"What did you do?"
Her crimson eyes held his without wavering, the question hanging between them like an unsheathed blade. Then her expression shifted - not quite anger, but something colder. More precise.
"Since when," she said quietly, "did I give you permission to drop formalities?"
The correction landed with deliberate weight. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a statement of hierarchy that reminded him exactly where they both stood.
"That doesn't matter right now." The words came out harder than he'd intended. Desperation bled through despite his attempt at control.
Though her expression suggested it mattered quite a bit to her. That his casual use of her name represented a boundary crossed without permission.
Silence stretched between them. The training grounds waited in darkness, moonlight painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called out and received no answer.
Cel forced himself to breathe. To remember that she'd just saved him from execution, that alienating her now would be monumentally stupid.
"Lady Hestia." The formal address felt strange on his tongue after months of casual training ground interactions. "Forgive my rudeness. May I ask what transpired during the conference?"
She studied him for another moment, as if weighing whether that correction was sufficient. Then something in her posture eased fractionally.
"I spoke for you," she said simply.
Cel's hands clenched at his sides. He'd suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed was different.
"How?" Cel forced the question out carefully. "How did you accomplish that? I committed a crime worthy of execution. The laws are clear."
"They are." Hestia's expression remained neutral. "But laws exist within hierarchies. And hierarchies have their own rules."
She moved to a section of the training ground where moonlight fell strongest. Her shadow stretched long behind her.
"I am a noble, just like Kyros. But there's a difference." She turned to face him fully. "I will succeed House Mortveil. The leading House of the entire Death Clan. That succession is already decided."
Cel processed this information slowly, fitting pieces together.
"Kyros will succeed House Solgrand. Almost certainly. His siblings are too young and not as talented as him. House Solgrand doesn't lead the Sun Clan, though. They compete for that position, yes. They're influential, powerful. That's all there is to it."
The distinction crystallized with uncomfortable clarity.
"So in the hierarchy," Cel said slowly, "your words matter more."
"Considerably more." Her tone carried no pride. Just statement of fact. "When I speak, I speak with the authority of someone who will command an entire Great Clan. When Kyros speaks, he speaks as the heir to a house that aspires to leadership but does not possess it yet."
Cel's mind tracked through implications. The weight her vouching would carry. The political calculation other nobles would make when deciding which side to stay on.
"But he still got hurt," Cel said. "I still attacked him. How did you justify that?"
"I argued that the incident arose from escalating tensions between students of different standings. That Lord Kyros had contributed to those tensions through his own behavior." Hestia's crimson eyes remained steady on his. "That punishing you severely while ignoring the circumstances would set a precedent that encouraged nobles to provoke commoners into exactly this kind of reaction."
Smart. Devastatingly so. She'd reframed the narrative from unprovoked assault to mutual escalation - made it about institutional dynamics rather than individual guilt.
"The other heirs present saw the logic in that argument. Or at least, they saw no benefit in opposing it."
Silence stretched between them.
"Didn't this..." Cel hesitated, then pushed forward. "Didn't this ruin your relationship with the Sun Clan?"
Hestia's expression went flat. "There was no relationship to ruin."
The words landed with bitter finality. Cel remembered then - what the barkeeper had mentioned months ago.
Raven Mortveil had killed a Chosen of the Sun Clan. Someone with a Divine Oracle as guide. Their future.
And the Sun Clan had never forgiven House Mortveil for that.
"There's another reason I could defend you so effectively," Hestia continued.
"What was it?"
"I told them that you are Lady Esrin's disciple. No one in their right mind wants the Empire's strongest warrior displeased with them."
The pieces finally aligned - Hestia's standing, Esrin's backing, the carefully constructed argument about systemic tensions. Together they'd built a framework that made his survival politically viable.
"So you..." He forced the words out. "You confirmed what I told you? With her?"
"I did." Hestia's crimson eyes tracked across his face. "And she confirmed your story. Said you were under her tutelage."
Relief flooded through him so suddenly it left him dizzy. Esrin really had covered for him.
"Are we good then?" Cel asked. The question came out more uncertain than intended. "You and I?"
Hestia's expression shifted - something calculating entering those crimson eyes.
"I'm not sure." Her voice dropped lower. "I remember quite clearly how you suddenly attacked me."
Cel cleared his throat. There was no justifying what he'd done.
"I apologize for that." The words came formal. Careful. "What can I do to make up for it?"
Hestia studied him for a long moment. Then she smiled - small, controlled, carrying an edge that made his instincts scream warnings.
"A favor," she said simply. "At a time of my choosing."
Every part of him wanted to refuse. Owing favors to people who could threaten his revenge was dangerous. Stupid. The kind of mistake that came back to destroy you when you least expected it.
But he'd attacked her first. Had put a blade to her throat over nothing more than a question that made him panic.
And she'd just saved him from execution.
"Alright," he said reluctantly. "One favor. Within reason."
"Good." Hestia's smile widened fractionally. "Then we're settled."
She moved, dismissing the tension between them with the same efficiency she applied to everything else. Her posture shifted into something more relaxed - not quite friendly, but no longer hostile.
"Would you like to spar?"
Cel glanced up at the moon, calculating time. He'd planned to go to the Reckoning's hideout like usual. To train with Silas.
But it was already late. Far too late to make the journey across the city and back before dawn.
And Hestia was here. Offering.
"It would be my pleasure."
They moved to the center of the training ground without ceremony. Artifacts materialized - Silent Moon in his grip, her crimson longsword catching moonlight along its blade. They settled into starting positions, and for a heartbeat everything went still.
Then they moved.
The exchange was brief. Brutal in its efficiency.
Hestia's technique remained as flawless as ever - each strike flowing into the next, each parry creating openings that she exploited before Cel could adjust. She anticipated angles he hadn't consciously decided on yet. Defended with the kind of economy that came from years of training under masters who accepted nothing less than perfection.
The bout ended with Cel's back hitting packed earth. Hestia's blade stopped a hand's width from his throat - not touching, just hovering there as a statement of fact.
Hestia stepped back, lowering her weapon. Cel remained on the ground for another moment, catching his breath, staring up at the sky that seemed to shift colours.
"You held back again," Hestia said. Not quite an accusation. More like stating an observed fact. "Is it because of your noble background that you try not to stand out?"
The question made him go still. His eyes cut toward her, finding her standing perhaps five steps away with that same assessing expression.
She was still a risk factor. A threat to everything he'd built since arriving at the Academy. One word to the wrong person and his true identity would unravel. His revenge would become impossible. His father would know he'd survived. Would prepare. Would ensure the next disposal attempt succeeded where the first had failed.
But if something happened to her…
Esrin would know. She already witnessed it firsthand.
Killing her wasn't an option. Neither was lying - she'd proven she could find the truth somehow.
"Yes," he said finally. "But it doesn't matter if I use my full strength or not. I want to become better at technique. At reading opponents. At understanding combat beyond just hitting harder."
A pause.
"And I don't want to hurt you."
The admission came out quieter than intended. More genuine.
Hestia's expression shifted - surprise flickering across her features before settling back into neutrality.
"Hurt me?" The words carried something between disbelief and amusement. "You should consider yourself fortunate that Lady Esrin intervened. If she hadn't..."
She left the implication hanging. But her meaning was clear. Their fight would have ended with him dead.
"I would have won." The words escaped before Cel could stop them.
He pushed himself upright slowly.
Hestia's glare could have drawn blood.
For several heartbeats they held that eye contact - his stubborn insistence meeting her cold certainty. The air between them went tight.
Then Cel sighed, letting his shoulders drop.
"You're right." The words tasted like ash. "I would have lost. Badly."
Hestia's glare softened fractionally. Not quite approval, but acknowledgment that he'd chosen sense over pride.
She moved to sit on the ground, crossing her legs beneath her in a meditation posture. After a moment's hesitation, Cel joined her, settling onto packed earth that still held the day's warmth.
"How did you even know?" he asked. The question came careful. Measured. "How did you figure out I'm a noble?"
Hestia turned to look at him fully, crimson eyes catching moonlight in a way that made them seem to glow.
The night waited for her answer.