The Academy had commissioned formal attire for all forty commoner students.
Cel stood before the mirror in his room, studying the transformation. Dark fabric - not quite black, more like charcoal in certain light - fitted to his frame with precision that suggested actual measurement rather than guesswork. Silver threading traced the cuffs and collar in patterns that caught the lamplight. The crescent moon over his heart gleamed in matching silver.
Fine enough to pass at a noble gathering. Not fine enough to be mistaken for one.
He adjusted the collar one final time, then left.
The corridor hummed with nervous energy. Doors opened and closed as students emerged in their borrowed finery, voices rising in excitement and anxiety.
Lior appeared from his room, wheat-blond hair actually combed for once.
His hands kept smoothing down the front of his jacket. Again. And again.
"If I tear this—" Lior's voice came tight. "Do you know what this probably costs?"
"The Academy covers it."
"But what if they don't? What if—"
"They cover it." Cel started walking. "That's what Instructor Saren said."
Lior hurried to keep pace, hands still fidgeting with invisible creases. "Right. Yes. They said that. I just—these are nicer clothes than I've ever owned. Than my parents have ever owned."
The ballroom waited at the Academy's western wing - a space rarely used, kept pristine for occasions like this. When they arrived, students had already begun gathering outside the entrance. Commoners clustered together, adjusting collars and sleeves with nervous fingers.
The doors stood closed. Waiting.
"Do you think we just... go in?" Lior whispered.
Before Cel could answer, the doors swung open.
Instructor Saren emerged, her usual practical attire replaced by formal robes in deep blue.
"Listen carefully." Her voice cut through the murmurs. "You will enter one at a time. When your name is called, you will walk to the center of the ballroom and pay your respects to Lady Esrin. She serves as tonight's organizer."
She consulted a scroll.
"After she acknowledges you, move to the side and wait quietly. Do not wander. Do not cluster near the refreshments like starving animals."
Several students shifted uncomfortably.
"When everyone has arrived, the evening's lesson will begin." She paused. "Understood?"
Murmurs of assent rippled through the group.
Saren called the first name.
The line moved steadily.
"Lior."
He went rigid. His hands smoothed his jacket one final time before he walked forward, shoulders squared in a way that looked almost convincing.
Cel waited. Watched more students filter through. The nervous energy around him gradually thinned as numbers dwindled.
"Celvian."
He moved forward, boots silent against polished floors.
The ballroom opened before him.
It was... excessive.
Chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, their crystal drops catching lamplight and scattering it across walls painted in pristine and gold. The floor gleamed - polished wood so clean it reflected everything above. Windows lined one wall, floor to ceiling, currently draped in heavy fabric but promising views of the grounds beyond.
Students lined the walls on either side - commoners who'd already paid their respects, standing in nervous clusters.
And at the center, standing with perfect stillness—
Esrin.
Ash-white hair spilled loose down her back, the pale strands catching the chandeliers' light. Her gown matched the color - pristine white adorned with red gems that caught light when she moved. The fabric flowed like water, elegant without being ostentatious.
But it was her bearing that commanded attention. The way she held herself - not rigid, not posed, just... present. Like gravity itself bent slightly in her direction.
Cel stopped at the appropriate distance and bowed - deep enough to show respect, not so deep as to grovel.
"Lady Esrin." His voice came steady. "Thank you for honoring us with your presence."
Silence stretched for a heartbeat.
Then her lips curved slightly. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Rise."
He straightened.
Those ruby eyes studied him with the same assessing intensity she'd shown in the Ashlands. But her expression remained neutral - professional.
"Celvian." The name carried no particular inflection. Just acknowledgment. "You may join the others."
He bowed again and moved to the side, joining Lior near the wall.
More students filtered in. The ballroom gradually filled with nervous energy and whispered conversations as commoners took their places along the perimeter.
Then the doors opened wider.
The nobles arrived.
Not one by one. Together, in a coordinated entrance that suggested careful planning.
They wore wealth.
And at their center stood Theron.
The All-Blessed moved with the nobles as if he belonged there, despite being officially a commoner like the rest of them. His outfit was understated by noble standards - deep green with gold threading that caught the light, the seven divine marks embroidered across his chest in perfect detail. Simple. Elegant. Expensive enough to feed a village for months.
Beside him, Sylvaine wore flowing emerald green adorned with golden leaves that seemed to catch and hold the light.
Owen's ensemble practically glowed - mountain gray fabric with silver embroidery so intricate it must have taken weeks to complete.
Cordelia wore ocean blue that shifted through different shades as she moved, like water catching sunlight. Pearls traced her neckline and cuffs - actual pearls, not imitations.
Percival wore storm-gray attire with green wind patterns so finely worked into the fabric they seemed to move.
Kyros blazed in fire-red and gold, the Sun God's mark practically radiating from his chest. Everything about his outfit screamed wealth and status.
And Hestia—
She entered last, separated slightly from the others.
Black fabric that seemed to drink light rather than reflect it. Crimson accents adorned her dress - perfectly matched to her eyes. Jet-black hair hung loose, spilling over pale shoulders.
She looked like death given elegant form.
The nobles paid their respects to Esrin with practiced grace - each bow or curtsy perfectly timed, each acknowledgment carrying just the right tone. Even Theron moved through the ritual with the ease of someone who'd been trained for it, despite his humble origins.
When they finished, the ballroom felt complete. Forty students in their finest, arranged in informal clusters that revealed the social divisions clearly.
Nobles near the center. Commoners at the edges.
Esrin's voice carried across the space without effort.
"Tonight, you practice formal introduction and basic ballroom etiquette. These skills matter. Not for show, but because diplomatic gatherings require them. You will represent your affiliations at such events. Your conduct reflects on those who took you in."
She gestured broadly.
"The refreshments are yours to enjoy. The evening is structured around multiple dance sessions. I expect you to participate."
Her ruby eyes swept the room.
"Begin."
The formality dissolved. Conversations rose. Students drifted toward the refreshment table in clusters.
Cel followed Lior, who immediately reached for a pastry with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious treasures.
"These are..." Lior bit down, eyes widening. "This is incredible."
He gestured at the spread. "Look - candied fruits from the western territories. Real chocolate from the southern sea. Do you know how rare that is?"
Cel picked up something at random. Brought it to his mouth. Chewed.
Nothing. Just texture. The mechanical process of breaking food down and swallowing.
"Try this one!" Lior held out another pastry. "It's got this glaze that—you have to taste it."
Cel stared at the offered pastry. Everyone around him marveled at flavors he would never experience again. The reminder of what he'd lost - what had been taken from him - settled like ash in his mouth.
Cel's throat tightened. His hand moved toward the offered food, then hesitated.
"I'm... not very hungry."
The excuse came out stilted.
Lior's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. "Oh. Are you feeling alright? You look a bit—"
"I'm fine."
Lior studied him for a moment, concern flickering across his features. Then he seemed to decide not to push. "Well, more for me then."
He turned back to the spread with renewed focus, giving Cel an escape from the uncomfortable moment.
They drifted through the ballroom, observing. The nobles occupied the center naturally, their conversations carrying the easy confidence of people who belonged. Theron laughed at something Owen said, already integrated into their group as if the distinction between noble and commoner had simply ceased to matter for him. Cordelia and Percival spoke quietly near one window.
The commoners stayed near the walls, voices hushed.
And Hestia stood alone near the far corner, crimson eyes tracking the room with clinical assessment.
Music began - soft, unobtrusive. Background rather than performance.
Time passed. Cel couldn't say how long. Minutes blurred together in observation and Lior's continued amazement at each new delicacy.
Then Esrin's voice cut through the ambient noise.
"First dance. Find your partners."
Movement rippled through the ballroom immediately. Nobles approached nobles with practiced ease. Some commoners found courage to ask each other.
Lior straightened, gaze searching. His eyes landed on a girl across the room - dark hair, nervous smile. The one who'd taken his place at the bottom of the rankings after his improvement.
"I should—" He glanced at Cel. "Will you be—"
"Go."
Lior crossed the ballroom with surprising determination. The girl's face brightened when he approached.
Cel remained where he was.
The ballroom continued to pair off. Couples formed and reformed, some confident, others uncertain. But the pattern was clear - people gravitated toward familiarity. Toward safety.
No one approached the isolated Moon Chosen.
His gaze tracked across the room, landing inevitably on the far corner.
Hestia stood alone, hands folded at her waist. Several nobles had glanced her direction, seemed to consider, then moved on.
Cel's feet shifted. Stopped again.
'I should ask her.'
The thought arrived with uncomfortable clarity. They sparred every night. This was just dancing - less violent, arguably easier.
But asking felt different. More exposed somehow.
He watched as another commoner worked up the courage to approach a girl. Watched her polite refusal, the boy's retreat.
The music swelled. The first dance began.
Cel stayed where he was.
A second dance was called. More couples took the floor. Lior spun his partner with surprising enthusiasm, both of them laughing at some shared mistakes.
Hestia remained in her corner. Alone.
'This is ridiculous.'
Cel's jaw tightened. They fought each other every night. She'd beaten him senseless dozens of times. Why was this harder?
A third dance began.
His feet finally moved.
Each step across the polished floor felt heavier than the last. The distance between them shrank - ten steps, eight, five.
She noticed him approaching. Her crimson eyes tracked his movement with that same intense assessment.
He stopped at appropriate distance.
"Lady Hestia."
"Celvian."
Silence stretched between them. Around them, couples were already moving through their steps. The music swelled, filling the space he should be filling with words.
"Would you..." The words stuck in his throat. This was rude. Presumptuous. A commoner asking a noble to dance when she hadn't indicated any interest. "Would you grant me the honor of this dance?"
Her expression remained perfectly neutral. Unreadable.
For a heartbeat, he thought she'd refuse.
Then her lips curved slightly.
She extended one gloved hand.
Cel took it carefully, her gloved fingers light in his palm. They moved to the dance floor together, joining the other couples arranging themselves.
His hand found her waist - the proper position, exactly as Instructor Saren had drilled into them during etiquette lessons. Her hand settled on his shoulder.
The music shifted. Began properly.
They moved.
Cel had learned the steps during those evening lessons, and even before. One-two-three, one-two-three. The basic waltz that every student practiced until it became reflex.
But theory and practice were different things entirely.
Hestia flowed through the movements with effortless grace. Each step perfectly timed. Each turn executed with precision that came from years of training.
Cel just tried not to step on her feet.
They turned. His hand at her waist guided - or tried to. She adjusted slightly, covering his awkwardness so smoothly he almost didn't notice.
Another turn. The ballroom spun around them - chandeliers becoming streaks of golden light, other couples blurring at the edges.
And in the center of it all, impossibly close—
Hestia.
Pale skin that seemed to glow in the lamplight. Crimson eyes fixed on his face with unwavering attention. Lips the color of fresh blood, slightly parted as she breathed.
Beautiful.
The thought arrived with uncomfortable force.
Not like Selina's ethereal grace. Not divine and untouchable.
Just... beautiful. In a way that made his chest tight and his thoughts scatter.
Heat crawled up his neck.
He tried to look away. Couldn't. Their faces were too close, the dance's structure forcing proximity that felt suddenly overwhelming.
'Think of Selina.'
The command rang through his mind like a lifeline. Yes. Selina. Silver hair and masked serenity. The gentle patience in her voice. The way she'd held him when he'd broken down—
The heat intensified.
'That's worse!'
His face burned. Hestia's crimson eyes tracked every detail - the flush spreading across his cheeks, the way his jaw had gone tight, the obvious discomfort.
Then her perfectly neutral composure cracked.
A smile.
Small. Genuine. Almost... amused.
Her eyes remained fixed on his, taking in his embarrassment with what looked like quiet satisfaction.
Cel tried to form words. Failed. Tried again.
"I—"
Commotion erupted from across the ballroom.
The music stuttered. Stopped.
Couples paused mid-step, turning toward the disturbance.
Cel's hand fell from Hestia's waist. They separated, both scanning for the source.
There.
Near the refreshment table. A crowd had formed - students pressing closer, voices rising.
Cel moved without thinking, crossing the floor in quick strides. Hestia followed.
The crowd parted as they approached.
Lior knelt on the floor, hands pressed against polished wood. His shoulders shook. Broken glass scattered around him - crystalline fragments catching light, liquid spreading in a dark stain.
And standing above him—
Kyros.
His fire-red outfit was soaked from chest to waist, the expensive fabric clinging wet and ruined.