Someone stood above him. A figure backlit by pale light that filtered through his closed eyelids, turning the world into gradients of red and shadow. His thoughts moved slowly, each one dragging through fog that shouldn’t exist. The Moon Goddess had stripped his need for sleep away. Had given him endless waking hours. So why did his consciousness feel like something he had to claw toward?
The silhouette shifted. Resolved into features he couldn’t quite focus on.
‘Selina..?’
His vision cleared.
The weathered face of a man stared down at him with an expression somewhere between exasperation and resignation.
“Morning, you moron.” The words came flat. “Stand up before someone steps on you.”
Cel blinked.
‘Not Selina.’
His eyes tracked across the space above the barkeeper’s head, finding wooden beams he recognized. The Golden Hart’s ceiling. Which meant—
He pushed himself upright.
His gaze swept across the tavern.
‘A proper goodbye, huh?’
Tankards lay scattered across every surface, some still upright but most tipped over. Tables had been shoved against walls, chairs sat overturned and people - regulars he recognized - sprawled in positions that looked deeply uncomfortable.
One man curled beneath a table with his head pillowed on someone else’s boot, a woman slumped against the hearth with her mouth open and her hair falling across her face, another patron just lying flat in the middle of the floor with his arms spread wide like he’d decided the ground was acceptable bedding.
Just how much had they drunk?
Enough that even his divinely forged body had surrendered to it, apparently.
Cel stood slowly, testing his balance. His legs worked, though they felt less steady than they should. The barkeeper had already turned away, moving behind the counter with heavy steps, surveying his destroyed establishment with the resignation of a man who’d seen this before and would see it again.
“How are you even standing?” Cel’s voice came out rough. Hoarse. Like he’d spent the night shouting.
Had he shouted? He couldn’t remember.
The barkeeper glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “Because I stopped drinking three hours before you idiots did.” He picked up a tankard, examined it, set it down. “Someone had to make sure none of you died choking on your own vomit.”
Fair.
Cel picked his way across the floor, stepping over unconscious bodies and spilled drinks. His boots stuck slightly to the wood where alcohol had dried into tackiness. The air smelled like stale beer and unwashed bodies.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” he said when he reached the bar.
The barkeeper waved a hand dismissively. “Mess cleans up. You should see this place after the Founding Festival.” He paused, then added, “Though you did contribute significantly to the chaos.”
Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just the quiet of two people who’d shared space often enough that words weren’t always necessary.
“You’re leaving soon,” the barkeeper said finally. Not a question.
“In a week.”
“Long journey.”
“Two months there and back.”
The barkeeper nodded slowly, his weathered face thoughtful. He reached beneath the counter, pulled out a cloth, began wiping down wood that probably wouldn’t get properly clean without serious effort.
“You’ve been good company,” he said without looking up. “Don’t get many students who just sit and talk like normal people. Most of them are too busy trying to impress everyone or prove something.”
The words landed with unexpected weight.
“Thank you,” Cel said quietly. “For everything.”
The barkeeper’s hands stilled. He looked up, meeting Cel’s eyes with an expression that might have been understanding. “You take care of yourself out there. Life Clan territory got its dangers same as anywhere.”
“I will.”
“And when you get back...” The barkeeper’s mouth quirked slightly. “Your usual stool will be waiting.”
Something warm settled in Cel’s chest. Strange and unfamiliar. The promise of return. Of someone expecting him back. Of a space that would remain his even in absence.
The corner of Cel's mouth lifted, almost against his will.
"I'll see you then."
He turned toward the door, picking his way back across the destroyed tavern. Behind him, the barkeeper had already resumed cleaning, the cloth moving in steady circles.
The morning air hit Cel like cold water when he stepped outside. Sharp and clean after the tavern’s close warmth.
The walk back to the Academy passed in familiar rhythms. Streets gradually filling as Stella woke. Vendors setting up their stalls. Early morning workers moving with the grim determination of people who hadn’t chosen their hours.
Cel let the motion carry him, thoughts drifting nowhere in particular.
The week passed without much happening.
Classes focused on Life Clan territory - lectures about Verdanthold’s structure, the ancient trees that formed the city’s foundation, the political dynamics between the five noble houses. Instructor Saren provided detailed maps, marking dangerous routes and known rift-creature activity. Instructor Calder demonstrated proper wilderness survival techniques that most students already knew but needed refreshing anyway.
Each night Cel still found his way to the training grounds, and each night Hestia was already there waiting, her crimson blade drawn before he'd even crossed the threshold. Their sparring had settled into something almost ritualistic - she came at him without warning, without mercy, and he'd learned not to ask for either.
He lost as consistently as he always had.
Nothing changed. Nothing improved.
Lior talked constantly about seeing his parents, excitement building with each passing day. Other students made their own preparations, gathering supplies and checking equipment and discussing strategy for whatever challenges the examination would present.
Cel kept his thoughts on something else.
One more visit to the church. One last chance to see his sister before departing.
He’d come up with an excuse that felt plausible - a goodbye gift, something to mark their separation during the examination period. Not weird for two people who’d spent weeks talking about normal things. Not suspicious for someone calling themselves the Heir to the Moon to give a gift bearing a crescent moon.
The off-day arrived with clear skies and mild temperatures. Cel changed into his common clothes, tucked the wrapped necklace into his pocket, and left the Academy grounds before anyone could ask where he was going.
The walk to the church had become familiar over months of weekly visits. His feet knew the route. Past the market district where vendors called their wares. Through residential streets where houses pressed close together. Around the corner where the Moon Goddess’s church sat like something forgotten - small and unimpressive compared to the grand structures dedicated to the gods.
Cel’s hand found the door. Pushed it open.
The interior waited in its usual dim quiet. Candles burned in their holders, casting shadows that moved across stone walls. The statue of the Moon Goddess’s Mark dominated the space.
And kneeling before it, hands clasped in prayer, was Lyra.
His sister.
Her bluish-black hair fell loose around her shoulders. She wore a simple dress - nothing ornate, nothing that screamed wealth despite her noble birth. Her posture held the careful stillness of genuine devotion rather than performed piety.
Cel stood in the doorway, watching. His chest tight with feelings he couldn’t name.
Lyra’s head turned, awareness pulling her from prayer. Her eyes found him - icy blue-gray and matte, so similar to their mother’s that looking at them hurt sometimes. Recognition sparked immediately, followed by a smile that transformed her entire face.
“You came,” she said, standing quickly. Smoothing her dress with nervous hands. “I was hoping you would.”
“I always come.” Cel moved forward, settling into his usual seat on the bench near the front. “Why would today be different?”
“I don’t know. I just...” She sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “I’m glad you’re here.”
They fell into their familiar pattern, though something in Lyra seemed distracted today - her sentences trailing off, her hands restless in her lap. She kept glancing at the statue like it might answer a question she hadn't asked yet. Cel noticed but didn't press, letting the silence do what words couldn't.
The conversation flowed easily. Comfortable in the way only repeated practice could create.
Then Lyra’s expression shifted. Something uncertain entering her features.
“My birthday is next week,” she said quietly.
Cel’s heart clenched. He’d known, of course. Had counted down the days while pretending not to. “Is it?”
“Yes.” She picked at her dress, fingers finding a loose thread. “I was wondering if...” She took a deep breath. “Would you like to come? To celebrate?”
The invitation emerged nervous and hopeful in equal measure.
“It’s just a small gathering,” she continued quickly. “My mother and the servants. Nothing fancy. Just...” Another pause. “It would mean a lot to me. If you came.”
No friends, Cel realized with sudden, painful clarity. His sister had no friends. Just their mother and household staff who were paid to be kind to her.
The knowledge settled like a stone in his stomach.
“I can’t,” he said. The words came out rougher than intended. “I’m sorry.”
Lyra’s face fell. The hope that had brightened her eyes moments before dimmed into something closer to resignation. Like she’d expected this answer but had let herself hope anyway.
“Oh.” Her voice had gone small. Careful. “That’s alright. I understand.”
“No, it’s—” Cel forced himself to continue. To explain rather than leaving her thinking he’d simply rejected the invitation. “The Academy’s final examination starts in a few days. We’re departing for Life Clan territory. The journey takes four months in total - there and back. I won’t be in Stella for your birthday.”
Understanding crossed her features, but the disappointment remained. She nodded slowly, gaze dropping to her lap.
Cel watched her try to compose herself. Watched her force a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He couldn’t stand it.
“I brought you something,” he said quickly. Reached into his pocket and pulled out the cloth-wrapped shape. “This is... a goodbye gift. For while I’m away.”
Lyra’s eyes widened. She took the package carefully, like it might break if handled wrong. Her fingers found the cloth’s edge, unwrapping it slowly.
The necklace caught candlelight as it emerged - silver chain with the crescent moon pendant hanging from its center. Simple but well-made.
“I...” Lyra’s voice caught. “This is beautiful.”
"I chose it because..." Cel paused, organizing thoughts into words. "Because when I had nothing left - no home, no family, no reason to keep breathing - she was there. Not loud. Not demanding. Just... present. Like moonlight finding you even in the deepest depths." He gestured toward the pendant. "She didn't stop the pain. She never has, not for me. But she gave me something to hold onto until I could stand again. That's all I want for you."
Lyra’s fingers closed around the necklace. She stared at it for a long moment, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “This means...” She looked up at him, and the gratitude in her expression made his chest ache. “This means a lot to me.”
She fastened the necklace around her neck with careful movements. The crescent moon settled against her collarbone, right where the cloth of her dress met skin. She touched it lightly, testing its weight, her smile returning - genuine this time.
Then her expression shifted again. Became more serious. Uncertain in a way that went deeper than birthday parties or goodbye gifts.
“Can I ask you something?” Her voice had dropped lower. Almost hesitant.
“Of course.”
“Do you think...” She took a breath. “Do you think the Moon Goddess will choose me? At my birthday?”
The question landed with terrible weight.
This birthday wasn’t just about celebration. It marked her fifteenth year. The age when the Divine Calling occurred. When one of the seven gods would either mark her or pass her by entirely.
And Cel wouldn’t be there when it happened. Wouldn’t be there when his sister received a blessing or faced the crushing disappointment of being passed over. Wouldn’t be there to offer support or comfort or anything at all.
The pain of it hollowed him out.
“No one can predict what the gods will do,” he said carefully. Honestly.
Lyra nodded slowly, though the answer clearly wasn’t what she’d hoped for.
Cel continued, unable to stop himself. “But in my eyes...” He met her gaze directly. “You’re more than worthy of becoming a Chosen. Every god should be fortunate to have you.”
Tears spilled over then. Lyra wiped at them quickly, embarrassed by the display.
“Thank you,” she said again. “For saying that. For—“ She gestured vaguely, encompassing the gift, the conversation and everything else. “For being my friend.”
Friend. The word stabbed through him. Because he wasn’t her friend. He was her brother. Her actual brother, sitting beside her wearing a stranger’s face, pretending not to know her the way siblings should know each other.
And she had no idea.
They sat in silence for a while after that. The church waited around them with its familiar patience.
Eventually Lyra stood. Straightened her dress. Touched the necklace one more time like confirming it was real.
“I should go now,” she said. “Before my mother starts worrying.”
Cel rose too. They moved toward the church entrance together, footsteps echoing softly against stone.
At the door, Lyra turned back. “Be safe, alright? During the examination.”
“I will.”
“And when you return...” She smiled - small but genuine. “Come visit. Tell me about the Life Clan territory. About the ancient trees, the villages and everything you see.”
“I promise.”
She left then. Slipped through the door and into the street beyond. Cel caught the smile before she went - small, unguarded, the kind she probably didn't know she was wearing - and then her dark hair disappeared into Stella's afternoon crowd.
Cel remained standing in the doorway, watching her go - the only person who he still considered family.
“Happy birthday, little sister.”