"Hey trash."

Cel's hands stilled on his fork.

Kyros Solgrand stood at the end of their table, flanked by two other Sun Clan nobles. His fire-red hair caught the lamplight, amber eyes bright with something cruel.

"I couldn't help but notice." He gestured at their uniforms, at the crescent moon embroidered over the heart. "You're Moon Chosen."

Lior went rigid beside Cel. His fork clattered against his plate, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet that had fallen over nearby tables. His shoulders hunched inward as if trying to make himself smaller.

"Yes." Cel kept his voice neutral.

Kyros's smile widened. "How... unfortunate."

He moved closer, circling their table like a predator assessing prey. His companions remained at the end, blocking ways.

"The Moon Goddess." Kyros spoke loud enough that nearby conversations died, students turning to watch. "The weakest deity. The forgotten one. The goddess who can't even maintain a single Great Clan."

His hand landed on Cel's shoulder - fingers digging in.

"Must be hard, knowing you'll never amount to anything. That your blessing is worthless."

Lior's hands had curled into fists beneath the table. His breathing quickened.

Cel forced his muscles to relax. Forced his jaw to unclench.

"We serve who chose us," he said quietly.

"Do you?" Kyros leaned closer, breath hot against Cel's ear. "Or do you just accept your pathetic fate because you're too weak to demand better?"

The rage that had been simmering since Kyros appeared flared brighter. Cel's vision tunneled. His hands trembled with the effort of keeping them still.

He could break Kyros's nose. Right now. One strike, perfectly placed, and the smug bastard would be choking on his own blood.

But if a commoner struck a noble - even in self-defense - the punishment was severe. Imprisonment. Public humiliation. In some cases even execution. The Empire's laws protected nobility with brutal efficiency, and the Academy wouldn't shield him from those consequences.

The unspoken truth was obvious - nobles operated under different standards. Not just in sparring. In everything. They could strike commoners with minimal repercussions. But the reverse? That was a crime against the social order itself.

So Cel just sat there. Took it. Let Kyros's words wash over him like rain.

"Nothing to say?" Kyros squeezed harder, nails digging through fabric. "That's what I thought. Moon Chosen are always like that. Weak. Pathetic."

He released his grip and straightened, turning to address the watching students.

"Remember this, everyone. What do you call Chosen of the weakest goddess?" He paused, smile widening. "Trash. Nothing but blessed trash."

Laughter rippled through some of the tables. Not all - several looked uncomfortable. But enough that Kyros's smile grew.

He walked away, his companions following. Their laughter echoed across the dining hall.

Cel's hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the table, fingers splayed wide.

Lior simply stared down at his plate, paralyzed by what just happened.

Eventually, he excused himself. Exhaustion lined his features, shoulders slumped with the weight of the day.

Cel remained. He finished his meal in silence. The dining hall's energy had shifted - conversations more subdued now, glances occasionally drifting toward his isolated corner.

He ate mechanically, tasting nothing. His mind replayed the confrontation over and over. Each word. Each laugh. The feeling of Kyros's fingers digging into his shoulder like he had every right to do so.

When his plate was empty, Cel stood and left.

Hours later, the training grounds lay silent beneath moonlight.

Cel crossed the threshold, boots crunching against packed earth. Empty weapon racks. Archery targets standing like sentinels. The space felt vast without other students filling it.

He shrugged off his upper uniform like always, letting it fall to the ground beside him. The night air was cold against his skin, but Lunar Vigor flooded through him under the moon's light.

He moved to the center and stopped. Breathed. Let the day's accumulated tension settle in his muscles like coiled springs.

Silent Moon materialized in his grip.

Then he moved.

The blade sang through air, cutting patterns driven by pure fury. He moved through the Chosen Legion forms he'd been practicing - each one executed with divine strength behind it, each one brutal in application.

Hours blurred together.

Cel kept going.

Until finally… the rage began to drain away. Not gone. Never truly gone. But manageable again. Locked back in whatever dark corner of his mind it usually inhabited.

The blade completed its arc. Cel's muscles burned, sweat cooling on his bare chest despite the chill—

Footsteps.

His body went rigid mid-stance. Silent Moon hung suspended in the air as he turned.

Lady Hestia Mortveil stood at the edge of the training grounds.

The moonlight caught her jet-black hair, making it gleam like polished obsidian. Her crimson eyes studied him with an intensity that made his breath catch.

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then her gaze dropped. Lower.

Suddenly, Cel became very aware of the cold against his skin. Heat flooded his face. He dismissed Silent Moon with a thought and lunged for his discarded uniform, fumbling with the fabric as he yanked it over his head.

"Lady Hestia." His voice came out rougher than intended. He straightened, adjusting his collar. "I apologize. I didn't realize the grounds were occupied."

A beat of silence.

"They weren't." Her tone was neutral, almost clinical. She walked past him toward the far side without another glance.

Cel just stood there, uncertain. Should he leave? Continue?

Hestia sank to the ground in a meditative pose. Her hands rested on her knees, palms upward. The night seemed to gather around her like a cloak, shadows deepening in her presence.

She was replenishing her Divine Essence. It made sense - the Death God's domain aligned with darkness, with the stillness of night. Divine Essence recovered fastest when immersed in the right environment. Ocean Chosen would seek water. Moon Chosen would need moonlight.

Not that it mattered to him. There was no need to replenish one's Divine Essence when you had none.

Cel re-summoned Silent Moon and returned to his forms.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the whisper of his blade through air and the distant sound of wind through empty weapon racks.

Like that, the days blurred into routine.

Sparring matches carved the class into a predictable hierarchy. Nobles on top. Commoners below.

"Blessed trash."

Kyros's voice cut across the courtyard. His hand shoved Lior's shoulder, sending him stumbling. Laughter from the other Sun Clan nobles.

Lior kept his eyes down. Cel's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Took it. Like always.

The confrontations came and went like weather - predictable, unavoidable. But something puzzled Cel about the nobles' behavior. In the tavern, the barkeeper had spoken of political factions regarding the throne’s succession. Yet here, they seemed unified. Cordial, even.

The reason for that was simple: Theron.

He moved through them all like sunlight through water - effortless, warm. The nobles gravitated toward him naturally. Perhaps they'd all received the same instructions to cultivate the All-Blessed's favor. To leverage that connection later when the succession fight began in earnest.

Sylvaine ensured the Life Clan maintained the closest position. Always at Theron's side, always visible, always reinforcing their clan's support.

Only Hestia remained apart.

She sat alone during meals, moved through training exercises in isolation. The other students kept their distance. Whether from the Death Clan's tainted reputation or simple wariness of Raven's sister, Cel couldn't say.

Night fell.

Cel arrived at the training grounds first, as usual. He'd barely summoned Silent Moon when footsteps announced Hestia's arrival.

She crossed to her meditation spot without acknowledgment. Settled into stillness.

Cel moved through his forms. The blade traced familiar patterns, his body flowing from one position to the next with increasing fluidity.

An hour passed. Then another.

When Cel paused to catch his breath, he glanced toward Hestia's meditation spot. Over the past weeks, she'd been inching nearer. Subtle. Gradual. Never speaking. Never explaining.

But close enough now that he could hear the faint rhythm of her breathing when the wind stilled.

Why?

The only connection between them was Raven. But she couldn't possibly know about his encounter with her brother. Couldn't know about his noble blood, his true identity.

All she could see was what everyone else saw - a commoner Moon Chosen with unusually developed muscles and no Divine Essence. He had explanations for both. Nothing remarkable.

Yet she'd shown interest from the very beginning. From that first day, her crimson eyes had tracked him with an intensity that suggested she saw something others missed.

‘It couldn't possibly be my looks, right?’

Cel's next strike faltered slightly. His eyes cut toward her meditating form - jet-black hair spilling over pale shoulders, crimson eyes closed in concentration, the faint outline of her slender frame perfectly still despite the cold.

He shook his head and returned to the forms, pushing the ridiculous thought away.

Silent Moon whispered through the air, cutting patterns that had become as natural as breathing.

The week wore on. Classes during the day, silent training at night. Hestia's presence became as constant as the moonlight itself - always there, always watching when she thought he wouldn't notice, always inching closer with each passing evening.

Whatever she wanted, she kept it to herself.

Morning light filtered through the dining hall's tall windows, painting the long tables in shades of gold and amber.

Students clustered near the entrance, voices rising in excited chatter. Cel pushed through the crowd until he could see what held their attention.

A board had been mounted on the wall during their off-day.

Names filled it in descending order, each accompanied by a number. The rankings.