His gaze dropped to the creature's corpse.
It was small. Fur matted with blood and dirt. The teeth suggested a predator, but not a particularly large or dangerous one. The bone structure looked delicate under the damaged hide, like the thing had been built for speed rather than sustained combat.
Weak.
It looked almost pathetic lying there - nothing like the creatures that had crawled through the Ashlands, nothing approaching the crystalline horrors that had stalked him through burning mazes under four suns.
This thing... this thing was barely worth the name creature.
Cursed rank, probably. The lowest tier of threat. Something that could kill civilians but posed minimal danger to trained Chosen. Not something that should have required Theron's intervention.
The gap between Academy training and actual survival experience suddenly felt vast.
These students had spent months drilling technique and building strength in controlled environments. Had sparred against each other under instructor supervision. Had faced challenges that carried no real consequence beyond embarrassment.
They weren't prepared for this. Not really.
Even something as relatively minor as this creature represented a threat they hadn't developed instincts to handle yet.
Cel straightened, turning away from the corpse.
Hestia was already moving. She'd finished whatever mental assessment she'd been conducting and had started walking back toward their original path.
"Shouldn't we take that with us?" Cel called after her. He gestured toward the corpse.
Hestia stopped. Didn't turn around immediately. Just stood there with her back to him, posture carrying the kind of stillness that suggested she was deciding whether the question deserved an answer.
Then she looked over her shoulder, crimson eyes finding his.
"We would only eat something as vile as rift-creature meat in absolute need." Her tone held no judgment, just statement of fact. "And we are nowhere near that desperate."
She continued walking.
Cel looked at the corpse one more time. At the twisted limbs and matted fur. At the particular wrongness that marked it as something that didn't belong in this world.
Then he followed Hestia back into the forest.
The next days passed in patterns that quickly became routine.
Groups traveled their assigned routes during daylight hours. Navigating forest terrain, marking progress on their maps, encountering minor obstacles that required problem-solving but not combat. They converged each evening at designated meeting points - clearings Hestia had marked during planning, spaces large enough to accommodate thirty students plus their equipment.
Fires were built. Food was prepared. Information was shared.
And whenever a whistle sounded during the day's travel, announcing that some group had encountered a creature, the response was always the same.
Theron arrived first.
Charged through the forest with his characteristic earnestness, armor gleaming, weapon ready. Then he'd eliminate the threat with efficiency that demonstrated why all seven gods had blessed him.
The saved students would express gratitude. His promise to come whenever needed would be repeated.
Cel and Hestia usually arrived second. Sometimes third, if another group happened to be close when the whistle sounded. But always too late to do anything except confirm that Theron had already resolved the situation.
It became almost comedic after the fifth or sixth repetition. The predictability of it. The way students started looking toward the trees expectantly after blowing their whistles, knowing Theron would materialize like some kind of heroic spirit summoned by the sound.
Cel found his initial concern about fulfilling his mission fading further with each uneventful day. Not disappearing entirely - he remained alert, aware that patterns could break, that real danger could emerge at any moment.
But the journey was proving easier than expected.
If this continued, if Theron kept playing hero and Hestia's organizational system kept functioning, then maybe everyone actually would make it to Life Clan territory and back without serious incident.
The thought carried strange weight. Because part of him had been expecting catastrophe. Had been preparing for the moment when everything went wrong, students died under his watch and he proved inadequate to the responsibility Veyron had assigned him.
But days accumulated without disaster. Miles passed without major incident. And slowly, carefully, something that might have been confidence started building in his chest.
Underbrush snagged at his ankles. Cel glanced down, kicked free of it - and realized there wasn't much left to snag on.
The trees had thinned. Undergrowth had thinned with them. Somewhere in the last stretch of walking, without him marking the exact moment, the forest had loosened its grip.
He looked up.
A road stretched ahead. And far ahead, wooden walls rose against the horizon.
Not impressive walls. Nothing like Stella's stone fortifications. Just logs driven into earth and lashed together, creating a barrier tall enough to stop most creatures and solid enough to buy time for defenders to respond. A wooden gate stood open in the center, allowing passage for whatever traffic the road carried.
Their first checkpoint.
The first village on their journey. Which meant they'd covered roughly a quarter of the distance to Verdanthold.
Figures stood near the entrance. As they drew closer, details resolved - the familiar severe posture of Instructor Saren, the broad shoulders and scarred face of Instructor Calder. Both waiting with the patient stillness of people who'd arrived early and had nothing better to do than watch students trickle in.
Students had already gathered near the instructors. Perhaps fifteen, clustered in small groups, speaking in low voices while they waited for the rest to arrive.
Saren's gaze found them as they approached. Her expression remained its usual composed neutrality, but she inclined her head fractionally in acknowledgment.
"Lady Hestia. Celvian." Her voice carried the same clipped precision it held in lectures. "Welcome."
Calder nodded once, the gesture economical. His attention lingered on Hestia specifically. "The other students mentioned you took charge." Something that might have been approval colored his tone. "Groups assigned by capability. Whistle signals for threats. Evening coordination meetings."
"It seemed practical," Hestia said. Simple statement, no false modesty or pride.
"Practical and effective." Saren moved closer, her posture shifting into something more conversational despite maintaining professional distance. "We've received reports from several groups. No injuries. No close calls requiring our intervention."
She paused, studying Hestia.
"Your leadership capabilities exceed what I anticipated." Not quite a compliment. More an observation that contradicted previous conclusions. "House Mortveil should be satisfied with your development."
Hestia's expression didn't change. "Thank you, Instructor."
The conversation continued. Saren asking questions about group dynamics, whether any students had struggled with their assignments, if the whistle system had produced any false alarms or delayed responses. Hestia answered with characteristic precision, providing relevant details without unnecessary elaboration.
Calder interjected occasionally, his questions focused on combat encounters and physical conditioning. Whether groups were maintaining proper alertness. If anyone had demonstrated particularly poor or excellent judgment under pressure.
More students arrived while they spoke. Groups emerging from the forest, spotting the instructors and making their way toward the gathering. Voices rose as people recognized each other, sharing stories about the day's travel with the particular energy of those who'd survived something they'd been worried about.
Cel let the conversations wash over him. His attention drifted across the assembled students, cataloging faces and checking for Lior. But he wasn't there yet.
Then his gaze drifted back to Hestia.
She was still engaged in discussion with the Instructors. Her posture maintained its usual composed straightness, hands at her sides, crimson eyes focused with polite attention.
But something was wrong.
The composed neutrality had cracked slightly. Not obviously. Not in a way that would be visible to anyone who didn't know her.
Cel studied her profile, trying to read whatever emotion was bleeding through her usual mask.
'Is she… angry?'