"Would you mind giving me your seat?"

The girl Hestia had addressed went pale. Her hands scrambled to gather her belongings - quill, parchment, the small bag she'd brought - all of it swept up in graceless haste.

"Of course, my lady. My apologies—I didn't mean—"

She fled up the stairs toward the higher rows, nearly tripping in her haste. The boy who'd been sitting beside her followed without being asked, abandoning the bench entirely.

Hestia settled into the vacated seat without acknowledgment. As if it belonged to her from the beginning.

Cel glanced back over his shoulder.

She sat with perfect posture, hands folded in her lap, crimson eyes fixed straight ahead at nothing in particular.

He turned back around.

Instructor Saren had gone rigid at the podium, her jaw tight. For a moment, she seemed to struggle with whether to address what had just happened.

Then she cleared her throat and consulted her scroll again.

"Lady Cordelia Tidecall of House Tidecall, Ocean Clan. Chosen of the Ocean Goddess and Heir to House Tidecall."

The name settled in Cel's chest with familiar weight.

Tidecall. His mother's birth house. The leading family of the Ocean Clan.

His cousin.

The door opened.

A girl entered with the kind of grace that came from a lifetime of formal training. Light blue hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and her gray-blue eyes swept the room with calm assessment. The Ocean Goddess's mark adorned her uniform: three rising blades flanked by wave-like curves.

She moved to the podium, offered a brief bow that managed to be both respectful and composed, then descended to claim her seat in the front row.

Cel watched her settle into position, his expression carefully neutral.

Even though they were related, he'd never met Cordelia. His father had kept him isolated from most gatherings. Why parade a disappointment when you had a prodigy like Darian to show off?

Still. She was family. Someone who might connect dots if he revealed too much.

‘I'll need to avoid her.’

"Lord Percival Tempest of House Tempest, Storm Clan. Chosen of the Storm Goddess and Heir to House Tempest."

Another heir. House Tempest had claimed leadership after two rival houses destroyed each other in a brutal conflict for control.

The boy who entered carried himself with the particular wariness of someone who'd learned early that power was never secure. Silver-white hair. Emerald eyes that scanned the room like he was calculating threats.

Percival descended to his seat without ceremony.

The introductions continued. More nobles. More uniforms that cost more than most commoners earned in a year. Some carried themselves with arrogance. Others with carefully neutral politeness. All of them claimed the front three rows without question.

"Kyros Solgrand of House Solgrand, Sun Clan. Chosen of the Sun God."

Cel's hands curled into fists beneath the desk, knknuckles going white.

Solgrand. The house carried weight within the Sun Clan, and Kyros had never hesitated to throw it around.

The memory surfaced sharp and clear - being shoved into the ground while Kyros laughed. "Careful, Celvian. Wouldn't want you to embarrass House Solmar more than you already do."

Every petty cruelty had been delivered with that same casual amusement. As if tormenting the untalented son of a Noble House was just another form of entertainment.

Cel's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

The boy who entered looked exactly as Cel remembered. Fire-red hair. Amber eyes that held casual cruelty. The Sun God's mark blazed across his uniform - a radiant sun with pointed rays.

Everything in Cel screamed to move. To stand. To cross the room and drive his fist through that smug face until the bones shattered.

But he stayed frozen in his seat, breath coming careful and controlled.

Kyros's gaze swept the tiered rows as he walked to the podium. For just a moment, it passed over Cel without recognition.

The urge to violence drained away, replaced by something colder. Sharper.

‘You don't know me anymore.’

The thought carried savage satisfaction.

‘You never will. Not until it's too late.’

Then Kyros claimed his seat, and Instructor Saren closed her scroll.

"All of you now represent this Academy together. I expect cooperation. Respect. And adherence to the standards we've established."

Her tone suggested she expected none of those things.

"Today's lesson focuses on proper introduction etiquette. You've all studied this - commoners in your evening classes, nobles through your private tutors. Now you'll practice."

She gestured broadly at the assembled students.

"Form pairs. One will play the role of a noble, the other a commoner."

Movement erupted immediately - students rising, searching for partners. The nobles remained seated, waiting to be approached.

Lior turned to Cel. "Should we—"

A shadow fell across their desk.

Hestia stood in the aisle beside them, crimson eyes fixed on Cel.

"Shall we pair together?"

The request landed with the weight of a command dressed in courtesy. Every nearby student went still, conversations dying mid-word.

Cel's mind raced.

A commoner had no right to refuse a noble's request. Not with so many eyes watching. Doing so would be an insult - grounds for punishment, possibly expulsion.

And she knew that.

"It would be a pleasure, lady Hestia."

The words tasted like ash, but he stood and gestured for her to lead.

Lior watched them go with wide eyes, uncertain what to do.

Hestia moved to an empty corner of the classroom, away from the clusters of practicing students. Cel followed, acutely aware of the attention tracking them.

When they stopped, she turned to face him fully.

"I'll play the commoner first," she said. "You'll be the noble."

Cel blinked. That was... backwards. Nobles practiced being nobles, commoners practiced deference. Reversing it served no obvious purpose.

But he nodded. "Understood."

They positioned themselves - standing at the proper distance, postures straight.

Hestia's expression shifted subtly. The perfect composure cracked just enough to show uncertainty. Nervousness. Her shoulders drew inward slightly, her gaze lowered.

A perfect imitation of a commoner meeting nobility.

She bowed - deeper than necessary, holding the position a beat too long.

"My lord," she said, her voice carrying just the right tremor of anxiety. "It is an honor to meet you. I am Hestia, a humble servant of the Death God."

The performance was flawless. Too flawless.

Cel played along, falling back on old training.

"Rise. Your devotion is noted."

She straightened, maintaining that false uncertainty with perfect discipline.

They went through the full ritual - questions about lineage, polite acknowledgment, the careful dance of social hierarchy.

"We'll reverse positions," she said when they finished.

Now Cel bowed - commoner to noble. The motions came automatically, drilled into him during the etiquette classes.

"My lady," he said. "It is an honor. I am Celvian, a humble servant of the Moon Goddess."

Hestia's crimson eyes studied him throughout the introduction. Not his words or his posture - she watched his eyes. As if searching for something beneath the surface.

"You may rise."

He straightened.

"Your goddess is... uncommon." Her tone carried no judgment. Just observation. "Do you find difficulty in that?"

"The Moon Goddess chose me," Cel said carefully. "I serve her will."

"A diplomatic answer." Something that might have been approval flickered across her features. "Tell me, Celvian - are you devoted to her?"

The question landed with unexpected weight.

"Yes, my lady," Cel said. "Completely."

It wasn't a lie. The Moon Goddess had given him everything when he had nothing. A second chance. Power. Purpose.

"I see." Hestia's crimson eyes held his for a long moment, as if measuring the truth of his words.

Silence stretched between them.

"You may return to your seat," Hestia said finally.

Cel bowed once more and turned away.

As he climbed back to where Lior waited, he felt those crimson eyes tracking his movement. Watching. Assessing.

What did she want?

He didn't have an answer by the time afternoon training began. The sun beat down on the training grounds as students assembled in loose formation. Instructor Calder stood at the center, arms crossed, his scarred face unreadable.

Cel had barely settled into position when the instructor's gaze found him.

"Celvian."

The name carried across the yard like a blade. Every head turned.

"You missed morning conditioning."

"Yes, Instructor." No excuse. No explanation.

Calder's jaw tightened. "We'll address that in a moment. But first—I have an announcement."

He gestured broadly at the assembled students.

"Starting today, we're implementing a ranking system for combat training. Any student may challenge another to a sparring match. Winners climb the ladder. Losers fall."

Murmurs rippled through the group. Noble students straightened, interest sparking in their eyes.

"Your final rank affects recruitment opportunities after graduation," Calder continued. "The Chosen Legion scouts these rankings. So do the Mercenary Guild and even the Great Clans. A high rank opens doors. A low rank..." He let the implication hang.

Cel's thoughts churned.

After graduation. Where would he go?

The Chosen Legion was the obvious choice. His mother served there now - which made it perfect. She'd be within reach when the time came.

Or the Sun Clan. Return to the place that had cast him out. Find Darian. Find his father. Make them pay.

The thought burned cold and sharp.

But walking back into Sun Clan territory carried risks. His white hair and resurrected body had transformed him beyond recognition. Still, someone might eventually form the connection.

Unless he went elsewhere first. Built strength in another clan. Disappear into obscurity while he grew strong enough to return and destroy them all properly.

"Celvian."

Calder's voice snapped him back to attention.

Heat crawled up his neck as every eye fixed on him. He'd been caught not paying attention. Again.

"Since you missed this morning's session and seem determined to waste my time this afternoon as well," Calder's tone could have frozen water, "you'll demonstrate our new system. First match. Right now."

The words landed like stones. Around him, students shifted - commoners looking nervous, nobles carefully neutral.

Cel's jaw tightened, but he stepped forward.

"Who wants to face him?"

Silence answered.

The commoner students avoided eye contact, clearly unwilling to risk injury against someone who'd demonstrated unusual strength during training. The nobles simply looked bored, as if fighting a commoner wasn't worth their time.

Seconds stretched.

Then movement from the noble group.

A hand rose.

Owen Peakscale stepped forward, that same grin splitting his face.

"I'll fight him."