The crowd pressed closer to the board, voices rising in waves of excitement and disappointment.
Cel hung back, letting the others surge forward first. He could wait. The rankings weren't going anywhere.
Gradually, students filtered away. Some wore satisfied expressions. Others looked troubled, arms crossed as they muttered to friends about matches they should have won.
When enough space cleared, Cel moved closer.
His eyes tracked down the list.
Rank 1: Sylvaine Grovethorn
Rank 2: Owen Peakscale
Rank 3: Hestia Mortveil
Rank 4: Theron
Murmurs rippled through the crowd at that placement. The All-Blessed had grown up as a commoner, yet here he stood above every noble except three. Divine favor, apparently, included natural talent for fighting.
The unfairness of it settled in Cel's chest like cold stone.
Rank 5: Cordelia Tidecall
Rank 6: Percival Tempest
Rank 7: Kyros Solgrand
Then the remaining nobles in descending order - each one benefiting from years of private training, inherited techniques, artifacts passed through bloodlines.
Then—
Rank 15: Celvian
Cel stared at the number.
Fifteenth. The first commoner on the list. Above every other student who'd come from farming villages and merchant families.
His jaw tightened.
He'd held back deliberately. Fumbled his strikes. Made his bladework clumsy and uncertain. Pretended his strength was just an authority he couldn't control properly yet.
But even then, the gap between a trained noble and the commoners was vast. That couldn't be overcome by pretending to be weak.
His gaze dropped further down the list. Past more names. More numbers.
Until he reached the bottom.
Rank 40: Lior
Last place.
Dead last among all forty students.
Cel's gaze swept the crowd until he found him. Lior stood at the board's far edge, shoulders hunched inward like he was trying to disappear into his own uniform. His hands twisted together at his waist - that nervous gesture Cel had come to recognize.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat.
Lior's throat worked. His fingers twitched once, as if reaching for something to hold onto.
Then he turned and walked away.
Not toward the dining hall. Not toward the classroom. Just... away. His footsteps quick and unsteady, like someone fleeing before they broke apart completely.
Cel watched until Lior disappeared around a corner, jaw tight.
Morning assembly came and went. Theoretical classes passed in their usual rhythm - Instructor Saren's voice washing over topics Cel already knew.
Lior's seat remained empty.
Afternoon combat training arrived. Students filtered onto the grounds, forming loose clusters while Instructor Calder barked orders.
Still no Lior.
By evening, when dinner filled the hall with voices and the clatter of plates, his absence felt deliberate. Permanent.
Cel ate alone at their usual table. The empty seat beside him felt heavier than it should have.
When the meal ended, he rose and made his way through corridors that had grown familiar over months of routine.
The commoner dormitory stood quiet. Most students remained in the dining hall or gathered in common areas. Cel's boots echoed against wood as he climbed stairs to the second floor.
Lior's door waited at the end of the hall.
Cel stopped before it, hand raised to knock.
A sound filtered through the wood. Soft. Muffled.
Whimpering.
His hand froze mid-air.
The sound continued - broken, desperate. The kind of crying that came from somewhere deep, where all composure had finally cracked.
Cel's hand lowered slowly.
'What am I even doing here?'
He had no idea how to comfort someone. The concept felt foreign - awkward and uncertain, like trying to speak a language he'd never learned.
When he'd broken down in that cell, no one had come. When nightmares tore him from sleep, he'd faced them alone. The only comfort he'd ever known was Lyra's occasional visits - her brightness cutting through the darkness for brief, precious moments.
But Lyra had been a child. Natural warmth and affection poured from her without effort or thought.
Cel possessed neither.
He should leave. Walk away. Let Lior have his privacy, his dignity.
But the memory of his own tears - shed in darkness with no one to hear, no one to care - made his chest ache.
Maybe the knowledge alone that someone cared… would be enough.
Not enough to fix anything. But something.
Cel's knuckles met wood. Three sharp raps.
The whimpering cut off instantly.
Silence stretched. Then footsteps - hesitant, shuffling.
The door opened a crack.
Lior's face appeared in the gap. Eyes red and swollen. Cheeks wet with tears he'd tried to wipe away but hadn't quite managed. His wheat-blond hair stuck up at odd angles where he'd run his hands through it.
"Cel?" His voice came out hoarse. Uncertain. "What are you..."
"Can I come in?"
The question hung between them.
Lior's throat worked. He glanced back into his room, then at Cel, then down at the floor.
Finally, he stepped back and pulled the door wider.
Cel entered.
The room was identical to his own - narrow bed, simple desk, wardrobe. But Lior's space carried signs of actual habitation. Letters stacked on the desk, the ink barely dry. A practice knife resting on the windowsill. Blankets rumpled from restless sleep.
Lior closed the door and stood there awkwardly, hands twisting together. His gaze fixed on the floor between them.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know I should have attended classes today. I just... couldn't."
"It's fine."
The words felt inadequate. Hollow.
Lior's shoulders shook. His breath hitched.
"It's not fine." The admission came out broken. "Nothing is fine…"
"Come," Cel said quietly, gesturing toward the bed. "Sit."
They settled on opposite ends of the bed - Lior perched on the edge like he might bolt at any moment, Cel leaning back against the wall.
Silence pressed in around them. Lior's hands twisted together in his lap, fingers white-knuckled.
"I'm thinking about leaving," he said finally. The words came out flat. Empty. "Going home."
Cel said nothing. Just waited.
"I don't—" Lior's voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. "I don't amount to anything here. I'm last. Dead last. I can't learn fast enough even with you helping me. I can't fight properly. I'm a Chosen of the weakest goddess."
His fingers twisted in the blanket.
"My artifact is blessed rank. A knife. Not even a sword - just a knife that barely cuts better than mundane steel. And my authority—"
He lifted one trembling hand.
Then, light bloomed. A small orb, no larger than an apple, casting barely enough illumination to read by.
"This." Bitterness bled through the word. "This is what the Moon Goddess gave me. Light. Not even bright light. Just... this."
The orb flickered and died.
"My priest is rank fourty-one," Lior continued, voice rising slightly. "Fourty-one! That's supposed to mean something. But look at me. Look at what I got."
He pressed both hands against his face.
"My mother sold everything she had to send me here," he whispered. "She worked herself sick for months just to afford the journey. And my father—" His voice broke completely. "He tried so hard to be proud. But I saw it in his eyes when the Moon Goddess chose me instead of... instead of someone stronger."
Tears slipped between his fingers.
"I don't belong here," he whispered. "Everyone knows it. The instructors. Kyros and his friends - they're right. I am trash. Blessed trash. That's all I'll ever be."
His shoulders shook.
"Even if I stay. Even if I graduate. The Chosen Legion is supposed to accept everyone, but..." He lowered his hands, staring at nothing. "They'll treat me the same way. Because I can't do anything right. I never have. I never will."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Cel watched him - shoulders hunched, hands trembling, face buried in his palms. A boy coming apart at the seams because the world had shown him exactly how little he mattered.
'I should say something.'
But what?
That things would get better? A lie. Lior's circumstances wouldn't magically improve through empty reassurance.
That his ranking didn't define him? Another lie. In this world, power determined worth.
That he should keep trying? Cruel. Lior had been trying. It simply wasn't enough.
Cel's jaw clenched.
He didn't know how to fix this. Didn't know how to make the pain stop or the tears dry. All the words he could think of felt hollow - platitudes that would shatter against the truth the moment he spoke them.
So instead, he spoke the truth.
"When I was young," Cel said quietly, "I was like you."
Lior's head snapped up.
"Timid. Useless. Afraid of my own shadow." The words came easier than expected, pulled from memories he usually kept locked away. "My father hated me. Not in some abstract way - he genuinely despised everything about me. My weakness. My gentle nature. The way I flinched when he raised his voice."
Cel moved to the window, staring out at darkness.
"As for my mother..." He scoffed. "She was there. Physically. But that was all."
His fingers pressed against the windowsill.
"I had a brother who outshone me in everything. Perfect. Talented. Everything my father wanted. He'd watched when I got punished. Never helped. Never spoke up."
Cel's hands curled into fists.
"I wanted to die…" A pause. "The thought of enduring another moment in that house, with those people, felt impossible. But I kept going anyway. Not because I was brave or strong. Just because..." He stopped. Started again. "I endured it because there was nothing else to do."
Lior stared at him, tears still wet on his cheeks but his breathing steadier now.
Cel turned from the window to face Lior directly.
"You think you're weak," hel continued. "That you don't belong here. That everyone sees you as pathetic." His voice dropped lower. "They probably do. The same way my family saw me."
He moved closer, crouching so they were eye-level.
"But you're here anyway. You are here despite knowing you'd struggle. You practiced reading even though the letters didn't make sense. You stepped into that sparring circle knowing you'd lose."
Cel's gaze held Lior's.
"That's not weakness. That's endurance. And endurance..." His throat tightened. "Endurance is the only strength that actually matters when everything falls apart."
Lior's breath hitched. Fresh tears spilled over, but something in his expression had shifted - less broken, more... present.
"I can't promise it gets easier," Cel said quietly. "Can't tell you that people will stop looking down on you or that your ranking will improve. Maybe it won't. Maybe you'll struggle every single day for the rest of your time here."
He straightened.
"But you're still breathing. Still trying despite knowing how hard it is." A pause. "That's more than most people manage when the world rejects them."
Silence stretched between them - heavy with truths neither had expected to share.
Then Lior wiped his face with both hands, smearing tears across his cheeks.
"I didn't know," he whispered. "About your past. You seem so... composed. Strong."
"People rarely are." Cel moved toward the door. "We all carry things that don't show."
His hand found the handle.
"Cel?"
He glanced back.
Lior's expression held something fragile but genuine. "Thank you."
Cel nodded once.
Then he left, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click.
The corridor stretched empty and silent. His footsteps echoed against stone as he made his way toward the training grounds.
Night had fallen completely. The moon hung full and bright - pouring its light across the Academy grounds in pale radiance.
Lunar Vigor flooded through him the moment he stepped outside. Power hummed beneath his skin, turning exhaustion into energy.
The training grounds came into view.
And for the first time in weeks, he wasn't the first to arrive.
Hestia sat in her meditation spot - perfectly still, jet-black hair spilling over pale shoulders, crimson eyes closed in concentration. The night seemed to gather around her like a living thing, shadows pooling at her feet.
Cel stopped at the threshold.
Usually, he'd summon Silent Moon and begin his forms. Let the silence stretch between them, unbroken except for the whisper of his blade through air.
But tonight…
Tonight, he needed to know.
He crossed the training grounds, boots crunching against packed earth. Each step deliberate. Purposeful.
Hestia's eyes opened when he was still several steps away - her expression unreadable.
She didn't speak. Just watched him approach with that same intense assessment she'd worn since the first day.
Cel stopped a respectful distance away.
"Lady Hestia."
"Celvian." Her voice carried no inflection.
He met her gaze directly.
"What do you want from me?"