“The examination will take place in the Life Clan territory.”

The announcement landed like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples of reaction spread immediately through the classroom - whispers erupting in overlapping waves, students leaning toward neighbors with sudden urgency.

Cel’s attention sharpened despite his exhaustion. Life Clan territory meant forests. Dense vegetation.

Something grabbed his arm.

Lior had twisted in his seat, fingers digging into Cel’s sleeve with enough force to wrinkle the fabric. His sky-blue eyes were wide, excitement radiating from every line of his face.

“Did you hear that?” The words came out half-whisper, half-shout. “Life Clan! That’s—that’s where I’m from!”

Cel blinked, processing this information he hadn’t known. “Your village is in Life Clan territory?”

“Yes!” Lior’s grip tightened further. “We might pass right through it. We might actually—” His voice cracked. “Do you think I’ll get to see my parents?”

The hope in those words was almost painful to witness. Raw and unguarded in a way that made Cel acutely aware of how different their circumstances were. Lior had parents who loved him. A home he’d left behind but could return to. People who’d be genuinely happy to see him again.

“How big is your village?” Cel asked, keeping his tone practical.

“Big!” Lior’s expression remained bright. “Maybe two hundred people? We even have a healer. My mother's her assistant, actually - I told you before, remember? ”

Cel nodded, though he couldn’t recall the specific conversation. Too many things competed for attention in his overcrowded mind.

“If it’s that size, and on one of the main routes...” He considered the logistics. “Then yes. It’s quite possible we’ll pass through.”

Lior’s entire face transformed. The worry and fear that usually marked his features vanished completely, replaced by something that looked like pure joy. “I could introduce you,” he said quickly. “My mother would love to meet you. She always says—”

A bench scraped against stone.

Cel’s gaze snapped toward the sound.

Theron had stood, his brown hair catching afternoon light from the windows. His expression carried that particular earnestness that characterized everything he did.

“This truly is a blessing!” His voice projected across the entire classroom, loud enough that every conversation died mid-word. “That we get to see the great woods - it’s a sight to behold. We’re lucky that Life Clan was chosen for this examination.”

Several students turned to stare at him. A few nobles nodded in agreement. Most of the commoners just looked uncomfortable with the sudden attention.

Instructor Saren’s expression went flat.

“Silence.” Her voice cut through the space like a blade. “I was not finished explaining.”

Theron blinked, seeming to realize only then that he’d interrupted. “Oh. My apologies, Instructor.” He sat back down with the same enthusiasm he’d shown standing, apparently unbothered by the correction.

Saren’s jaw worked slightly. Then she turned her attention back to the class as a whole, posture rigid with controlled annoyance.

“As I was saying.” Each word carried deliberate weight. “The examination will take place in Life Clan territory. Specifically, we will travel to Verdanthold.”

Cel’s mind tracked through what he knew about that location. Verdanthold was the Life Clan’s current main city - a city built among ancient trees that had supposedly grown there since before the Void Catastrophe. It was where House Groveheart maintained their rule.

“Lady Morgana Groveheart has graciously extended an invitation for the Academy to conduct the examination in Life Clan lands.” Instructor Saren continued. “She will provide accommodation and logistical support during our stay in Verdanthold.”

The name settled over Cel with uncomfortable recognition.

Morgana Groveheart. Leader of House Groveheart, and by extension, leader of the entire Life Clan. One of the seven people who commanded the Empire’s greatest military and political forces.

But she was more commonly known by a different name.

The Crimson Witch.

This title had emerged decades ago, during the campaigns to reclaim territory lost to rift-creatures. Stories varied about its origin - some said it came from the way her abilities turned battlefields red with blood. Others claimed it referenced the color of her hair, which supposedly darkened from its natural auburn to deep crimson when she ascended.

What everyone agreed on was that in a field battle, no one was stronger than her.

House Groveheart had held leadership of the Life Clan for three generations now. Morgana’s grandmother had seized that position through a combination of political maneuvering and raw capability. Her daughter had maintained it through similar means. And now Morgana herself commanded with the kind of authority that made other Great Clan leaders think twice before challenging Life Clan interests.

“House Grovethorn will also be present,” Saren said, her tone remaining clinical. “They will hold authority over the Academy’s stay in Verdanthold, managing the practical aspects of accommodation and coordination with local forces.”

That name registered differently. House Grovethorn - Sylvaine’s family. The House known for managing the Life Clan’s orphanage system.

“The journey to Verdanthold will take approximately two months. Though that timeframe may vary depending on circumstances we encounter during our travel.”

Whispers started again, quickly suppressed when Saren’s gaze swept across the room.

“You will not be passengers on this journey.” Her voice hardened. “Throughout our travel, you will hunt creatures that threaten the routes we take. You will provide assistance to villages we pass. Normal people depend on Chosen like you to protect them."

She paused, letting the words settle.

“This is not optional. This is not additional training. This is your duty. This is the duty of everyone chosen by the divine. To stand between humanity and the threats that would destroy it.”

The weight of it pressed down across the classroom. Cel felt it in the sudden stillness, the way students sat straighter despite themselves.

“We will sleep in the wilderness for most of this journey,” Saren said, returning to the details. “Only when passing through villages will local residents provide shelter. You will be largely independent in terms of daily survival - finding water, establishing camps, maintaining watch rotations.”

She moved slightly, her boots sharp against stone.

“Instructor Calder and I will travel with you. We will provide protection if a threat emerges that exceeds your capabilities. We will handle organizational matters and coordinate with local authorities. But we will not manage your basic needs or solve problems you should be capable of handling yourselves.”

Her gaze swept across them again.

“After reaching Verdanthold, you will have two weeks to recover and prepare for the journey back. The examination concludes when we reach Stella again.”

Four months in total then. Cel’s mind calculated what that meant for his training with Silas. For his task of the Reckoning. For maintaining his cover identity while spending that much time in close proximity with nobles who might recognize inconsistencies in his behavior.

“Upon reaching Stella,” Saren continued, “the royal family will hold a banquet in your honor, where you will be formally acknowledged as true Chosen.”

Something in her expression shifted. Not quite warmth, but acknowledgment of significance.

“That banquet marks the end of your time at this Academy. After that, you are free to pursue whatever path you choose. The Chosen Legion. The Mercenary Guild. Service to your respective clans. Whatever future you’ve worked toward.”

She stopped speaking. Let silence stretch across the classroom.

Then she straightened further, hands clasping behind her back in a gesture of finality.

“Prepare accordingly. Dismissed.”

The classroom erupted into motion - students rising from seats, conversations resuming at full volume, the careful quiet of instruction giving way to chaos. Lior turned to Cel immediately, still wearing that expression of barely contained joy. But Cel’s attention had already drifted, tracking back toward where Hestia sat.

She was gathering her things with the same methodical precision she applied to everything. No indication that the announcement affected her differently than anyone else.

Their eyes met for half a heartbeat. Then she looked away, slinging her bag over one shoulder and moving toward the door.

The rest of the day passed in mechanical progression. Afternoon combat training. Evening meal in the dining hall where Lior continued talking about his village with undiminished enthusiasm. Other students made their own preparations, discussing what supplies they’d need and what creatures they might encounter.

Cel moved through it all with his thoughts elsewhere. Four months away from Stella. That meant four months separated from his sister again.

By the time night fell, tension had settled in his shoulders like a physical weight.

The bar looked exactly as it always did when he arrived - grimy windows, warped floorboards, the smell of old wood and stale alcohol. Cel approached the door and pulled it open without ceremony this time, having learned his lesson about how much force the stuck handle required.

The interior waited in familiar dimness. He moved to the center of the room, extended his hand, reached for that space where reality bent—

The rift opened with its usual whisper of violet light.

He stepped through.

The void dimension received him with crackling energy and absolute darkness broken only by those purposeless lightning bolts that decorated nothing. The floating island stretched ahead, the manor sitting at its center with warm light bleeding from windows.

Cel crossed the stone and pushed open the manor’s door.

“There he is!”

Silas’s voice carried from deeper inside - bright and welcoming as always. Footsteps approached rapidly, and then he appeared in the entrance hall wearing that same casual smile he seemed to maintain regardless of circumstances.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d given up.” The words came light, teasing rather than accusatory.

Before Cel could formulate a response, another voice cut in from a doorway to the left.

“Would be the wisest choice.”

Zara leaned against the frame, arms crossed, dark-red hair loose over one shoulder. Her blue eyes held their usual contempt, expression suggesting she’d been waiting specifically to deliver that particular observation.

Heat crawled up Cel’s neck despite his best efforts to suppress it.

“That wasn’t the case,” he said, forcing his tone to even. “There was... an incident. At the Academy. I couldn’t leave.”

Silas’s eyebrows rose with interest. Then his smile gained a distinctly mischievous edge.

“An incident?” He drew the word out slightly. “What kind of incident?” A pause that somehow managed to be both brief and weighted. “Did this incident perhaps involve a certain young lady with crimson eyes and jet-black hair?”

Cel’s jaw tightened.

The answer was complicated - because in some way, it did. Hestia had defended him during that conference. Had saved him from execution.

His silence apparently communicated enough.

Silas’s grin widened. “I see. Well then.” He stepped closer, slinging an arm around Cel’s shoulders in that companionable gesture that always felt slightly like being captured. “I suppose I should give you some lessons in terms of women too. Can’t have you fumbling around without proper guidance.”

A sound emerged from Zara’s direction.

Laughter. Sharp and utterly devoid of warmth.

“You?” She pushed off from the doorframe, something like genuine amusement entering her expression for the first time since Cel had met her. “Give lessons about women? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week.”

Silas released Cel and turned to face her fully, his smile never wavering.

“I’ll have you know,” he said with exaggerated dignity, “that I am quite popular. Many women find me irresistible.”

“Many women need better judgment then.”

“Their judgment is fine. Though I must confess, my heart pounds only for one woman in particular.”

He placed a hand over his chest in a theatrical gesture.

“A fierce warrior with beautiful dark-red hair and eyes that could melt steel. Someone who challenges me at every turn and makes life infinitely more interesting.”

Zara’s glare could have drawn blood.

“Fuck off, Silas.”

“See?” He turned back to Cel as if she’d just proven his point. “She’s already showering me with attention. I know she likes me really. Just playing hard to get.”

A small wooden stool hurtled across the room with enough force to seriously injure if it connected.

Silas moved with casual efficiency, stepping aside and letting the projectile sail past him. It struck the far wall with a crack of splintering wood.

“Anyways.” His tone remained utterly unbothered. “We should get to training. Standing around talking wastes time we don’t have.”

He gestured toward the manor’s rear door, already moving in that direction. Cel followed, acutely aware of Zara’s presence behind them.

They emerged onto the island’s open stone. Silas summoned his spear with that familiar shimmer of dark mist. Cel called forth Silent Moon, feeling its weight settle into his grip.

Training began.

The pattern had become familiar over the past weeks. Silas would identify a specific deficiency in Cel’s technique, then drill it relentlessly until muscle memory started forming. Tonight focused on reading feints - distinguishing genuine attacks from misdirection, learning to track multiple tells simultaneously rather than fixating on single indicators.

It was exhausting work. Not physically - his body could maintain this pace indefinitely. But mentally, forcing his brain to process information faster than conscious thought could track.

Time blurred. Minutes or hours, the distinction felt meaningless in a void dimension where no sun rose or set.

Eventually Zara crossed to her couch, collapsing onto it in her usual sprawl, already looking half-asleep.

Suddenly, a sound cut through everything.

Not a normal sound. This was reality breaking. A crack like thunder but wrong, layered with harmonics that hurt to hear.