“You’re coming with me.”
Cel stood frozen, his mouth half-open with a question that hadn’t formed yet, while around him the other students shifted with visible confusion. But Hestia had already turned away, her attention flowing back to the group leaders as if the matter was settled, her crimson eyes tracking across the map still spread on the flat rock.
Lior shifted closer, worry creasing his forehead. His hands worked at his pack straps again, finding comfort in repetitive motion. He opened his mouth twice before words emerged, quiet enough that only Cel could hear.
“Are you sure about this?”
Cel had no answer. Because no, he wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure about any of it.
But what choice did he have? Arguing with Hestia in front of everyone would draw exactly the kind of attention he’d spent months avoiding. Would raise questions about why a commoner student felt entitled to question a Great Clan heir’s tactical decisions.
“It’ll be fine,” Cel said instead.
Lior didn’t look convinced. His gaze cut toward Hestia, then back, mouth pressed into a thin line of suppressed objection. But he nodded anyway, accepting what couldn’t be changed.
The briefing concluded. Group leaders straightened, rolling up their individual map copies, reviewing their assigned teammates one final time. Hestia stepped back from the rock, her posture shifting into something more commanding.
“One more thing.” Her voice carried across the assembled students without strain. “Those of you who received an armor at their first blessing - summon it now. Keep it manifested throughout the journey. Those with weapons should be ready to call them forth at any moment.”
She demonstrated without ceremony. Divine energy flared around her in a brief swirl of dark mist, and then the armor materialized.
Deep black robes with a close-fitted top that flared into a long skirt, split at both sides for movement. Thin dark red trim along the collar and cuffs, subtle enough to complement the rather dark design. Black leather straps crossed over waist and hips, cinched by a belt. A high collar framed her neck, trimmed in that same muted red.
But what stood out most was the wine-red ribcage frame layered over her chest - thin, metallic bands curving from collarbone to sternum like exposed bone.
The effect was striking. Elegant and lethal in equal measure.
Around the clearing, other students who possessed armor artifacts began their own summoning. Divine energy sparked and flared as protection materialized - leather reinforced with metal plates, lighter cloth enchanted for defense, pieces that varied wildly in style but shared the fundamental purpose of keeping their wearers alive.
Cel watched the display, cataloging which students had received this type of artifact. Fewer than he’d expected. Perhaps a dozen.
Hestia’s gaze swept across them one final time, checking that everyone had complied. Then she nodded once.
"Move out."
The groups moved. Leaders calling their assigned teammates, students clustering together, checking their maps and supplies before departing. The forest waited ahead - trees pressing close enough that sunlight barely penetrated, undergrowth thick with the kind of vegetation that grabbed at clothing and slowed progress.
One by one the groups entered. Disappeared into shadow and green. Their voices faded, swallowed by distance and foliage.
Lior lingered longest. He’d joined his assigned group but kept glancing back, worry still evident despite the reassurance Cel had attempted. Eventually one of his teammates said something and he turned away fully, following them into the woods.
Then silence.
The clearing stood empty except for Hestia and Cel. Birds called from somewhere deeper in the forest. Wind rustled through leaves overhead. The dirt path leading toward Life Clan territory stretched ahead, patient and indifferent.
Hestia adjusted her bag with economical movements. Checked that her waterskin was secured properly. Touched the wine-red vambraces on her forearms as if confirming they’d manifested correctly.
Then she set off.
Just started walking. Like everything was obvious and required no discussion.
Cel stood frozen for another moment, watching her back recede. The wine-red ribcage frame caught light as she moved, standing out stark against the black robes.
Then he followed.
His feet carried him forward, closing the distance. He settled into a pace close enough for conversation but far enough to keep the space a commoner should keep from a Great Clan heir.
They walked in silence for some time. The forest closed around them gradually - trees growing denser, underbrush thickening, the path narrowing to something that required more attention to navigate.
Eventually Cel’s confusion outweighed caution.
“Why didn’t you put me in a group?”
Hestia didn’t slow. Didn’t turn. Just continued walking with that same steady gait.
“The purpose of this examination is to gain your first real experience fighting rift-creatures.” Her tone carried the clinical precision of someone explaining something obvious. “You already have that experience.”
The words hit like cold water.
Cel’s steps faltered. His mind scrambled, trying to understand how she could possibly know that. What mistakes he’d made again to expose such a truth.
“You figured that out too?” The question emerged before he could stop it. Disbelief bleeding through despite his best efforts at control.
“Of course.” She glanced back briefly, crimson eyes meeting his with something that might have been amusement. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
Then she turned forward again, continuing as if this revelation was nothing remarkable.
Cel forced his legs to move. Caught up to her, mind racing through possibilities.
“How?” His voice came strained. “How did you figure it out?”
Hestia ducked beneath a low branch without breaking stride.
“You possess a katana as your artifact. You have a physical enhancement as an authority. And you have at least two traits.”
Cel’s chest tightened.
“One trait that conceals your divine energy completely,” she continued. “Making you invisible to the sixth sense most Chosen rely on. And another that...” She paused. “That apparently involves resurrection.”
The memory surfaced - that conversation in his room, when Hestia threatened him and forced Cel to confess that he died and returned.
“During the first blessing,” Hestia said, her pace never slowing, “a Chosen receives only one trait. To possess two means you’ve already earned an achievement. And based on what Esrin told me about finding you in the Hollow Realms...” She glanced back again. “The most logical achievement would be killing your first rift-creature.”
The reasoning was flawless. Brutal in its simplicity.
Cel’s hands clenched. Of course she’d figured it out. Of course she’d taken scattered pieces of information and assembled them into a complete picture. That’s what she did - saw patterns others missed, drew conclusions from insufficient fragments.
Still… relief threaded through the dismay. Because her reasoning, while accurate in outcome, was wrong in critical details.
She thought his physical strength derived from an authority. His true authority remained something she hadn’t identified.
She thought he had one achievement. Didn't know about the second one - or the third.
She knew he’d killed rift-creatures. Didn’t know the full extent of what he’d survived in the Hollow Realms. The torture beforehand. The year of systematic destruction that had preceded his entry into that nightmare dimension.
The gaps in her knowledge felt like small mercies. Windows where privacy still existed despite her frightening ability to deduce truth from fragments.
Pride stirred in his chest. Unexpected and maybe inappropriate, but undeniable.
If she thought he only had one achievement, if she’d misjudged the source of his physical capabilities, then he could correct at least one of those assumptions. Could show her that she didn't have all the answers after all.
Soft moonlight appeared around him and Cinderward materialized.
The fitted grey tunic formed first, settling against him as the base layer. Then the mantle draped across his chest and shoulders, flowing down his back, followed by the pale shoulder plates that crowned each side, bearing the weight of the long cloak that fell to his knees.
Dark bracers encased his forearms, and dark trousers covered his legs beneath them. Last came the boots - solid steel, rising from foot to knee.
The armor settled around him with familiar comfort. Not heavy exactly. Just present. A second skin that reminded him he was harder to kill than he looked.
He raised his eyes.
Hestia had stopped walking. Had turned to face him fully, crimson eyes wide with surprise that cracked her usual composure.
For several heartbeats she just stared, taking in the armor.
“Two achievements.” The words came quiet. Almost wondering. “You’ve earned two achievements already.”
Cel nodded once. Let the confirmation stand without elaboration.
Hestia's expression shifted - surprise first, then something quieter. Reluctant respect, if he had to name it. She took a step closer, examining the armor with the same analytical attention she applied to everything.
“That’s...” She paused, searching for appropriate words. “Exceptionally difficult. Achievements require extraordinary action under specific circumstances. Most Chosen earn their first within the final examination of the Academy. Their second could take years.” Her gaze tracked across the coat’s reinforced hem, the helmet’s design. “To have two this quickly suggests either remarkable luck or remarkable capability.”
“Or both,” Cel offered.
A smile ghosted across her lips. Brief and genuine. “Or both,” she acknowledged.
She turned back toward the path, resuming her steady pace. Cel fell into step beside her now rather than behind, the earlier distance feeling less necessary.
They walked in silence for a few steps. Then Hestia spoke again, her tone shifting back to clinical assessment.
“But that wasn’t the only reason I didn’t assign you to a group.”
Cel’s attention sharpened. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t fit.” She said it simply. Factually. Like stating the color of the sky.
His jaw tightened. He'd heard variations of that sentence his whole life - that he was different from others. Too weak. Too emotional.
“Your physical capabilities far exceed anyone else's. Your speed, your strength - even those with enhancement blessings can’t match what you’re capable of.”
He said nothing, the words sitting strangely against years of being called insufficient instead.
“No one could keep up with you in actual combat,” Hestia continued. “You’d be constantly holding back to avoid leaving your group behind. Or you’d charge ahead and fight alone, making the group assignment meaningless.”
She glanced at him, and something mischievous entered her expression. Almost teasing.
“Though your technique is still useless, of course.”
Heat crawled up Cel’s neck.
“You could have left that last part out, you know?”
Hestia’s smile widened fractionally. A rare expression that transformed her features from severe to something almost approachable.
They continued walking. The forest deepened around them, sunlight filtering through leaves overhead in scattered patches.
Cel’s thoughts circled back to what Selina said about his fighting style.
“My priestess suggested something,” he said carefully. “Regarding the technique problem.”
Hestia’s attention turned toward him without her pace faltering. Waiting.
“She said I should create my own fighting style. What do you think about that?”
The words hung between them. Hestia’s expression remained neutral, but something shifted in her eyes. Consideration replacing casual attention.
She continued walking for several steps before giving an answer.
“I’m not sure.”
Cel’s disappointment must have shown because she continued immediately, her tone taking on the measured quality of someone working through a complex problem aloud.
“It’s not without reason that all learn established styles.” Her gaze tracked across the forest ahead, though her focus seemed internal. “In combat, a single mistake can mean instant death. That’s why fighters rely on techniques developed and tested over centuries. Styles that work. That have been proven through countless battles against countless opponents.”
She ducked beneath another low branch, the movement fluid and automatic.
“On the other hand,” she continued, “it’s true that a personalized style fitted to one’s specific capabilities is superior. That’s why masters who excel take established foundations and make adjustments. Small modifications that account for their particular strengths or compensate for weaknesses.”
Cel absorbed it, trying to understand where her reasoning led.
“But creating a style from scratch is entirely different.” Hestia’s voice dropped slightly, taking on weight. “Everything must be tested. Every form. Every move. Every transition. Each time you try something new, it’s a first. And first times bear the possibility of catastrophic failure. Of death.”
She glanced at him, crimson eyes serious.
“And beyond the danger, there’s the knowledge requirement. To create an effective fighting style, you need a deep understanding of technique - which only comes from years of experience.”
The path narrowed further. They moved single-file for several steps before it widened again.
“I don’t think that’s possible for you,” Hestia said quietly. Not cruel. Just honest.
Frustration built in Cel’s chest. Of course he knew that this wasn’t something he simply could pull off. Still, knowing it and hearing it stated outright were two different things.
“But all styles started from scratch once,” he said. The argument felt weak even as he voiced it.
“True.” Hestia acknowledged the point with a slight nod. “But they had centuries for development. Generations of practitioners refining techniques, discovering flaws, making corrections. The styles we learn today are the accumulated knowledge of hundreds of masters, each building on their predecessors’ work.”
She paused, then added, “You don’t have centuries.”
The blunt assessment hit harder than intended. Because it was true. Time pressed against him with increasing urgency. Rift-creatures. His father. The Children of the Voidmother. All of them waiting, existing, continuing their lives while he struggled to become strong enough to make them pay for what they’d done.
“So you don’t recommend it?” Cel asked. Needing clarification despite already knowing the answer.
Hestia fell silent. Her pace slowed fractionally.
The forest sounds filled the gap - birds calling, wind moving through leaves, their boots crunching against the dirt.
“Like I said,” Hestia began slowly, “I’m not sure.”
She turned to look at him fully, stopping in the middle of the path. Her expression carried something close to sympathy, though filtered through her characteristic directness.
“What you lack is talent. No matter which established style you learn, your technique will remain mediocre. And creating your own style from scratch...” Hestia shook her head slightly. “That’s not something anyone can simply decide to do. It requires genius-level understanding combined with extensive experience. You have neither.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I’ll be honest,” she continued, her tone remaining clinical. “I have no idea what to recommend in your situation.”
“In my eyes…” She paused for a moment, holding his gaze. “You’re a lost cause.”