The hallway was empty when Cel stepped out of his room. Early enough that most students were still sleeping, late enough that morning light filtered through tall windows and painted the wooden floors gold.
He stepped into the hallway and started walking.
The dormitory corridors eventually gave way to the main building's wider passages, and he found himself at the Academy's front entrance - massive oak doors carved with marks of the seven deities.
Cel walked through and past the iron gates. The guards who'd straightened so sharply for Esrin yesterday barely glanced at him now - just another student leaving the grounds.
The city spread before him.
He'd walked these streets with Esrin, taking in the shops, the crowds, the constant flow of normal life. But there had been direction then. A destination. Following her steady pace through streets that parted for a Hallowed.
Now there was no destination. No goal. No one to follow.
The street stretched wide and level. Cobblestones fitted together in patterns that would've taken months to lay. Buildings rose on either side - stone and timber construction, three and four stories tall, with shop fronts on the ground level and living quarters above.
People were already out. A woman swept the steps of what looked like a bakery, the smell of fresh bread drifting across the street. Two men carried a heavy crate between them, grunting with effort as they maneuvered it through a narrow doorway. A child ran past chasing a leather ball, laughter trailing behind.
Normal. All of it completely, impossibly normal.
Cel moved along the street.
His armored boots clicked against cobblestones. The sound felt too loud. Too present. In the Ashlands, his footsteps had been nothing but soft crunching through ash. Every other sound had been a potential threat, something to track or hide from. Here the sound just... existed. Meant nothing. Threatened nothing.
The morning air carried a dozen scents. Bread, yes, but also horse manure from somewhere nearby. Woodsmoke from breakfast fires. Something sweet and floral from a cart selling flowers at the corner.
He passed the flower cart and the vendor - an older woman with weathered hands - smiled at him.
"Morning, young master!"
Cel nodded once and kept walking.
Young master…
He glanced down at himself. Cinderward covered him in practical brown and gray - simple by artifact standards, but still unmistakably an artifact. Anyone who looked would know immediately what he was.
A Chosen.
And his snow white hair didn't help. It marked him as clearly as the armor - unnatural, distinctive, impossible to miss.
The realization settled uneasily in his chest.
More people appeared as he descended further into the city. The street widened into a broader avenue lined with shops. Merchants were opening shutters and arranging displays. Customers browsed early selections. Conversations hummed in the air - dozens of voices blending together into a constant murmur.
And eyes found him.
Not everyone. Not constant staring. But enough that he noticed.
A merchant glanced up from arranging pottery and held his gaze a moment too long. Two women walking together turned their heads as he passed, whispering something he couldn't hear. A group of young men near a tavern entrance went quiet when he approached, resuming their conversation only after he'd moved on.
Yesterday, with Esrin, all eyes had been on her. The famous Hallowed commanded attention simply by existing. He'd been background noise in her presence - forgettable, invisible.
Without her, he stood out.
Cel's chest tightened.
He needed different clothing.
A shop ahead had fabric bolts displayed in the window - simple woolens and linens in earth tones. No fine silks or elaborate patterns. The kind of place that served commoners and lower merchants.
Perfect.
The door opened with a soft chime. Inside, the space was narrow but deep, with shelves lining both walls holding folded garments and stacked fabric. An elderly man stood behind a counter at the back, squinting at a ledger.
He looked up when Cel entered. His gaze dropped to the armor, lingered a moment, then rose back to Cel's face.
"How may I help you, young master?"
There it was again. That assumption.
"Clothes," Cel said. "Nothing formal. Just normal wear for the city."
The shopkeeper studied him a moment - assessing size and build with an experienced eye. "Of course. Simple tunic and trousers? We have several styles..."
He moved along the shelves, pulling items and laying them on the counter. Brown linen tunic. Dark gray trousers. A simple belt. All well-made but unremarkable.
"And a cloak," Cel added. "Something with a hood."
The man nodded and retrieved a dark brown traveling cloak from a peg. The fabric was thick enough to ward off rain but not so heavy it would be uncomfortable in warm weather.
"Will you be wearing them now, or shall I wrap them?"
"Now."
The shopkeeper gestured toward a small changing area curtained off in the corner. Cel took the bundle and stepped behind the fabric.
Cinderward dismissed at a thought, dissolving into nothing as it returned to wherever artifacts went when unsummoned.
He pulled on the new clothes. The linen tunic was rougher than Cinderward's smooth fabric but not uncomfortable. The trousers fit well enough. The belt cinched everything in place.
When he emerged, the shopkeeper nodded approvingly. "A good fit. Will there be anything else?"
"No."
Cel pulled coins from the pouch he had received and counted out the price the man named. The shopkeeper accepted the payment with a small bow.
"Thank you for your patronage, young master. May the gods watch over you."
Cel pulled the hood up as he stepped back onto the street.
Better.
The attention didn't disappear completely - a hooded figure still drew some notice - but the weight of eyes lessened. People glanced and looked away. Normal wariness of a stranger rather than recognition of a Chosen.
He could breathe easier.
The street continued downward, opening into what looked like a market square. Stalls clustered around a central fountain where water bubbled over carved stone. Vendors called out their wares - fresh fish, vegetables, leather goods, tools, trinkets.
Cel drifted through it all without direction.
A weapons stall caught his eye briefly. Well-made steel displayed on cloth - daggers, short swords, a few longer blades. Nothing compared to Silent Moon, but quality work. The merchant noticed his interest and started to approach, but Cel moved on before the man could speak.
Food stalls next. Roasted meat on skewers sending up fragrant smoke. Pastries glazed with honey. Some kind of soup being ladled into wooden bowls for customers who ate standing at rough tables.
His stomach didn't react. He'd eaten the dried meat from the Hollow Realms recently enough that hunger hadn't returned yet. But he watched the people - how they ordered, how they paid, how they ate while talking with friends or standing alone.
Normal human behavior that felt foreign.
He moved through the crowd, letting the flow of bodies guide him. A woman argued with a fishmonger about prices. Two children darted between stalls playing some kind of game. An old man sat on a bench eating bread from a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Then voices rose above the general market noise - clear and distinct despite the surrounding chatter.
"—and the merchant swore it's a genuine relic! From an actual hero of the old wars!" The speaker's tone carried pure enthusiasm. "Can you imagine?"
Cel's gaze tracked toward the sound.
A young man with brown hair stood before a fabric merchant's stall, holding up a cloak. Well-tailored clothing marked him as nobility. The fabric practically glowed even in daylight. His whole posture radiated earnest excitement as he examined the crimson cloth with golden clasps.
The young woman beside him wore elegant green that identified her as Life Clan. Her posture was perfect - back straight, shoulders set, every movement controlled and precise. Light green hair fell in a practical braid down her shoulder.
She looked... tired. Patient, but exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical fatigue.
"Theron." Her voice was quiet but firm. "That's what the last four merchants told you."
Several nearby shoppers had noticed the nobles in their midst. Some stared openly. Others whispered to companions while glancing over. The fabric merchant himself looked simultaneously nervous and opportunistic - aware that nobles shopping in a commoner market was unusual, but not about to miss a potential sale.
The young man - Theron - barely seemed to notice the attention. "But this one seems different! The craftsmanship is—"
"Do you honestly believe," the woman interrupted, "that a genuine relic would be sold at a market stall?"
Theron paused. His expression shifted through several emotions - confusion, consideration, then reluctant acknowledgment. "I... suppose that would be unlikely."
"It would be impossible." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "If it were real, it would be in a noble house vault."
The merchant's face fell slightly but he maintained his smile. Theron looked at the cloak again, then carefully returned it to the display.
"You're absolutely right," he said brightly. "A true hero wouldn't need relics to prove himself anyway! The heart matters, not—"
Cel stopped listening and walked away.
None of his business. Two nobles shopping where they didn't belong.
He continued through the market until a shop selling books and parchment caught his eye at the square's edge.
Cel pushed inside, grateful for the quieter atmosphere.
Shelves stretched toward the ceiling packed with bound volumes. The smell of leather, ink and old paper filled the space. A few customers browsed - a young woman reading the first pages of what looked like a romance, an older man examining what might have been a religious text.
Cel moved along the shelves without touching anything. Titles he could read thanks to his basic education. Histories. Philosophical treatises. Collections of poetry. Technical manuals about everything from farming to architecture.
"Can I help you find something?"
The voice came from behind. Cel turned to find a middle-aged woman in a simple dress - probably the shop owner - watching him with polite interest.
"Just looking."
She nodded and retreated to her counter, leaving him to browse.
He stayed a few more minutes before the enclosed space began to feel confining. Too many shelves. Too many words pressing in from all sides.
Back on the street, his feet carried him onward. More shops. More faces. More normal life happening around him while he drifted through it like a ghost.
What was he even doing?
He still didn't know what brought him joy. Watching strangers shop for cloaks wasn't it. Neither was browsing books he'd never read or staring at weapons he didn't need.
Maybe joy wasn't something he could find. Maybe—
A symbol caught his eye.
Silver against dark stone. Carved into the wall of a building down the street.
A crescent moon cradling a perfect circle, with star-like points radiating outward and wing-like curves at the base.
The Moon Goddess's mark.
Cel stopped walking.
The building was modest compared to some of the grand structures he'd passed - two stories of gray stone with narrow windows. But the mark was prominent, positioned above heavy wooden doors that stood partially open.
A church.
Understanding clicked into place.
The capital city. Seat of the Stellarion Empire. Neutral ground where no deity was worshipped above the others.
And because this was neutral ground, all seven deities had churches here. Even the Moon Goddess.
This might be the only church devoted to her on the entire continent.
His feet moved before he made a conscious decision.
The wooden doors were old but well-maintained. Someone cared for this place even if few visited. Cel pushed through and stepped inside.
The interior was simple. Stone walls without elaborate decoration. Rows of wooden benches facing toward the far end where a raised platform held a single statue.
The Moon Goddess's mark again - this time rendered in pale stone that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light filtering through high windows. It stood taller than a person, carved with such devotion that every detail was perfect.
The space was quiet. Empty except for—
Except for the single figure kneeling before the statue.
A young woman in a simple blue dress. Bluish-black hair fell past her shoulders as her head bowed in prayer. Hands clasped before her. Shoulders curved in a posture that spoke of genuine devotion rather than ceremonial duty.
She knelt perfectly still. Silent. Lost in whatever words she offered to the goddess.
Something about the shape of her shoulders, the way her hair fell, the angle of her head felt… familiar.
Cel's breath stopped.
No.
It couldn't be.
The woman shifted slightly, adjusting her position. Her profile came into view for just a moment - delicate features, pale skin, a face he'd seen every day for the first fifteen years of his life before everything shattered.
Lyra.
His little sister.