The bell rang again.

Lior’s mother stood immediately. Her stool scraped against wood, porridge forgotten. She crossed to where the basket of gathered herbs hung from a peg near the door, hands moving with practiced efficiency to check its contents one final time.

Lior’s father had already disappeared into the sleeping room. Cel heard rustling fabric, the creak of something being moved. Then he emerged holding the leather pouch - the one Lior had given them, heavy with coins that represented more wealth than they’d probably held in years.

His weathered face carried tension that went deeper than simple preparation. His fingers worked the pouch’s drawstring, tightening it.

Then they moved toward the door.

Lior stood quickly, following. Cel rose more slowly, stepping into morning light that felt too bright after the house’s dim interior.

The village had come alive.

Residents poured from their homes, converging on the main road with the particular urgency of people who’d been waiting for this moment. Conversations rose and fell in overlapping waves. Children darted between adults, excited by the disruption to normal routine.

And there, in the middle of the road where the well stood, was the source of the commotion.

A carriage. Large enough to require two horses for pulling, both animals standing patient and massive in their traces. The vehicle itself looked ancient - wood darkened by weather and wear, iron reinforcements visible at joints and corners. But what drew the eye wasn’t the carriage itself.

It was what the carriage carried.

Goods. Piled high and lashed down with rope that strained against the load. Fabric in colors that stood out stark against the village’s muted palette. Metal tools that caught sunlight and threw it back in sharp glints. Clay vessels that probably held preserved foods or oils. Bundles wrapped in cloth whose contents could have been anything.

Two men stood before the carriage. Armed. Not dressed like soldiers exactly, but wearing leather reinforced with metal studs, carrying swords that hung from their belts with the casual readiness of frequent use. They positioned themselves between the carriage and the gathering crowd, bodies angled to block approach.

A third man moved among the residents at the crowd's edge. His clothing set him apart from the villagers immediately - a well-cut coat over a clean shirt, fabric with a weight and weave that spoke of coin rather than homespun labor.

The merchant.

The crowd pressed closer. Bodies shifting forward, the open ground shrinking as people jostled for a better position near the front.

One of the guards shoved his way toward the nearest villagers, sword hand dropping to rest on the hilt with obvious intent. "I said BACK!" His voice cracked across the gathering, ugly and too loud, more threat than order. "I'll put steel in the first idiot who touches this carriage!"

The crowd flinched away, a ripple of bodies retreating.

But they didn’t disperse entirely. Couldn’t. Not with everything they needed sitting perhaps twenty steps away.

The merchant moved then. Smooth and practiced, positioning himself where everyone could see him. His voice cut across the ambient noise with authority that didn’t need volume.

“Form a line. Everyone will get their chance.” He gestured toward a spot near the carriage’s rear. “One family at a time.”

The crowd reorganized itself. Bodies jockeying for position, people pressing forward or hanging back based on whatever calculation they were running about their chances. Voices rose - not aggressive exactly, but insistent.

Lior’s parents joined the forming line. Found a position perhaps two-thirds back from the front. Not ideal, but not catastrophic either.

Cel and Lior still stood in the doorframe. Watching. Left behind as the adults engaged in the business of survival.

The line solidified. Those who’d gotten positions near the front carried visible relief. Those at the back looked increasingly nervous, gazes cutting between the carriage and the lengthening line.

“Is it usually like this?” Cel asked quietly.

Lior’s attention stayed fixed on his parents. “Merchant visits don’t happen often.” His voice had gone tight. “And when someone comes... they can only carry so much.”

Understanding settled over Cel with uncomfortable clarity.

Everyone here needed something. Salt for preserving food. Metal tools that couldn’t be made without a forge. Medicine for injuries or illness. Fabric for clothing that couldn’t be woven from local materials. Luxuries that existed nowhere except in cities where craftsmen specialized and trade routes converged.

But the merchant’s carriage held finite quantities. Once something ran out, it stayed out until the next visit months away. So of course people were desperate. Of course they pressed forward with barely restrained urgency. The alternative was going without, and going without might mean genuine hardship rather than simple inconvenience.

"Was it different in your home village?" Lior asked, still watching the line lengthen.

Cel kept his eyes on the carriage. "You could say that."

The line began moving.

Transactions happened quickly. Residents approached the merchant, stated their needs, negotiated prices with varying degrees of success. Coins changed hands. Goods were transferred. Some walked away satisfied. Others looked disappointed, having failed to acquire whatever they’d hoped for or having paid more than they’d wanted.

Time accumulated. The sun tracked higher, morning warmth building toward midday heat. Cel watched the process repeat with mechanical regularity, each transaction following similar patterns despite individual needs.

Eventually Lior’s parents reached the front.

His father approached first. Pulled the leather pouch from his belt and opened it, counting coins with careful attention. The merchant watched with professional interest, nodding occasionally as numbers were discussed.

Then his father handed over a significant portion of the pouch’s contents. Perhaps half. Maybe more. Cel couldn’t see exactly from this distance, but the way the pouch deflated suggested the transaction had cost them dearly.

Lior’s mother moved to the carriage itself. Opened her cloth bag and began transferring herbs - the ones she and Lior had gathered yesterday. The merchant examined them with quick efficiency, nodding approval, gesturing toward specific containers where she could select replacements.

She pulled out ingredients. Different herbs, preserved items Cel couldn’t identify from here. Filled her bag with careful selection, occasionally glancing toward the merchant for confirmation that she’d chosen correctly.

The exchange concluded and his parents turned away from the carriage, making way for the next family.

And suddenly they were moving differently. His father’s weathered face had split into a grin Cel hadn’t seen before. His mother’s hands pressed to her mouth, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

They collided mid-step. Arms wrapping around each other with crushing force, bodies pressed together. Then they were jumping - actually jumping, feet leaving the ground in graceless hops that looked ridiculous and joyful in equal measure.

Around them, reactions varied. Some residents stood frozen, mouths hanging open. Others began applauding, the sound building as more joined in. Congratulations called out from multiple directions at once.

Lior’s parents broke apart. Sprinted toward where Lior and Cel stood.

His mother reached them first. Swept Lior into a hug that lifted his feet off the ground despite her slender frame. “We did it. We actually did it.”

His father arrived a heartbeat later. Wrapped his arms around both of them, creating a knot of bodies and emotion that Cel instinctively stepped back from.

“Did what?” Lior’s voice came muffled against his mother’s chest. “What happened?”

“We bought a new home.” His father’s words tumbled out fast, excitement overwhelming his usual measured speech. "A proper one. The merchant said he'll bring a craftsman next visit. Someone who builds houses properly. And planks - good wood."

Lior had gone completely still. “A new home?”

“Yes.” His mother pulled back enough to look at his face, her own expression radiating pure joy. “You won’t have to sleep on a pallet anymore. You’ll have a real bed. Space. Everything a proper room contains.”

The words hit with visible impact. Lior’s eyes filled with tears, his mouth working without producing sound. Then he was hugging them back, his body shaking with the force of emotion that had no other outlet.

Cel watched from his removed position. The scene played out before him like something from a world he’d never experienced.

The moment stretched. Eventually they separated, wiping at faces, laughing at themselves. Other residents had returned to their own transactions, the line continuing its steady progress.

Morning wore into afternoon.

The scouting party departed - instructors and their selected students heading back into the forest to continue searching for whatever creatures locals had reported. The rest of the group dispersed toward their assigned tasks. Helping residents with daily work.

Which meant field work for Cel.

He followed the familiar path. Through the gate, along the forest track, emerging into that impossible clearing where rich earth stretched in neat rows. The same tools waited at the field’s edge. The same workers gathered with the same purpose.

The hoe found his hands like an old companion. His body moved through motions that had become routine after just one day of practice. Earth turned beneath the blade. Rows appeared.

The sun tracked across the sky in its patient arc. Shadows lengthened. Temperature dropped fractionally as afternoon wore toward evening.

Eventually someone called that the work was finished. Tools were collected. The group began the walk back toward the village, conversation rising with the particular relief of obligations fulfilled.

The path wound through the forest that had become familiar. Trees pressing close, undergrowth thick between their trunks. Sunlight filtering through leaves overhead in scattered patches.

Then a cry cut through the ambient noise.

High and sharp. Terror in it. A woman’s voice, coming from somewhere off the path.

His body moved. Lifted the tool. Brought it down against earth that gave beneath the blade with surprising ease. The motion repeated itself without thought, muscles finding rhythm like water finding channels, and Cel stopped trying to understand what he was doing and just let it happen.

His enhanced body made the work trivial. Each swing carried force that bit deep into soil, turning, breaking and clearing space for whatever would be planted there.

Minutes accumulated. Rows appeared behind him - neat lines where his hoe had passed. He’d expected someone to correct him by now. To point out whatever fundamental mistake a noble pretending to be a commoner would inevitably make.

But no one approached.

The other workers moved through their own sections with steady efficiency, occasionally glancing his way but never stopping to offer instruction or criticism. Which meant either he was doing something so catastrophically wrong that they’d already given up on him, or…

Or he was doing it right.

He straightened slowly, staring down at his own hands.

Did he… have a talent for field work? If it wasn't that, then what was it? His body understood the motion instinctively, found the proper angle and force without needing to be taught.

The irony was vicious enough to make him laugh, though nothing came out except a sharp exhale that might have been pain.

His resurrection had granted him a body that exceeded normal human limits, even that of other Chosen Ones. Enhanced strength. Enhanced speed. Enhanced endurance. But all of it was worthless without technique to direct it, without the skill that separated wild flailing from actual combat.

And now here he stood, demonstrating natural aptitude for work that would never save his life, would never help him kill the people who’d wronged him, would never matter beyond filling his stomach with food he couldn’t even taste.

The hoe rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

Around him, conversations drifted - villagers talking in low voices, sharing observations about weather or discussing what needed planting where. The other students present moved with varying degrees of competence, some clearly familiar with the labor while others fumbled through it with determination that compensated for inexperience.

And gradually, Cel became aware of gazes pointing in one direction.

Not toward him. Toward something else. Someone else.

He straightened, letting the hoe rest against the ground while he tracked the lines of attention.

Hestia stood perhaps twenty steps away, working her own section.

Or… at least trying to.

Her movements looked wrong. The hoe came down at angles that wasted force, blade skipping across the surface instead of biting properly. She’d lift it too high, then bring it down without leverage, accomplishing maybe a third of what each swing should produce. Her black robes and wine-red ribcage frame made the whole scene surreal - divine armor designed for combat, worn while struggling with basic agriculture.

By now, everyone seemed to have noticed. Gazes cut toward her periodically, expressions carrying the particular discomfort of people who saw a problem but didn't want to address it. Because she was a noble. A Great Clan heir. The kind of person you didn’t correct even when they were obviously wrong.

Cel watched her for another few moments. Watched her reset her grip, adjust her stance, try again with the same ineffective result.

Then he exhaled and started walking.

Hestia looked up. Crimson eyes found his with immediate wariness.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Cel said.

Her expression hardened. “I’m not.”

“You are.” He gestured toward the ground she’d been working, at the shallow and uneven disturbances that barely qualified as proper tilling. “Look at what you’ve accomplished compared to everyone else.”

Hestia’s jaw set. She planted the hoe against the ground with more force than necessary, blade sinking deep. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Then why does it look like you’re trying to kill the earth instead of turn it?”

Her glare intensified, and for a moment he could've sworn he was looking at Zara.

Cel moved closer. “Let me help you.”

Something shifted in her expression. The defensive edge softened fractionally, replaced by uncertainty that she probably hated showing. Her grip on the hoe loosened slightly.

“If you insist,” she said finally.

Cel stepped behind her. Close enough that the heat from her body registered against his chest despite the armor between them.

His hands found hers on the hoe’s handle. Warm skin beneath his palms, her fingers surprisingly delicate for someone who spent so much time training with weapons.

“The angle’s wrong,” he said quietly. His breath stirred the black hair near her ear. “You’re trying to force it straight down. But the blade needs to come in like this—”

He guided her hands, adjusting the hoe’s position.

“And the motion isn’t just your arms.” His chest pressed against her back as he demonstrated, his body moving with hers through the proper swing. “Your whole body drives it. Weight shifts forward, momentum carries through. It’s just like fighting.”

They moved together. The hoe rose with combined effort, then fell - clean and sharp, blade cutting deep into earth that gave properly this time. Turning over. Creating the kind of disturbance that would actually prepare soil for planting.

Hestia went still. Not pulling away. Just frozen in place, awareness of their proximity apparently catching up to her.

“See?” Cel’s voice came rougher than intended. “Like that.”

Her head turned slightly. Not enough to make eye contact. Just enough that he could see her profile - the elegant line of her jaw, the faint color rising in her cheeks that might have been exertion.

Around them, the field had gone quiet - extremely quiet to be precise. All gazes fixed on them. At a commoner standing pressed against a noble lady's back, hands covering hers.

The wrongness of it was profound. Visible on every face that had turned their direction.

Hestia’s gaze cut sideways. Found the watchers.

Work resumed immediately. Heads bent back to their tasks, conversations restarting with forced normalcy, the moment dissolving like it had never happened.

Cel released her hands and stepped back, putting appropriate distance between them again.

“Try it,” he said.

Hestia nodded once. Then she lifted the hoe, positioned it the way he’d shown her, and brought it down with the proper angle and force.

Earth turned. Clean and deep. Exactly right.

She looked at the result for a moment. Then at him.

Cel inclined his head slightly. "You've got it now. I'll, uh—" He gestured vaguely toward his half-finished rows. "Get back to work."

Then he turned and walked back to his own section, acutely aware of her gaze following him.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Sun tracked across the sky in its patient arc, shadows lengthening and shifting direction as morning became afternoon.

Eventually someone called that the work was finished for the day.

Tools were collected, returned to their storage near the field’s edge. The group began the walk back toward the village, conversation resuming with the particular energy of people whose bodies were tired but whose obligations had been fulfilled.

The village gates appeared ahead. And beyond them, gathered near the well, stood the scouting group.

They’d returned already. Calder and Saren stood at the formation’s center, the selected students arranged around them in loose clusters.

Their expressions carried the particular frustration of people who’d spent the day searching for something that refused to be found.

“Anything?” someone from the field work group called out.

Instructor Calder shook his head. “Nothing. We covered the reported areas. No creatures, no tracks, no evidence of recent activity.”

“Maybe they already moved on,” he added. “But we will stay for a few more days - just to be sure.”

Then he dismissed the group with a gesture, and they dispersed toward their respective lodgings.

Cel found Lior. Wheat-blond hair catching afternoon light, sky-blue eyes bright with whatever the day had brought him. His mother stood beside him, a cloth bag slung over her shoulder that bulged with gathered herbs.

“How was it?” Cel asked.

Lior smiled. “Good. We found a lot. Mother knows all the best spots.” He gestured toward the bag.

His mother’s expression held contentment that went deeper than successful foraging. She’d spent the day with her son. That alone seemed to make everything worthwhile.

They walked back to the house together.

Dinner was simple. The same grain porridge from breakfast, supplemented with some preserved vegetables that added color if not much flavor.

Then the evening wound down. Darkness settling over the village.

Cel lay on the pallet, staring at wooden beams he couldn’t actually see in the darkness.

He wouldn’t sleep. Couldn’t risk it. The thought of surrendering consciousness to the nightmare again made his chest tighten with something close to panic.

So he lay there instead. Counting the minutes.

Eventually, his thoughts started to circulate.

Selina’s words from their last conversation returned with uncomfortable persistence. The distinction she’d drawn between “who” and “what” he was. The insistence that identity wasn’t defined by divine blessing, social position or the roles other people assigned.

But if that was true, then who was he?

The question had no satisfying answer. Every time he tried to grasp something concrete, it slipped away like water through his fingers.

He was a survivor. That felt true. He’d endured his father’s abuse, the cult’s torture, the trial of the Moon Goddess, the Ashlands. Had refused to die when dying would have been easier.

But surviving wasn’t an identity.

He was a weapon, maybe. Shaped by violence and pointed toward targets - his father, the cultists, whatever threats the Reckoning assigned him to eliminate.

But then again, that was “what” he was, not “who” he was.

The answers kept circling without resolution. Each one true in some limited way, none of them complete enough to feel like the truth Selina wanted him to find.

Frustration built in his chest.

So he let his thoughts shift. To the fighting style problem.

Selina had told him it wasn’t time to think about it yet. That he needed to focus on finding out who he is.

But the question wouldn’t leave him alone.

Hestia’s assessment had been brutally clear - creating an effective style from scratch required genius-level understanding combined with extensive experience. He had neither.

And yet Selina wouldn’t have suggested it without reason.

She was a Divine Oracle. The Moon Goddess’s voice. She’d always been right.

So why would she direct him toward something impossible?

Unless it wasn’t actually impossible. Unless there was something he was missing, some approach he hadn’t considered, some truth about himself that would make the task achievable instead of absurd.

But what?

He had no answer. Just circular thinking that led nowhere except back to the same conclusion - this was beyond his capability.

Time passed. How much, he couldn’t say. His thoughts continued their spiral. Identity. Fighting style. The gaps in his understanding that felt like chasms he couldn’t cross.

Eventually, noise emerged from the sleeping room. Movement. The rustle of fabric and quiet voices that suggested Lior’s family was waking.

Cel stood from the table. Moved back to his pallet and arranged himself like he’d been sleeping all along. No reason to explain why he’d spent the entire night sitting alone in darkness.

Morning light crept through the walls. Grey and thin, gradually strengthening as the sun actually rose.

Lior emerged first, hair disheveled from sleep, moving with the particular sluggishness of someone not quite awake yet. His parents followed shortly after. They moved through morning routines with practiced efficiency - tending the fire, preparing breakfast, setting the table.

They ate mostly in silence. The same porridge. The same quiet efficiency.

Then, cutting through the domesticity, a bell rang from outside.