The blade pressed harder. Not enough to break skin yet, but close enough that Cel could feel exactly where the edge would part flesh if she decided to finish this. Hestia’s weight settled more firmly across his chest, crimson eyes fixed on his with an intensity that suggested patience was not among her current virtues.

“Talk.”

The word came flat. Final. A command rather than a request.

Cel’s mind raced through options with the cold efficiency of someone who’d calculated survival odds more times than he cared to count. His body was strong - divinely forged, enhanced beyond normal human limits. Lunar Vigor coursed through him even now, the moon’s light filtering through his window providing constant reinforcement.

He could throw her off. Probably.

His strength exceeded hers by far. One explosive movement - bucking upward while simultaneously grabbing her wrist - and he could break her positioning. Pin her instead. Turn this confrontation around before she processed what had happened.

The problem was her sword.

That crimson blade rested against his skin, cold and patient. If he moved wrong - if his timing was off by even a second - that blade would open his throat before he completed the motion.

Could his enhanced body withstand it?

The question gnawed at him. His flesh was more resilient than normal humans'. He'd taken a punch from a Hallowed that sent him skidding across the wasteland and gotten back up. He'd stood inside Esrin's World Creation while the pressure of it shredded rift-creatures around him into nothing, and walked away coughing blood rather than coming apart at the seams.

But this was different.

If her artifact was low-ranked - Blessed Grace like Cinderward - then maybe. Maybe his skin would resist the cut long enough for him to break free.

But he was certain - absolutely certain - that her weapon was not of Blessed Grace.

The advantages nobles possessed extended far beyond their cultivation and training. Yes, they inherited larger Divine Essence pools from bloodlines carefully maintained over generations. And they received their Calling with near-certainty that the same deity who marked their parents would mark them.

But the real advantage lay in artifacts.

Most Chosen received a single artifact at their first blessing - a weapon or armor tied to their patron deity, manifested at a grade that reflected the god’s favor for them. For most, Blessed Grace was standard. Functional but unremarkable.

Cel’s Silent Moon was special. A Heavenly-ranked artifact - third tier, exceptionally rare for a first blessing. That kind of weapon was a gift that came only with divine favor. Only with Selina’s direct involvement.

But nobles didn’t need their deities' favor to access higher-tier artifacts.

They could simply pass them on.

If someone shared the same blood with each other and bore marks from the same deity, they could pass artifacts between them. A father’s old blade could become his daughter’s inheritance. A mother’s treasure could arm her son. Generations of accumulated power flowing through bloodlines like inherited wealth.

Most noble children entered the Academy wielding artifacts their families had used for decades. Sometimes centuries.

Hestia was a Mortveil. The leading house of the Death Clan. A family whose hereditary gift came directly from their patron god.

That crimson longsword at his throat was almost certainly Heavenly-ranked at minimum. Possibly higher. The kind of weapon that would cut through his enhanced flesh like it was paper, divinely forged or not.

His survival instinct had done the calculation before his conscious mind caught up.

He had no safe option.

“Talk about what?” The words came out rougher than intended. The blade’s pressure made speaking difficult.

“Explain what I saw.” Hestia’s voice carried no inflection. Just cold certainty.

A pause. Her weight shifted slightly, and the blade pressed down another fraction.

“And don’t even think about lying. I’ll know.”

The threat in those words wasn’t loud or dramatic. It didn’t need to be. Her position, her weapon, her absolute composure - all of it conveyed the message clearly enough.

If he lied, she would end this in an instant.

Cel’s thoughts scrambled for purchase. A convincing explanation. Something that would satisfy her without revealing too much.

The vision she’d witnessed when he touched her wrist - him lying broken in ash, pierced by the Ashclaw Ravager, dying alone in the Hollow Realms. She’d seen his death. Seen him as he’d been in those final moments before resurrection.

He could claim it was someone else. A brother, maybe. The lie formed and dissolved in the same breath. Her trait would have felt the connection, knowing without a doubt that he wasn’t selling a story.

He could refuse to explain. Stay silent. Force her to either kill him or back down without getting answers.

But that had its own problems. If she killed him, well. Dead. If she backed down, she’d stay suspicious. Watchful. Waiting for another opportunity to extract the truth.

And beneath all of it lay the real danger.

She’d seen him dying. That alone wasn’t the crisis.

The problem was that she’d somehow identified his noble birth, thus holding the power to ruin his entire revenge.

Cel’s jaw tightened. His eyes fixed on hers - crimson meeting glacial blue in the dim light filtering through his window.

No convincing lie came.

So he told the truth. Part of it, at least.

“The boy you saw dying...” His voice came quiet. Steady despite the blade at his throat.

“That was me.”

Hestia’s expression didn’t shift. No surprise. No satisfaction. Just that same clinical assessment.

“How are you alive then?”

The question was reasonable. Logical. Anyone who’d seen what she’d seen would ask the same thing.

“A trait.” He kept his breathing even, controlled. “It resurrected me. Changed my appearance in the process.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then Hestia’s lips curved slightly.

“You expect me to believe that?” Her tone carried disbelief wrapped in something sharper. “A resurrection trait that transforms your entire body? That’s extraordinarily convenient.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Is it?”

Cel held her gaze without flinching.

"Esrin vouched for me, didn't she? Last night. When you called me a demon. Doesn't that count for something?"

The blade’s pressure eased slightly. Not removed - just a fractionally less immediate threat of death.

“What’s your relationship with her?” Hestia’s eyes narrowed. “The Hallowed doesn’t vouch for random students without reason.”

Cel’s mind worked through the answer. Truth and lie mixed carefully.

“After I came back. After resurrection.” He paused, letting the words settle. “Esrin found me and took me in.”

Another pause. This one more deliberate.

“As her apprentice.”

The addition came after a beat too quick. Unconvincing. A piece of information offered to fill the gap in his story.

He was part of the Reckoning. She’d brought him into that organization. Vouched for him there too, in her own cold way. The apprentice framing wasn’t entirely inaccurate - he trained, he learned, he followed her orders.

But it wasn’t the complete picture either.

Hestia’s crimson eyes studied him with renewed intensity. Searching for cracks in the story. Testing its weight against what she knew.

“You can ask her if you want,” Cel said.

He was betting everything on Esrin covering for him like she had before.

Seconds stretched.

The blade remained at his throat. Her weight still pinned him to the mattress. Crimson eyes boring into his without wavering.

Then she pulled the sword back.

The movement was controlled - deliberate rather than sudden. The blade lifted away from his throat, and the cold pressure disappeared.

“I’ll verify that.”

The words came flat. A statement of intent rather than a threat.

Hestia stood, her weight lifting off his chest. The release of pressure made breathing easier, though Cel hadn’t realized how much the constriction had affected him until it was gone.

He sat up slowly, one hand moving to his throat. His fingers came away red. She'd broken skin without him noticing.

His eyes tracked Hestia as she dismissed her artifact and adjusted her clothing. The crimson longsword dissolved into darkness, fading like smoke.

“Well.” Cel’s voice came dry. “This wasn’t how I imagined my first night with a woman.”

Hestia’s eyes cut toward him.

Sharp. Assessing. A look that could have drawn blood if looks possessed edges.

She held his gaze for one weighted moment. Then turned and left his room.

Cel sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the closed door.

His heart hammered against his ribs. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, making his hands shake slightly despite his best efforts to control them.

She was going to ask Esrin.

Going to verify his story about being her apprentice. About resurrection and transformation. About all of it.

Would Esrin cover for him?

She had to.

The alternative was exposure. The Reckoning’s connection to him revealed. His noble identity potentially uncovered. Everything he’d built since arriving at the Academy collapsing.

His jaw clenched.

He could do nothing about it now.

Cel lay back down on the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep wouldn’t come again tonight. Even exhaustion couldn’t override the tension thrumming through his body.

So he just lay there in the dark, listening to his own breathing, and wondered if he’d just made everything infinitely worse.