"What do you want from me?"
The question hung in the night air between them. Hestia remained perfectly still in her meditation pose, crimson eyes fixed on him with that same intense assessment she'd worn since the first day.
Silence stretched.
Then she rose in one fluid motion, brushing invisible dust from her uniform with careful hands.
"I'm uncertain what you mean, Celvian." Her tone carried the practiced neutrality of noble deflection. "If my presence disturbs you—"
"That's not an answer."
Cel's voice came flat. Direct.
Hestia's fingers stilled on her sleeve. Something flickered across her expression - too quick to name, but there.
"You've been inching closer every night," Cel continued. "So I'm asking again. What do you want from me?"
The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Hestia's crimson eyes studied him with renewed intensity, as if recalculating some internal assessment.
Finally, she spoke.
"Are you familiar with House Mortveil's position within the Death Clan?"
The question caught him off-guard. His brows furrowed.
"House Mortveil leads the Death Clan. Everyone knows that."
"Yes. But do you know why?"
Cel's jaw tightened. "No."
Hestia moved closer - just a few steps, maintaining careful distance. "In the other Great Clans, leading houses rise and fall. The Mountain Clan, the Ocean Clan - their leadership changes when stronger houses emerge. Political maneuvering. Martial superiority. Strategic marriages."
She paused.
"Yet House Mortveil has led the Death Clan since its founding. No other house has ever successfully challenged our position."
Cel's mind worked through the implications. "Why?"
"Because we bear a gift." Her voice softened slightly. "A blessing granted directly by the Death God himself. Every member of House Mortveil possesses it - from the moment we're born until the moment we die."
She lifted one hand, studying it as if seeing something beyond.
"We can smell death."
She paused.
"And this gift ensures House Mortveil's eternal leadership. Because no one can challenge a mandate given directly by a god."
Cel's pulse quickened. "What does that have to do with me?"
Hestia took a step closer. Then another. Until only a few paces separated them.
"You reek of death."
The statement landed like a blade between his ribs.
His resurrection. The new body the Moon Goddess had forged. He'd assumed it wiped away all traces of his death - made him fresh and unmarked.
But death itself still clung to him. Invisible. Undetectable to everyone except those blessed to perceive it.
'Raven.'
The pieces clicked together with cold certainty.
Their encounter in the Ashlands. He'd assumed it was chance. But what if it had never been coincidence at all? What if Raven had tracked the scent of death clinging to him like a beacon, drawn to it the same way Hestia was now?
Something cold settled in Cel's chest.
"Being near you helps me replenish my Divine Essence." Hestia's tone remained neutral.
"How does it smell?" The question escaped him before thought could stop it.
Hestia's expression shifted - something that might have been surprise.
"Pleasant," she said after a moment. "It's... comforting. In a way."
She'd been drawn to him not despite what marked him, but because of it. Because death was familiar. Comfortable, even.
The irony was almost laughable.
"So you've been using me." The words came flat. Accusatory. "Sitting close to replenish your essence."
She met his gaze directly.
"I didn't lie."
"You didn't tell the truth either."
Silence stretched taut as wire.
Then Cel made a decision.
"Fine. I'll help you."
Hestia blinked. "What?"
"You want to be near me to replenish your essence. I'll let you. But I want something in exchange."
Her eyes narrowed. "And what might that be?"
"Spar with me." He summoned Silent Moon, the blade materializing in his grip. "Every night. Real fighting. No holding back."
"You want to fight me?"
"I want experience against someone skilled." Cel's grip tightened on the hilt. "Instructor Calder's lessons are useful, but there's nothing better than actual combat. And you're ranked third in the entire academy."
For a long moment, Hestia simply watched him, utterly still. Then something shifted in her expression - calculation giving way to something that might have been respect.
"That was extraordinarily rude."
"I know."
"Accusing me of using you. Making demands of a noble."
"I know."
Her lips curved slightly. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Very well. I accept."
She stepped back, hands moving to summon her artifact. "Though I suspect you'll regret this arrangement quickly enough."
Darkness coalesced in her hands, solidifying into something that made Cel's breath catch.
A longsword.
It was beautiful and terrible in equal measure. The handle, wrapped in black leather, led to a golden crossguard with a crimson gem embedded at its center - the exact shade of her eyes. The blade itself glowed with deep red light, looking less like steel and more like congealed blood given solid form.
It matched her perfectly. Elegant. Deadly. Precise.
Cel's grip tightened on Silent Moon.
They moved to the center of the training grounds, taking positions across from each other. The moon hung overhead, flooding the space with silver radiance that made the crimson blade glow even brighter in contrast.
"Begin whenever you're ready," Hestia said softly.
Cel moved first.
He closed the distance in three quick steps, Silent Moon rising for a diagonal slash aimed at her shoulder. Fast. Controlled. Using only a fraction of his actual strength.
Hestia's weapon intercepted.
The impact rang across the training grounds. But she didn't just block - her blade redirected his momentum, sliding along Silent Moon's length before the crossguard caught his guard and forced it aside.
Cel stumbled, balance breaking.
The longsword's pommel drove into his stomach.
Air exploded from his lungs. He bent double, gasping—
Her knee caught him under the chin.
His head snapped back. Stars burst across his vision. He tried to recover, to bring Silent Moon up—
The flat of her blade slammed into his ribs.
The impact launched him sideways. He hit the ground hard, rolled, came up on one knee with his weapon raised—
Hestia's crimson blade pressed against his throat.
"Yield?"
Cel stared up at her. At the perfect composure. The absolute control. The complete absence of mercy in those crimson eyes.
"Yes."
The blade withdrew. She stepped back, weapon still raised and ready.
Cel pushed himself upright slowly, chest heaving. His ribs throbbed where she'd struck him. His jaw ached. His pride burned worse than both.
"Again?" Hestia asked. Her tone remained polite. Almost gentle.
Like she was offering tea instead of another beating.
Cel raised Silent Moon again.
They fought.
Or rather, Hestia dismantled him with clinical precision.
Every strike he made, she countered. Every opening he tried to exploit, she closed. Her artifact moved like an extension of her body - not just weapon but partner, flowing through forms that suggested decades of practice compressed into sixteen years of life.
She didn't just beat him. She punished him.
Each victory came with unnecessary force. Each strike landed harder than required. When he tried to yield early, she pressed the attack until he had no choice but to acknowledge complete defeat.
By the fifth match, understanding settled in his chest like ice.
"You're angry." He stayed on the ground this time, delaying the next beating.
"I'm uncertain what you mean." Hestia's blade remained pointed at him. Crimson light reflected in her eyes. "You asked me not to hold back. I merely honored that request."
But the slight tightness around her mouth said otherwise. The extra force behind her strikes. The way she'd targeted ribs he'd already bruised.
"I apologize." The words came rough. "For being rude."
"Your apology is noted but unnecessary." She dismissed her artifact, the deadly weapon dissolving into a cloud of darkness. "I did use you. You were correct to call it what it was."
She stepped back, leaving him on the ground.
"However," she continued, adjusting the sleeves of her uniform, "rudeness carries consequences. Consider tonight's spars a reminder that courtesy serves practical purposes beyond mere tradition."
Her lips curved into that cold smile again.
"Tomorrow evening. I trust you'll maintain better manners."
She turned and walked away, jet-black hair swaying with each step.
Cel watched her go, ribs aching and pride thoroughly trampled.
'I really do regret this.'
Weeks blurred together in a rhythm of classes, training, and nightly defeats.
Lior had found something in himself after that conversation. His posture straightened. His voice grew steadier. During combat drills, he stopped apologizing for every mistake and simply corrected them.
The rankings reflected it.
Rank 38: Lior
Still near the bottom. Still struggling. But no longer dead last.
The change was small enough that most wouldn't notice. But Cel saw it in the way Lior held his practice knife, the determination that replaced hesitation.
Progress. Real progress.
Meanwhile, Cel's own nightly training sessions continued with brutal consistency.
She was merciless. Every match ended the same way - him on the ground, her standing over him with that bloody longsword at his throat.
He tried different tactics. Defensive forms. Aggressive rushes. Feints and misdirection.
None of it worked.
By the fourth week, Cel had started to recognize patterns in her fighting style. The way she favored her left side slightly. How she created distance before committing to heavy strikes.
He still couldn't capitalize on the knowledge. But at least he could see it now.
The losses piled up. His body adapted to the constant punishment, healing faster, growing resilient to impacts that should have left him stunned.
Sometimes, during their matches, Hestia would pause and correct his stance. Adjust his grip. Point out openings in his defense with the same clinical precision she used to exploit them.
It was... helpful. Frustrating. But helpful.
And every night, she meditated nearby afterward. Close enough that the scent of death apparently served its purpose.
They didn't speak much outside the sparring. Just existed in the same space, using each other for their respective needs.
Mutual exploitation. Strangely honest.
The routine held until one particular morning.
Light filtered through the classroom's tall windows, painting long rectangles across tiered benches.
Cel sat in his usual spot, Lior beside him. Hestia occupied the bench behind them.
Students filled the remaining seats in their usual clusters. Nobles near the front. Commoners scattered through the middle and back rows.
Instructor Saren stood at the podium, hands folded, waiting for complete silence.
When the last conversation died, she spoke.
"Today's lesson will be abbreviated." Her tone carried unusual formality. "We have a special guest."
Murmurs rippled through the class. Special guests were rare. The Academy maintained strict protocols - even noble parents couldn't simply appear without advance notice.
"She is humanity's greatest defender," Saren continued. "One of few in all of history to have reached the pinnacle of human capability."
She paused.
"Lady Esrin of the Chosen Legion, also known as the Hallowed."