The fist caught him across the jaw. His head snapped sideways, teeth cutting the inside of his cheek, blood flooding his mouth with copper warmth. Another blow landed before he could recover - knuckles driving into his ribs with force that compressed his lungs, drove air from his body in a sharp gasp. His father’s face loomed above him, features twisted with disgust that went deeper than anger could ever be.
“Worthless.” The word came flat. “The Moon Goddess’s mark. Of all the humiliations you could have brought on this house.”
Cel tried to speak. Tried to explain, apologize, say anything that might stop this. But all he managed were choking and pathetic sounds that had no meaning.
The beating continued. Methodical. Thorough. Fists raining down without pattern or pause, as if his father meant to erase him entirely.
Cel gasped. Air rushed into his lungs too fast, making him cough, which made his ribs scream with renewed intensity. His hands pressed against the floor, trying to push himself upright.
But the floor wasn’t stone anymore.
Straw crackled beneath his palms. Rough cloth instead of polished marble.
Understanding crashed through.
‘Not real. Not real…’
He opened his eyes.
Grey light greeted him. Not full morning yet - the pale, thin kind that crept through gaps in the walls before the sun properly rose. The sleeping room where Lior had grown up. The pallet beneath him. The single blanket that had fallen to the side during whatever thrashing he’d done while dreaming.
His breath came too fast. Heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. Sweat slicked his skin despite the cool night air.
He forced himself to slow down. Breathe deeper. Count the inhales and exhales until his body remembered it wasn’t actually being beaten, wasn’t actually in danger, wasn’t actually anywhere near his father.
It was just a memory, feeling the familiar weight of Cinderward’s armor still manifested around him - he’d kept it summoned through the night, unwilling to be caught vulnerable even here.
Light leaked around the curtain separating his sleeping room from the main space. Movement sounds filtered through - quiet footsteps, the scrape of wood against wood, low voices speaking too softly for him to make out words.
Surprise flickered through him. He'd expected the nightmare to have jolted him awake in the dead of night, same as always. But apparently he'd slept through till morning this time.
Cel moved to the curtain and pushed it aside carefully.
Lior and his parents moved through practiced morning routines - his mother tending something over the fire, his father checking equipment near the door, Lior setting wooden bowls on the table with the particular care of someone trying not to make unnecessary noise.
They looked up when the curtain moved. Three sets of eyes finding him simultaneously.
“Good morning,” Lior’s mother said, her voice carrying enthusiasm despite the early hour. “Did you sleep well?”
The question was innocent. Casual. But Cel’s chest tightened anyway.
Had they heard him? The nightmare might have made him thrash or cry out. Raven had mentioned once that he talked in his sleep.
But their expressions held nothing except polite concern. No pity. No awkward awareness of having witnessed something private.
Relief settled over him with unexpected intensity.
“I did,” Cel said, avoiding her eyes. “Thank you.”
Lior smiled, gesturing toward the table. “Mother made breakfast. It’s not much, but...”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Cel said.
He crossed to the table, settling onto one of the stools. The others joined him - Lior beside him as always, his parents across from them. His mother distributed bowls, each containing what looked like grain cooked in water. Porridge, maybe.
They ate mostly in quiet, spoons against wood, a murmured comment now and then about the day ahead.
Lior’s father finished first. Set his bowl aside and stood, moving to gather equipment from near the door. His mother followed suit moments later, collecting empty bowls and stacking them for later washing.
“We should head out,” Lior’s father said.
They moved through final preparations with practiced efficiency. Cel and Lior collected their own items - nothing much, just themselves really, since whatever work awaited wouldn’t require the supplies they’d brought from the Academy.
Outside, morning light had begun asserting itself over the village. Other students emerged from the houses where they’d stayed, joining the families who’d hosted them in a gradual convergence toward the village center.
The crowd grew. Perhaps thirty students total, accompanied by an equal number of residents. Conversation remained muted - people still shaking off sleep, not quite ready for the day’s full energy.
Instructor Calder and Saren stood near the well, waiting with the patient stillness of people who’d already been awake for hours. Their postures carried the particular alertness that never quite faded even in safe locations.
When everyone had gathered, Saren’s voice cut across the ambient noise.
“Students selected for scouting duty - step forward.”
Heads turned. Bodies shifted as certain people pushed through the crowd toward the instructors.
Nobles.
Only Nobles.
And Theron of course, who everyone assumed was the emperor’s child.
Cel watched them arrange themselves before the instructors.
The message was clear enough. Either the instructors were sparing nobles the dishonor of manual labor, or they were prioritizing the students who already had combat experience from family training.
But it created an obvious divide. Nobles doing important work while commoners stayed behind to help with farming and whatever other tasks the village needed.
Saren dismissed the selected group with a gesture. They departed immediately, following Calder toward the village’s main gate.
Lior’s father stepped closer, his weathered face friendly despite the early hour. He looked at Cel directly.
“Would you like to help me work the field today?”
“Yes,” Cel said immediately. Because what else could he say? That he’d prefer to stand around uselessly while everyone else contributed?
Lior’s father nodded, pleased. Then he turned toward his son.
Lior’s mother had moved closer during the exchange. She touched Lior’s arm lightly, drawing his attention. “Would you like to come gather herbs with me? A merchant should arrive any day now. We could trade what we find for something nice to eat.”
Lior’s face brightened. “Of course.”
His father’s expression shifted into something more serious. “Don’t go too far from the village. Stay within sight of the walls if you can.”
Both Lior and his mother nodded.
Then they were moving. Separating into their assigned tasks. Lior glanced back once, catching Cel’s eye, offering a small wave before disappearing around a corner.
Cel followed Lior’s father. Joined the loose group of other villagers and students who’d been assigned field work.
Movement caught his attention. Hestia walked perhaps five steps away, her black robes and wine-red ribcage frame standing out starkly among the simple clothes everyone else wore.
Cel adjusted his path, falling into step beside her.
She glanced at him. Crimson eyes acknowledging his presence without surprise.
“Why are you the only noble who didn’t go with the instructors?” The question emerged before Cel could consider whether asking was appropriate or not.
Hestia’s pace didn’t falter. “The instructors wanted me to stay behind.”
“Why?”
“To take the lead if something happens.” Her tone carried the same clinical precision it always did. “They needed someone capable of organizing a defense if the village comes under attack while they’re gone.”
That made sense. Hestia had already demonstrated leadership capabilities far beyond her age. The instructors would be fools not to utilize that.
“Then why are you going to the field?” Cel asked.
Hestia's expression didn't shift. “If I have to stay behind anyway, I might as well help with the work.”
The group continued walking. Away from the village center, toward a gate Cel hadn’t noticed the previous day.
The forest pressed close beyond it. Trees crowding each other, undergrowth thick between their trunks. The kind of density that made Cel wonder where exactly a field was supposed to exist in this environment.
They walked for perhaps ten minutes.
Then the trees opened.
Abruptly. Completely. One moment surrounded by dense growth, the next emerging into a space so large and clear it looked wrong.
The field stretched ahead. Massive. Rich earth showed in neat rows, some already planted with crops that had begun sprouting, others lying fallow and ready for work.
And surrounding it on all sides - the forest. Trees pressed close to the field’s edges like they were waiting for permission to reclaim the space. The contrast was striking. Almost surreal.
“How did you make this?” Cel asked, turning toward Lior’s father.
The man chuckled. Warm and genuine. “We didn’t. A Chosen from the Life Clan made it for us.”
Divine power used for agriculture. Not combat. Not glory. Just practical application of abilities to help people who needed it.
Lior’s father reached into a pile of tools that had been left at the field’s edge and pulled out a hoe.
He held it out toward Cel.
“You know how to do this, right?”
The question was rhetorical. Delivered with the assumption that of course Cel knew basic field work. Because what commoner didn’t?
Lior’s father moved away before Cel could formulate a response. Joined the other villagers who were already spreading across the field, selecting their sections to work.
Cel stood frozen. The hoe felt alien in his grip.
He had a problem. A significant one he hadn’t considered until this exact moment.
As a noble, he’d never done manual labor. Never been expected to understand how farming worked beyond the abstract concept that crops grew in fields and servants harvested them. His childhood had been spent learning etiquette, studying clan politics, training with weapons he’d been terrible at wielding.
Not learning how to work a field.
His gaze swept across the space. Other students had already begun working. Their movements carried the practiced efficiency of people who’d been doing this since they were old enough to hold tools. Hoes rose and fell in steady rhythm, breaking earth and clearing space for planting with effortless competence.
Cel turned.
Hestia stood perhaps ten steps away, also holding a hoe. Also looking distinctly uncertain.
She looked almost comical. A Great Clan heir in full divine armor, holding a farming tool like she’d been handed a weapon she didn’t know how to use.
“Do you know how to do this?” Cel asked.
Hestia’s crimson eyes met his. Something defensive flickered through them. “Of course I know.”
Then she turned and walked away.
Cel watched her go.
Apparently House Mortveil taught their heirs practical skills. Or at least taught Hestia. Maybe it was connected to that family tradition she’d mentioned while cooking - some Mortveil philosophy about understanding all aspects of life, even the mundane ones.
Cel looked at his own hoe. At the field stretching before him. At the other workers moving through their sections with steady progress.
‘Screw this.’
He lifted the hoe.