The door swung inward on leather hinges that creaked with use, revealing an interior that took Cel's eyes a moment to adjust to. The main room served every function a household required - a kitchen area squatted in the corner, a worn table with four mismatched stools occupied the center. Two doorways led off from it, curtained rather than doored, leading to the sleeping rooms beyond. Possessions were few - some clothes hanging from pegs, a few cooking implements, a basket of what looked like herbs.

Cel stood in the doorway, taking it in.

He’d grown up surrounded by luxury. Marble floors polished until they reflected like mirrors. Tapestries imported from various territories. Rooms whose sole purpose was looking impressive when guests visited. Even the servants’ quarters in his father’s house had been larger than this entire structure.

But he also knew the other side. A year in a cell barely wide enough to lie down in had reset his understanding of space. Traveling through the Hollow Realms without shelter of any kind had made even the cell seem comfortable in comparison.

He understood now why Lior had been so pleased with his Academy room. Why he’d treated it like a gift rather than the basic accommodation it was.

Because compared to this… it was something else entirely.

“Sit, sit.” Lior’s mother gestured toward the table, already moving toward the cooking area. “You boys must be hungry after your journey.”

Lior practically bounced to the table, his earlier tears forgotten in favor of barely contained excitement. He dropped onto one of the stools, patting the one beside him. “Here, sit here.”

Cel followed, his armored boots quiet against the packed earth. The stool creaked slightly when his weight settled onto it.

Lior’s father took the seat opposite, his weathered face carrying an expression that seemed caught between pleasure at his son’s return and uncertainty about how to interact with him.

Silence settled over them. Cel’s attention drifted around the space again, cataloging details. A shelf near the entrance held perhaps a dozen jars - preserves, he guessed, or dried goods meant to last through seasons when fresh food was scarce. The clothes on the pegs were mended in multiple places, patches covering patches in some cases.

A pot hung over the cooking fire, steam rising from whatever simmered inside. Lior’s mother stirred it with a wooden spoon worn thin at the edges, then began ladling contents into wooden bowls that didn’t quite match each other.

They had nothing. Less than nothing by the standards he’d been raised with. But the space held something his childhood home never had - a particular quality he couldn’t name.

Warmth, maybe. Though that word felt insufficient.

Lior fidgeted beside him. His hands moved restlessly across the table’s worn surface, tracing patterns in wood grain with one finger.

His mother approached carrying bowls, distributing them with a smile. One for her husband. One for Lior. One for Cel, placed before him with careful attention.

Then she settled onto her own stool and glanced at Cel, something uncertain flickering across her features. “I hope it tastes well enough for you.”

The words carried weight that went beyond simple hospitality. She was apologizing, Cel realized. For the meal’s simplicity. For not being able to offer something better to a guest.

Cel lifted his spoon. Brought it to his lips. Let the liquid touch his tongue.

Nothing. The same nothing he’d tasted for over a year now. He might as well have been drinking water.

“It tastes great,” he said.

Lior’s mother’s face brightened immediately. Relief transformed her features, worry dissolving into genuine pleasure. “I’m so glad.”

She turned her attention toward her son, her expression shifting into something warmer. “So. Tell me about the Academy. How has it been?” 

Lior straightened immediately. His sky-blue eyes lit with enthusiasm that made him look younger, more open than the anxious boy Cel usually saw. “It’s amazing. The buildings are huge - stone construction with these high ceilings and windows everywhere. And the training grounds...” He gestured expansively, soup forgotten. “They’re massive. Enough space for a hundred people to practice at once.”

His father leaned forward slightly, attention fully captured. His mother watched with an expression that held pride and hunger in equal measure - desperate to hear everything her son had experienced.

“The instructors are strict,” Lior continued. “Especially Instructor Saren. She doesn’t let anyone get away with half-measures. But they taught us a lot of things.” He paused, taking a breath. “And we met Esrin. The actual Esrin. She came to the Academy.”

“The Hallowed,” his mother whispered. “You met the Hallowed?”

Lior nodded vigorously, his excitement building now that he had their complete attention. “She’s even more incredible in person. The way she carries herself, the presence she has - you can feel it just standing near her. Like the air gets heavier.”

Cel continued eating - apparently the only one still moving. His spoon scraped against wood, liquid disappearing with mechanical regularity.

Lior had moved on to other topics now. The Academy’s library, which apparently had more books than Lior had known existed. The dining hall’s food, which he described with the enthusiasm of someone who’d rarely eaten his fill before arriving there. The dormitories with their individual rooms and equipment.

“And I learned so much,” Lior said, his voice taking on pride that hadn’t been there before. “I can write and read now.”

His parents stared at him.

“Properly,” Lior added quickly. “Not just my name or basic words. Actual reading. Entire books. And writing - sentences and paragraphs. Everything.”

His mother’s eyes filled with tears. She pressed her free hand to her mouth, trying to contain emotion that had nowhere else to go.

His father’s jaw worked, throat moving in a visible swallow. “That’s...” His voice came rough. “That’s incredible.”

“It was hard though,” Lior admitted. The vulnerability in his tone made him sound even younger. “I struggled with it a lot. The letters wouldn’t make sense sometimes, and I’d mix them up, and everyone else seemed to understand faster than me.” He paused. Then his gaze cut toward Cel, something bright entering his expression. “But Cel helped me. Spent hours going over the same lessons until I finally got it.”

Heat crawled up Cel’s neck. He focused on his soup with increased intensity.

“And he’s amazing at everything else too,” Lior continued, apparently oblivious to Cel’s discomfort. “He’s ranked fifteenth in combat standings. Fifteenth out of forty students, and all the ones ranked higher are nobles who’ve been training since they were children.”

His mother turned toward Cel with an expression that had transformed into something approaching wonder. “Really? You must be exceptionally talented.”

Cel kept his eyes fixed on his bowl. Wishing desperately for this conversation to move in literally any other direction.

He wasn’t talented. Wasn’t exceptional. The ranking existed because his body had been divinely reconstructed, because the Moon Goddess had given him physical capabilities that exceeded what training alone could produce.

Everything Lior was praising - the strength, the ranking, even his ability to explain concepts - none of it came from being good at anything. Just from having been broken and rebuilt enough times that some useful pieces remained.

“Your food’s getting cold,” Cel said, cutting across whatever Lior had been about to add. His tone came sharper than intended, desperation bleeding through despite his attempts at control.

Lior’s mother glanced down at her bowl. Then her face shifted into something amused, a quiet chuckle escaping. “You’re right. Can’t let good food go to waste.”

She picked up her spoon again, and the others followed her lead. Conversation died back to comfortable quiet, interrupted only by the scrape of wood against wood and occasional small observations about the meal.

Cel forced himself to continue eating with steady rhythm. Tried to ignore the way Lior kept glancing at him with that pleased smile, like he was satisfied with having properly introduced his friend.

Eventually the bowls emptied. Lior’s mother collected them, stacking them beside the cooking area for later washing. The meal concluded with the kind of comfortable silence that came from people who didn’t need constant conversation to feel at ease with each other.

Then Lior straightened suddenly, his expression brightening with remembered purpose. “Oh! I almost forgot.”

He pushed up from his stool, crossing to where his bag leaned against the wall. His hands dove inside, searching.

Cel watched him rummage. Watched him pull out two cloth-wrapped shapes - the necklaces they’d purchased in Stella’s market. The ones with crescent moon pendants.

Lior returned to the table, holding one necklace out to each parent. “I got these for you.”

His mother took hers with trembling fingers. Held the crescent moon pendant up to catch firelight, the silver gleaming dully. Her eyes filled with tears again. “Lior, this is beautiful.”

His father accepted his with more composure, but emotion lived plainly on his weathered face. He turned the necklace over in his rough hands, examining it with the careful attention of someone assessing value.

They put them on immediately. His mother fastening the clasp behind her neck with practiced efficiency, his father fumbling slightly with the mechanism before getting it secured.

Then his mother pulled Lior into another crushing hug, his face pressed against her chest. “Thank you, my sweet boy. Thank you.”

Lior pulled free from his mother’s embrace, his face flushed with pleasure. Then he reached into his bag again, pulling out something different this time.

A leather pouch. Heavy enough that it landed on the table with a solid thunk when Lior set it down.

“This is from the Academy,” Lior said.

His mother opened it. Looked inside. Went completely still.

His father leaned over, peering into the pouch. His expression froze as well, eyes widening with something approaching shock.

The silence stretched. Neither of them moved, both staring at the contents like they couldn’t quite process what they were seeing.

Cel understood why. He’d watched similar reactions before - servants confronting amounts of money that existed outside their imagination. The pouch probably contained more wealth than they’d seen in one place in their entire lives.

For most commoner families, having a child become a Chosen was considered a blessing specifically because of this. The financial support. It could lift entire families out of poverty.

“This is...” His mother’s voice had gone faint. “This is too much. You should keep this for yourself.”

“I bought what I needed,” Lior said quickly. “The rest is for you. I want you to have it.”

His father found words too. “Did you really buy something for yourself?”

“Yes.” Lior’s response came firm. “Clothes, supplies, everything I needed. This is extra.”

His father studied him for a long moment. Then he closed the pouch carefully, tying it shut with deliberate movements. “Then we’ll accept it. Gratefully.” He paused, his weathered face serious. “But keep some for the journey. You’re traveling to a major city - you’ll want money for proper meals, for anything unexpected that comes up.”

Lior nodded, relief visible in the way his shoulders eased.

His mother had begun crying again, quiet tears that she didn’t bother wiping away. She reached across the table, taking both of Lior’s hands in hers. “You’re a good boy. Such a good boy.”

The moment stretched. Then she released him, turning her attention to practical matters with visible effort at composure.

“It’s getting late,” she said, her voice still thick with emotion. “We should prepare for bed. You boys must be exhausted.”

She rose, moving toward the sleeping rooms. “Lior, you’ll sleep with us tonight. Celvian, you can have Lior’s bed.”

Lior opened his mouth—

“I won’t hear arguments,” she said gently. “We haven’t seen you in months. Let me be selfish tonight.”

Lior’s face softened. He nodded, accepting without further protest.

Cel stood, retrieving his own bag from where he'd dropped it near the door. Then moved to a small room that apparently was where Lior had slept. The pallet looked thin - just straw stuffed into cloth, a single blanket folded at its foot. But he'd slept on worse. Much worse.

They moved through evening preparations with quiet efficiency. Bags arranged. Clothes changed for sleeping. The lamp extinguished, leaving only moonlight filtering through gaps in the walls.

Cel settled onto the pallet, the straw crackling beneath his weight.

Silence filled the space. Comfortable and complete.

He stared at the ceiling. At wooden beams that had probably been there longer than he’d been alive. At shadows that shifted slightly as clouds moved across the moon outside.

His chest still felt tight. That same pressure from earlier, refusing to dissipate despite the day ending. He couldn’t name what it was - couldn’t organize the feeling into something comprehensible.

But lying there in the darkness, listening to the quiet breathing of Lior’s family, he thought he might understand.

‘So this is what a family looks like…’