her gaze returned to him. "But if that's the case… then we'll figure it out. You're not the only lost soul in this messed up world."
Robin blinked, a bit caught off-guard. "We?"
She smiled again, this time with a bit more warmth. "Yeah. You don't think I'm just gonna leave a confused Archer wandering around alone, do you? That'd be bad karma."
He chuckled faintly despite himself. "You say that like you're some kind of saint."
"I said karma, not sainthood," she replied, smirking. "Big difference."
And for a moment—just a moment—Robin felt the knot in his chest loosen, just a bit. Maybe he was still lost. Maybe he was pretending to be something he wasn't.
But at least… he wasn't alone.