The world inverted. Violet light consumed everything, then spat him out onto stone. Cel stumbled forward two steps before his balance returned.

Behind him, the rift sealed itself with a soft whisper of collapsing space.

He straightened slowly, forcing his breathing to steady while his eyes adjusted.

The dimension stretched wrong in every direction. Not a sky overhead but a void - deep and absolute, broken only by veins of violet energy that crackled through the darkness like lightning. The bolts moved without sound, illuminating nothing, casting no shadows despite their brightness. They simply existed, decorating the absence with proof that something was here even when everything else insisted nothing could be.

He stood on an island. Floating. The stone beneath his boots extended in any direction before simply ending at open space. No shore. No ground below to catch him if he fell. Just the island suspended in crackling energy and darkness.

The manor occupied the island’s center. Three stories of gray stone and dark wood, windows glowing with warm light that seemed almost offensive against the impossible backdrop. Practical. Mundane. A normal building sitting in a place where buildings had no business existing.

Cel’s mind tried to process what he was seeing and came up with nothing useful. A separate dimension - that much was obvious. His achievement had called it that once. But how? Who could create something like this?

His thoughts turned to Esrin’s World Creation. The storm-wrapped platform. The fractured sky. The absolute authority she’d wielded over every aspect of that space. But that had been temporary. A manifestation of power that existed only as long as she sustained it.

This felt different. More stable. Like someone had carved a permanent hole in the fabric of existence and decided to build a house there.

Unless it was something like a World Creation too. Just one maintained constantly, sustained by power he couldn’t begin to imagine. The energy cost would be staggering. Impossible for anyone except maybe… a deity.

He dismissed the thought before it could take root. Speculation was pointless. He was here. The manor waited. And somewhere inside, two members of the Reckoning expected him.

Cel started walking, boots echoing against stone in the oppressive silence. The void didn’t make sound - no wind, no ambient noise, just his footsteps and the occasional crackle of energy around him.

The manor grew larger as he approached. Details emerged from the gloom - shuttered windows on the upper floors, a door of dark wood, stone walls that looked like they’d stood for decades.

He stopped at the threshold. His hand found the door handle. Cold iron against his palm.

He pushed.

The door swung inward with the soft creak of well-oiled hinges, revealing an interior that made the exterior’s mundanity seem almost reasonable by comparison.

A proper entrance hall stretched before him. Polished wood floors. Walls painted in muted colors. A staircase ascending to upper floors with carved banisters. Chandeliers hung at regular intervals, their light warm and steady. The space looked like it belonged in a noble estate, not floating in a void dimension.

Cel stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and old paper. Normal smells. Comfortable smells. Completely at odds with everything else.

“Oh!”

The exclamation came from deeper in the manor - bright, surprised and far too cheerful for the circumstances.

Footsteps approached rapidly. Not threatening - just quick, eager steps that suggested someone hurrying to greet an expected guest.

A figure emerged from a doorway to his left.

Young. Perhaps his early twenties. Above average height with a lean build that suggested youth rather than any particular dedication to combat training. Light purple hair fell almost carelessly, styled with effortless charm. Green eyes bright with genuine warmth. He wore dark clothing that might have been formal on a noble but sat comfortably casual on him - expensive but not ostentatious.

And he was smiling. Actually smiling. Not the practiced expression of someone performing courtesy, but real warmth that reached his eyes and softened his entire face.

“You’re here!” The words came out almost lilting. “I heard the rift but wasn’t sure if it was you or someone else. Come in, come in - you don’t need to stand in the entrance hall like a lost puppy.”

Cel stared at him, completely unable to form words.

The young man crossed the remaining distance and stopped perhaps two steps away, still smiling like they were old friends meeting for tea rather than strangers in an impossible location.

“I should introduce myself again, shouldn’t I?” He extended his hand. “Silas of House Mortbane, Death Clan. Also known as Death’s Friendliest Face, which I know sounds ridiculous but apparently it stuck.” A pause, his grin widening slightly. “You can call me Silas. Everyone does.”

Cel’s hand moved on reflex, clasping the offered hand.

“I’m the Eighth Reckoning,” Silas continued, releasing his hand and gesturing vaguely around them. “Though that’s more of a formality than anything meaningful. Rank just determines who’s stronger.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying Cel with open curiosity. “You’re settling in at the Academy alright?”

The dissonance of tone was staggering. Cel had expected cold professionalism at best, open hostility at worst. Not this. Not warmth and casual conversation like they were discussing weather.

“I—” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m managing.”

“Good, good.” Silas nodded enthusiastically. “The Academy’s intense but it’s excellent training. Nothing quite like being thrown into combat with people who actually want to hurt you.”

A pause. His smile gained a slightly mischievous edge.

“Speaking of which, I should introduce your other trainer.” He turned, raising his voice slightly. “Zara? Come meet our new collegue.”

Silence answered.

Silas’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture suggested he’d expected exactly this response. He glanced back at Cel with a shrug. “She’s shy.”

“I’m not shy, you bastard.”

The voice came from the same doorway Silas had emerged from - flat and hostile.

A woman of average hight appeared in the doorway, moving to lean against the frame with arms crossed over her chest.

She stood with lean hardness, the kind carved by brutal training. Dark-red hair hung to her shoulders, unkempt and indifferent to fashion, as if she couldn’t be bothered with maintenance. Blue eyes that burned with barely contained rage, locked on Cel with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

Everything about her radiated coiled tension. Like standing near something ready to explode.

“This is Zara,” Silas said brightly, apparently unbothered by the hostility radiating from her direction. “Also known as Wrath’s Only Daughter. She’s the Sixth Reckoning, which means she outranks me by two positions. But I try not to let that intimidate me.”

Zara’s glare shifted from Cel to Silas. “Shut up.”

“She’s also extremely friendly once you get to know her,” Silas continued, his tone suggesting he was either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the death wish in her eyes. “Just needs time to warm up to people.”

“Silas.” Her voice dropped lower. “I will rip your tongue out of your throat.”

“See? Already showing affection.” He grinned at Cel. “You’re going to love training with her.”

Cel said nothing. His instincts screamed that speaking would only draw Zara’s attention more fully, and her current level of attention already felt sufficient to peel skin.

Silas clapped his hands together. “Right! So, the situation. Lady Esrin has tasked Zara and me with training you every night until your final examination at the Academy begins. We’ll work on combat technique, tactical assessment, survival skills - basically everything you’ll need to not die immediately when facing real threats.”

“I won’t train him.” Zara’s voice cut through like a blade.

Silas turned to face her fully, his expression remaining pleasant but gaining an edge of genuine curiosity. “Oh? Are you certain you want to disregard Lady Esrin’s direct command?”

The question landed with deliberate weight.

Zara’s jaw tightened. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides - not threatened, just angry at having the obvious stated.

“As long as you keep your mouth shut, there won’t be a problem.”

Silas’s grin returned, gaining a mischievous quality that suggested he’d been waiting for exactly this. “And what’s in it for me?”

Silence stretched. Zara’s glare intensified, boring into Silas with enough force that Cel half-expected him to burst into flames through sheer willpower.

“You’ll have something good by me,” she finally ground out. The words sounded physically painful to produce. “One favor. Within reason.”

“Within reason,” Silas repeated thoughtfully, as if seriously considering his options. Then his smile brightened. “Deal! I accept your generous offer.”

Cel’s mouth opened before his better judgment could stop it. “And what’s in it for me?”

Both of them turned to look at him. Silas with surprise and something that might have been amusement. Zara with the expression of someone who’d just watched an insect demand equal seating at a dinner table.

She pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the space between them in three long strides. Each step deliberate. Predatory.

She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he could see the fine scars marking her fair skin. Close enough that the rage in her eyes became almost physical.

“You get to keep your head on your shoulders. How does that sound?”

The threat landed with absolute clarity. Not bluster. Not exaggeration. A simple statement of fact about what would happen if he continued being difficult.

Cel’s throat worked. “That... sounds acceptable.”

Zara held his gaze for another heartbeat, then stepped back with a sound that might have been disgust or satisfaction. Hard to tell.

Silas laughed - bright and genuine, like he’d just witnessed the funniest thing all week. “Oh, you two are going to be a perfect match.”

“Fuck off,” Zara said without heat, already turning back toward the doorway she’d emerged from.

“Such language! And in front of our new colleague too.” Silas shook his head in mock disapproval, still grinning. He gestured for Cel to follow. “Come on. Let’s head to the training area before Zara decides to demonstrate exactly how she earned her codename.”

Cel followed, acutely aware that he’d just agreed to spend every night with two people who might be more dangerous than anyone he’d face at the Academy.

They moved through the manor in silence - or rather, Silas moved in cheerful silence while Cel walked with growing tension. Zara disappeared back into whatever room she’d emerged from. The interior maintained its impossible mundanity. Hallways with worn carpet. Doors leading to rooms whose purposes Cel could only guess at. Walls adorned with paintings that looked expensive and old.

At the manor’s rear, a door of the same dark wood as the entrance waited. Silas pulled it open without ceremony, revealing—

Nothing.

Not a yard. Not a training ground. Just the dark stone of the floating island extending perhaps fifty steps before ending at open void.

“Here we are!” Silas stepped out onto the stone, spreading his arms wide. “Our training facility. Bit sparse, I’ll admit, but it has character.”

Cel followed more slowly, his eyes tracking to the island’s edge. The distance suddenly felt very finite. Very fragile.

“What happens if someone falls off?” The question escaped before he could stop it.

Silas turned back, his expression shifting to genuine thoughtfulness. “You know, I’m not actually sure. It’s never happened.” A pause. “Yet.”

The addition did nothing to ease Cel’s concern.

“But don’t worry!” Silas continued brightly. “The training won’t be dangerous. We’re just going to start with assessment - figure out where you are now so we know what needs work.” He moved to the center of the open space, turning to face Cel fully. “Attack me. Use everything you have. Don’t hold back.”

Cel’s hand moved to summon Silent Moon. The blade materialized in his grip - straight violet-dark steel with an indigo sheen.

Silas’s weapon appeared in his hand with a shimmer of dark energy. A spear. A spear. Simple black shaft perhaps six feet long, ending in a narrow blade that seemed to absorb the light around it rather than reflect it. He held it loosely, the weapon’s weight distributed comfortably across both hands.

They faced each other across empty stone. Violet energy crackled through the void above, silent and purposeless.

Cel shifted his stance, preparing to—

The backdoor opened again.

Both of them turned.

Zara emerged carrying a couch above her head. Not struggling. Not straining. Just walking with a full-sized piece of furniture balanced in both hands like it weighed nothing.

She crossed to a spot perhaps twenty steps from where they stood and set the couch down with surprising gentleness. Then she collapsed onto it in a sprawl that suggested zero concern for dignity or appearance, one arm draped over the back, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

For several heartbeats, no one moved.

Zara looked up, noticing them staring. Her expression shifted to annoyance. “What? Mind your own business.” A pause. “And make it entertaining.” 

Morning arrived with pale light filtering through his window. Cel’s door opened onto the corridor just as another door down the hall did the same.

Lior emerged, wheat-blond hair sticking up at odd angles, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looked up and his expression shifted immediately - first recognition, then shock so complete it stopped him mid-motion.

“Cel?” His voice cracked. “What—your throat—“

Cel’s hand moved automatically to his throat. His fingers found the thin line of dried blood he’d completely forgotten about. The cut wasn’t deep, but it had bled enough during the night to leave a visible mark.

‘Shit.’

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly.

“Nothing?” Lior crossed the distance between them in three quick strides, eyes wide with something close to panic. “You’re bleeding! Did you—were you trying to—“

The implication hit a moment before Lior’s voice broke completely on the unfinished question.

“No.” Cel raised both hands, palms out. “No, it’s not what it looks like. I wasn’t—“

“Then what happened?” Lior’s sky-blue eyes searched his face desperately.

The truth was impossible to tell. A lie was needed.

“I was testing something,” Cel said. The words came out awkward, stilted. “With my artifact. Wanted to see how sharp the edge was.”

Silence stretched for two full heartbeats.

Then Lior’s expression cycled through confusion, disbelief, and arrived at something that might have been horror.

“On your throat?!”

The question came out half-shout, loud enough that a door down the hall opened. Someone peered out, saw them, and quickly retreated back inside.

“I just—“ Cel scrambled for something to make this seem reasonable. “It seemed like the best way to—“

“The best way?” Lior stared at him like he’d announced plans to jump off the Academy’s tallest tower. “You put a blade to your own throat to test if it was sharp?”

When phrased like that, it sounded even worse than Cel had thought.

“It was controlled,” he tried. “I knew what I was doing.”

“Controlled.” Lior’s voice had gone flat. “Right. Very controlled. That’s why you’re bleeding.”

Cel opened his mouth. Closed it again. No explanation was going to salvage this.

“Look,” he said finally. “I’m fine. It’s barely a scratch. And I learned what I needed to know about the blade’s edge, so—“

“You’re insane.” Lior shook his head slowly. “Completely insane.”

He reached out and grabbed Cel’s shoulder - not aggressively, just a grip that suggested he needed something solid to hold onto while processing what he’d just heard.

“Promise me you won’t do that again.”

“I promise I won’t test my artifact’s sharpness on my own throat again.”

Lior studied him for a long moment, clearly trying to determine if that answer was sufficient. Then he sighed, releasing Cel’s shoulder.

“We should get to conditioning,” he muttered. “Before you find some other creative way to kill yourself.”

They walked to the training grounds together, Lior occasionally glancing at him with lingering concern. Cel kept his expression neutral, relieved the conversation had ended but acutely aware that his reputation for rational decision-making had taken quite some damage.

The day passed without incident. Dawn conditioning proceeded as it always did - bodies moving through drills, Instructor Calder’s voice cutting across the yard with corrections. Theoretical classes filled the morning with information Cel already knew. Combat training in the afternoon tested basic techniques against partners who couldn’t push him far enough to reveal anything.

Through it all, Hestia occupied her usual position. She took notes during lectures. Participated in drills with her typical precision. Never looked at him. Never acknowledged him.

It was almost worse than confrontation.

By the time afternoon classes concluded, tension had settled in Cel’s shoulders like a physical weight. He needed to move. To do something other than sit and wait for Esrin to either confirm or deny his story.

The Reckoning’s hideout waited.

Esrin had told him to arrive at sunset two days hence. Today was that day.

Cel left the Academy grounds through the main gate, nodding to the guard who’d come to recognize him over the past months. The city sprawled before him - broad streets branching in every direction, buildings pressed close enough that their upper floors nearly touched.

He moved through crowds with practiced ease, tracking landmarks from memory. The fountain with the cracked basin. The bakery that always smelled like burned bread. The corner where street performers gathered each evening.

His mind turned to what waited at the end of this walk.

Death’s Friendliest Face.

Wrath’s Only Daughter.

Two members of the Reckoning assigned to train him. Two people he’d met only once, during that initial gathering when they’d voted on whether to let him live or kill him immediately.

Death’s Friendliest Face had voted for him joining. He remembered that much. Still, the contradiction of his codename was unsettling - what kind of person earned a name that paired death with friendliness? Someone who killed with a smile? Someone who made dying seem pleasant?

He didn’t know. Couldn’t know until he met them properly.

Wrath’s Only Daughter was clearer in his memory. She’d voted for his death without hesitation. Her hostility had been palpable even though it was their first meeting. Training under someone who’d wanted him dead seemed like an efficient way to end up dead, just delayed.

But Esrin had made the assignment. An opportunity to grow stronger. Refusing wasn’t an option.

The bar came into view as he rounded a familiar corner.

It looked exactly as it had that first night - weathered wood, grimy windows, a door that hung slightly crooked on its hinges. The kind of place that was abandoned long ago.

Cel approached and reached for the handle.

Locked.

He pulled harder. The door didn’t budge, resistance firm under his grip.

Cel  stepped back, frowning. Had he missed a specific time requirement or something?

He grabbed the handle again.

Only this time... he really pulled.

The door flew open with enough force that he stumbled backward a step.

Not locked. Just stuck.

Heat crawled up his neck as he glanced around to see if anyone had witnessed that display. The street remained mercifully empty.

He stepped inside.

The interior matched his memory - cramped space, handful of tables, bar running along one wall. Just dim light filtering through boarded windows and the smell of old wood and older alcohol.

Cel moved deeper into the room, scanning for anything that might indicate where to go next. A hidden door. A symbol. Some sign that this place connected to the Reckoning’s void-dimension manor.

Nothing.

He stopped in the center of the room, precisely where he and Esrin had emerged from the rift that first time. The floor looked like floor. The air felt like air. Reality seemed entirely intact.

What was he supposed to do now?

He extended his hand slowly, fingers spreading as if he might touch something invisible. His palm met only empty space. No resistance. No tingle of energy. Just air moving past his skin.

“Open,” he said quietly.

Nothing happened.

“To the Reckoning.”

Still nothing. He felt ridiculous, standing alone in an empty bar speaking to nothing.

Maybe there was a phrase. Something specific that activated whatever mechanism Esrin had used. But she hadn’t told him any words. Just said to come here at sunset.

He tried again, cycling through possibilities. “Show me the way.” “Grant me passage.” “I seek the Reckoning.”

Each attempt landed in silence.

Frustration built in his chest.

Then a thought occurred.

He’d summoned Silent Moon thousands of times by now. The motion was instinctive - not words but intent. A reaching inside himself, a calling forth of something that existed in a space adjacent to reality until he needed it.

What if it worked the same way?

Cel closed his eyes. Breathed. Let his mind settle into that same space he accessed when summoning his blade.

But instead of reaching inward for Silent Moon, he reached outward. Toward the space where Esrin had opened her rift. Toward the connection that must exist between this location and the void dimension.

He focused on that intent - not demanding, just... requesting. Asking reality to part so he could pass through.

Something shifted.

His eyes snapped open.

A vertical slash hung in the air before him - violet light bleeding from its edges, energy crackling across its surface in patterns that hurt to look at directly. Small, perhaps the height of a door. But unmistakably a rift.

Cel took an involuntary step backward.

Reality had just broken open in front of him. Torn itself apart because he’d asked it to.

The rift pulsed, patient and waiting.

He studied it carefully, taking in details that his panic had obscured when watching from a distance two nights ago. The violet light wasn’t uniform - darker at the edges, brighter at the center, shifting through shades that had no names in normal spectrum. Energy crackled across its surface in branching patterns, like lightning frozen mid-strike.

It looked almost exactly like the rift that had opened outside the city walls.

Just smaller. Controlled.

But fundamentally the same.

Cel’s breath caught. This wasn’t anything the Empire taught. Rifts meant disaster, not possibility. They were random tears, dangerous openings to be sealed with human lives.

What did it mean that the Reckoning could simply create them on demand to use them for traveling?

Questions for later. If he survived whatever training waited on the other side.

Cel stepped forward slowly, approaching the violet tear. Up close, the energy made his skin prickle. Not painful, just aware. Like standing too close to a fire or too near the edge of a cliff.

He extended his hand.

His fingers passed through without resistance. No sensation at all - his hand simply disappeared into the violet light as if it had ceased existing from the wrist forward.

He pulled back. His hand returned, intact and unmarked.

‘Alright.’

One deep breath. Then another.

Then he stepped through.

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.

The bushes had lost whatever comfort they'd offered hours ago. Dead leaves crunched beneath him as he shifted, and he immediately froze. But no one was looking. The field lay empty except for the flattened grass where the rift had been, and the distant figures of soldiers on the wall had already returned to their normal routines.

He’d gone through every option twice already. Walking back through the gates would require explanation - why was an Academy student outside the walls at dawn? Climbing them was possible with Lunar Vigor, but scaling stone in full view of sentries seemed like an efficient way to get arrested. Waiting for a merchant caravan to provide cover would take hours he didn’t have, and classes would start soon.

So he waited.

The sun climbed higher. People began moving on the walls with increased frequency - shift changes, probably. The night watch heading to rest while fresh soldiers took their positions. He watched them through gaps in the foliage, tracking patterns without really thinking about it.

Had she forgotten him? The thought felt absurd even as it formed. Esrin didn’t forget things. But then why—

His chest tightened with sudden understanding.

This wasn’t a mistake.

This was intentional.

The realization settled cold and certain. She’d left him here deliberately. To make a point. To ensure he understood exactly how little he mattered.

Minutes stretched into an hour. Then longer.

The sun had fully cleared the horizon when wings appeared behind him.

No warning. No sound of approach. Just suddenly there - white feathers catching morning light, each one perfect and terrible.

Esrin stood with her wings spread, looking down at him with those ruby eyes.

“What took so long?” The question came out sharper than intended. Frustration bled through despite his attempt at neutrality.

“I had reports to file.” Her tone was utterly flat. “The Legion requires documentation when a Hallowed deploys her World. Particularly near civilian population centers.”

She stepped closer, and he realized she was still in her formal attire from the previous evening - pristine white with red gems, though somehow not a single grass stain or speck of dirt marred the fabric.

“Of course,” she continued, voice dropping lower, “I could have retrieved you earlier. Before the paperwork.”

Her gaze held his without wavering.

“But I thought you might benefit from some time to reflect.”

The words landed with deliberate weight.

Cel’s throat tightened. The message was clear now - crystal clear. This wasn’t punishment exactly. It was demonstration.

“I…understand.”

“Good.” Her wings folded slightly. “Then we can discuss your training.”

Cel raised an eyebrow. “My training?”

“You’ll report to the Reckoning’s manor starting two nights from now. Every evening after your Academy obligations conclude.” She paused. “I’ve tasked two members to work with you. Death’s Friendliest Face and Wrath’s Only Daughter.”

The codenames sent ice down his spine. Death's Friendliest Face had voted for him to join - he remembered that clearly - but someone who wore that name like a title was a different kind of unsettling than open hostility. And Wrath's Only Daughter had voted for his death without hesitation. That one he'd have to watch carefully.

Still. Experienced fighters willing to train him. Whatever their reasons, whatever their methods - he'd take that opportunity.

“Do you still know where the bar is? The one we emerged from when I brought you to the capital?”

“Yes.” He’d made a point of memorizing landmarks. “I’ve... explored the city some. I should be able to find it.”

Something that might have been approval flickered across her features. Brief and immediately suppressed.

“Then I’ll expect you there at sunset two days hence. Don’t be late.”

Her hand closed on his collar before he could respond.

The world lurched sideways. Wind screamed past his ears. His stomach tried to climb through his throat as they rose impossibly fast - the field dropping away, the city walls shrinking, dawn-lit streets spreading below like a map.

She set him down and his legs gave immediately - knees hitting the grass before he could stop them. The Academy grounds stretched around him, familiar buildings, familiar paths. Morning sun painted everything in soft gold.

He turned to ask Esrin something - didn’t even know what, just had the instinct to speak.

She was gone.

Not flying away. Not departing. Just... absent. As if she’d never been there at all.

Cel straightened slowly, brushing dirt from his clothes. Students were beginning to emerge from dormitories in small clusters, heading toward the training grounds. Normal morning routines reasserting themselves.

He needed to do the same.

Dawn conditioning proceeded as it always did - Instructor Calder's voice cutting across the yard, bodies moving through drills in the pale morning light.

Theoretical class came after. Lior dropped into the seat beside him, wheat-blond hair still damp from conditioning, sky-blue eyes wide.

"Did you hear?" His sky-blue eyes were wide. "There was a rift last night. Right outside the eastern wall."

“I heard.” Cel kept his voice carefully neutral.

“They say Lady Esrin closed it herself. Just... destroyed everything that came through.” Lior’s hands gestured wildly. “Can you imagine? Being that powerful?”

Several nearby students had similar conversations. Fear and awe mixed in equal measure.

The nobles’ reactions differed. They discussed the event with the detached interest of people reviewing weather patterns. Cordelia spoke quietly with Percival about deployment response times. Owen mentioned this was the first rift in the capital this year - hardly unprecedented.

For them, this was normal. Expected. Part of living in the Empire’s high society.

The commoners treated it like a near-apocalypse.

Cel listened with half his attention. Let the conversations wash over him without really absorbing the words.

Because none of that mattered.

What mattered sat directly behind him.

Hestia occupied her usual position, jet-black hair falling over pale shoulders, crimson eyes tracking across the classroom with methodical assessment. She looked exactly as she always did - composed, distant, utterly unreadable.

She’d tried to kill him last night. He’d tried to kill her.

And now she sat there taking notes like nothing had happened.

How did she know?

The question circled through his mind relentlessly. How had she identified him as noble? His transformation was complete - white hair instead of brown, pale skin instead of tanned, glacial blue eyes instead of amber. His body carried no scars from his first life. Nothing physical connected him to Celvian of House Aldric.

So how?

And what else did she know?

His jaw tightened as he stared at his desk. The vision surfaced again - himself lying broken in the ash, blood pooling beneath his torn body. His death in the Ashlands, seen through her eyes somehow.

What kind of ability showed someone’s death just from touching them?

His gaze cut sideways, finding her in his peripheral vision.

She was writing something. Her expression carried the same neutral composure it always did.

Classes continued. Lunch came and went. Combat training in the afternoon proceeded without incident - basic drills, nothing requiring real engagement.

Through it all, Hestia never looked at him. Never acknowledged him. Never gave any indication that anything had changed between them.

The normalcy was worse than confrontation. At least with active hostility he’d know where he stood.

But this? This was a blade hanging overhead. Waiting.

Evening arrived with the sun sinking toward the horizon in shades of orange and red. Students filtered back to dormitories in their usual clusters, conversations fading as exhaustion set in.

Cel climbed the stairs to his room and pushed the door open.

The space welcomed him with familiar emptiness. Narrow bed. Simple desk. Wardrobe. Nothing personal.

He closed the door and leaned against it, eyes shut.

The exhaustion hit him all at once.

Not physical - his body kept functioning at peak efficiency regardless of exertion. But mental. Emotional. The accumulated weight of constant vigilance finally catching up.

Last night he’d nearly died. Had felt Hestia’s blade at his throat, seen murder in her crimson eyes. Esrin’s World had crushed the air from his lungs. He’d watched a man walk into a rift to his death while a family sobbed. And this morning he’d been left in bushes for hours as a demonstration of his complete powerlessness.

His hands shook slightly.

Cel moved to the bed and sat on its edge. Just for a moment. Just to let the exhaustion settle somewhere other than his chest.

The mattress was thin but softer than ash-covered ground. Softer than stone floors in the cell. His body remembered comfort even if his mind had tried to forget it existed.

He lay back. Stared at the ceiling. Told himself he’d rest for a few minutes, then resume his usual routine.

But Eternal Witness had limits.

The trait eliminated his need for sleep - kept his mind sharp and alert indefinitely. But it couldn’t erase exhaustion entirely. Couldn’t stop his consciousness from recognizing when it needed to shut down and process everything that had accumulated.

His eyes drifted closed.

Just for a moment.

Sleep took him under like a tide.

When he surfaced, crimson eyes stared down at him with unblinking intensity. Then shapes resolved around them. Pale skin. Jet-black hair falling like curtains on either side of a face he knew too well.

Clarity hit like ice water.

Hestia sat on top of him. Her legs straddled his chest, pinning him to the mattress with her weight. The crimson longsword rested against his throat, its edge cold enough that he could feel exactly how little pressure it would take.

The blade’s edge kissed his skin. Cold. Sharp. Promising blood if he moved wrong.

“Talk.”

Cel stood frozen, breath still trapped in his chest.

'A world.'

The thought echoed through his mind, unable to settle into anything coherent. He'd just witnessed something that shouldn't exist - a pocket of reality where Esrin's will became absolute law. Where she didn't just fight. She dictated.

The ultimate ability a Chosen could reach - aside from ascending to Hallowed of course.

And this was the world of the strongest Chosen of the Empire.

His knees wanted to buckle. His hands trembled around Silent Moon's hilt.

Warmth flooded his mouth.

Cel coughed, and blood splattered across his palm. Even with the World dismissed, his body was still processing what it had endured.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red across skin.

Above, on the city wall, chaos transformed into celebration.

"SHE DID IT!"

"THE HALLOWED IS HERE!"

Soldiers who'd been rigid with terror moments ago now pumped their fists in the air. Some embraced each other. Others simply collapsed against the battlements, relief making them boneless.

An officer's voice cut through the celebration. "THREE CHEERS FOR LADY ESRIN!"

"HAIL!"

"HAIL!"

"HAIL!"

The sound rolled across the field like thunder - raw, genuine gratitude from people who'd been seconds from death.

Esrin didn't acknowledge them. Her ruby eyes remained fixed on the rift, expression unreadable.

The violet tear in reality pulsed, steady and patient. Waiting.

Behind them, the city gates groaned open.

Cel turned, still wiping blood from his chin.

A group emerged from the widening gap. Chosen, by what they wore - artifacts that gleamed with more than mere craftsmanship, each piece marking its bearer as clearly as any banner.

Perhaps a dozen of them. The Chosen Legion's reserve force, stationed in the capital for exactly this purpose.

They fanned out across the field with practiced efficiency, moving toward the rift. Their eyes swept the empty grass, searching for possible threats.

Esrin's hand suddenly shot out, fingers closing on Cel's shoulder.

Before he could react, she pulled.

The world blurred. His feet left the ground. Wind screamed past his ears as she dragged him through the air like he weighed nothing.

They landed in the tree line perhaps two hundred steps from the rift - hidden among shadows and branches. The impact jarred his bones but he stayed upright, stumbling against a trunk.

"Stay here," Esrin said flatly. "And stay quiet."

"Why—"

"Because you're not supposed to be here." Her tone cut off any argument. "The Reckoning doesn't advertise its members. And I don't explain bringing random Academy students to active rift zones."

She stepped back, wings already spreading.

Then she was gone - launching into the air with a crack of displaced wind.

Cel watched her silhouette cross the moonlit sky, landing gracefully near the gathered Chosen. She spoke to a woman who saluted, gesturing toward the rift.

He crouched lower among the bushes, making himself small.

Because it was night, because he'd been hidden in shadow, because everything had happened so fast…

No one had seen him yet.

Even if a soldier had caught a glimpse of him, they had other concerns right now.

Cel settled deeper into the bushes, pulling his cloak tight. Silent Moon dissolved in his hand - no point keeping it manifested where the moonlight might catch the blade.

Minutes stretched.

The Chosen maintained their positions around the rift, vigilant and ready. But nothing came through. The violet tear simply hung there, waiting, while they watched with weapons ready for threats that didn't come.

Cel watched from his hiding spot, tracking their movements. Learning.

The sun hadn't risen, but the sky had shifted - deep black fading to navy at the edges. Pre-dawn. The coldest part of night.

The city gates opened again.

A small group emerged - four soldiers in metal armor, moving in tight formation. And within their protective square…

Civilians.

Cel's breath caught.

A middle-aged woman, her face carefully composed but cracking at the edges. A young child clinging to her hand, maybe six or seven, looking around with wide, confused eyes. And walking slightly ahead, an elderly person. Thin. Frail. Each step deliberate and measured.

They approached the rift.

The Chosen parted, making space. None of them met the civilians' eyes.

Twenty steps from the violet tear, the small group stopped. Soldiers stepped back, leaving the family alone.

The child tugged on the woman's sleeve.

Her composure shattered. One hand came up to cover her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks. She pulled her child close, pressing his face into her side.

The elderly person turned to face them.

He smiled. Sad. Proud. Utterly resigned.

The woman's shoulders shook with silent sobs, one arm wrapped around her child. The boy looked up at her, confusion deepening into fear even though he didn't understand why.

Cel understood.

'A sacrifice.'

A rift could only be closed by sending a living human through it. Just like the cult had used him. Just like they'd thrown him into the Hollow Realms to seal whatever tear bothered them.

The Empire had a policy. Anyone could volunteer. And in exchange, the royal family provided compensation for those left behind.

This elder was sacrificing himself for his family.

Cel's hands clenched in the dirt. His jaw locked so tight his teeth ached.

But that wasn't always the case. Sometimes people in utter despair - no family, no future, nothing to lose - volunteered in hope to gain the favor of the gods. A final act of meaning before their life ended.

And if no one volunteered…

Criminals were used.

But only rifts within the Empire's borders were closed. The rest? Left to fester. Left to pour horrors into the world until a different approach would be found.

The elder stepped forward, stopping just before the rift's edge.

A tremor ran through the his fingers. Small. Almost imperceptible. But Cel saw it - the only crack in the man's otherwise steady composure.

The man was… afraid.

How could he not be?

This wasn't just death. It was being torn apart by whatever waited on the other side. Ripped to pieces by creatures that existed to hunt and kill.

The elder glanced back.

The woman had collapsed to her knees, one arm still wrapped around her child, her other hand pressed against her mouth to muffle the sounds. Her son was crying now too, responding to distress he couldn't comprehend.

Behind them, the soldiers stood motionless. Professional. Distant. This wasn't the first sacrifice they'd witnessed. It wouldn't be the last.

The Chosen maintained their positions, weapons still drawn. Ready to strike down anything that might emerge the moment the elder passed through. They'd seen rifts betray their sacrifices before - seen creatures lunge through in the instant between entry and closure.

Something shifted in the elder's expression. Fear giving way to something else.

Not courage. Cel had seen courage in the soldiers on the wall - desperate, frantic, holding their ground against impossible odds.

This was different.

Acceptance. Resolution. The quiet certainty of someone who'd already made their peace with the end.

The elder's shoulders straightened. His breathing steadied.

He took one last look at his family - really looked, as if committing every detail to memory for whatever came after. The way his daughter clutched her son. The way moonlight caught in her tears. The way the boy's small hand gripped her sleeve.

Then he turned back to the rift.

His steps didn't falter. Didn't hesitate.

One.

Two.

Three.

He walked into the violet tear as if it were simply a doorway to another room.

One moment there. The next, gone.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

The rift hung in the air, unchanged. Still pulsing. Still waiting.

Then it shuddered.

The violet edges began to contract - slowly at first, then faster. Like a wound knitting itself, the tear pulled inward from all sides. The reality around it seemed to sigh with relief as the wrongness sealed itself away.

When it finally vanished completely, a deep silence followed.

Every Chosen around the now-empty space dropped to one knee. Heads bowed. Fists pressed to hearts in salute.

The soldiers on the wall did the same - a ripple of synchronized motion as hundreds of men and women honored the sacrifice.

Even Esrin knelt.

The only sounds were the woman's broken sobs and the child's confused crying as he pressed his face into his mother's shoulder.

Cel stayed hidden in the bushes, chest tight.

He'd died to seal a rift. Been thrown through by people who saw him as nothing but a convenient tool.

This elder had chosen it. Walked through with open eyes to save people he loved.

The difference burned.

Minutes passed before the Chosen rose. They moved away from the site with quiet efficiency, reforming their group. One of them approached the grieving woman, offering escort back to the city. Offering whatever comfort could be offered.

The soldiers on the wall began to disperse, returning to their posts. The celebration had long since died. Now there was just the weight of what they'd witnessed.

Esrin remained kneeling longer than the others.

When she finally rose, her expression was carved from stone.

She crossed the field in long strides, not toward the tree line but toward the gathered Chosen. They formed up around her - a loose formation that nonetheless placed her at the center.

The group began moving toward the city gates.

Cel stayed hidden in the bushes, watching them go.

He blinked.

‘Wait, what about me?’