Cel jerked his hand back.
"I'm sorry. That was—"
"It's okay." Her voice came distant, distracted. She touched her own head where his hand had been, fingers brushing through dark hair. Her gaze remained unfocused, lost in memory. "My brother used to do that. When I was upset."
The words hung between them like smoke.
Cel's throat tightened. He needed to change the subject. Needed to steer away from this before she looked too closely, asked too many questions.
"You said your mother searched for him," he managed. "Is she..."
"She divorced him." The words came sharp and final. Lyra's expression hardened. "After everything - after what he did - she couldn't stay. Neither did I."
Pride flickered through the pain in her voice.
"My oldest brother stayed with Father. His choice." She shrugged, but the gesture was too tight, too controlled. "Mother and I moved here. To the capital."
'Too late.'
The thought burned through Cel. His mother had finally found the strength to leave - after he was gone. After a year of torture. After she'd watched Lord Aldric tear the divine mark from his back and done nothing.
She'd left when it was safe. When he couldn't be saved anymore.
But at least she'd taken Lyra with her. Protected her. Given his little sister the escape he'd never had.
The bitterness and relief twisted together in his chest, inseparable.
Footsteps echoed from the church entrance - sharp and purposeful against worn stone. Both of them turned.
A woman in servant's attire stood in the doorway, scanning the interior until her gaze landed on Lyra. Her expression shifted from searching to relieved.
"Lady Lyra," the woman called. "Your mother sent me to find you. It's getting late."
Lyra's shoulders sagged slightly - disappointment mixed with resignation. She rose from the bench, smoothing her dress one final time.
"I have to go," she said, turning back to Cel. Something in her expression had changed - softer, warmer. "Thank you. For listening. For... what you said about the Moon Goddess. I really needed that today."
She hesitated, then added quietly, "I hope I see you again. It was nice to meet you, Heir to the Moon."
His name in her voice felt like a knife and a comfort all at once.
"You too," he said.
Lyra offered one last small smile, then followed the servant toward the entrance. Her footsteps faded across stone, then disappeared entirely as the heavy wooden doors swung shut behind her.
Silence rushed back in like water filling a void.
Cel remained on the bench, staring at the space where she'd been. His hands gripped his knees hard enough to hurt.
She didn't know.
She'd sat beside him, cried about him, talked about him, and never once realized the truth.
He should feel relieved. Should be grateful she hadn't recognized him - that the secret remained safe.
Instead, he just felt hollow.
Slowly, Cel rose from the bench. His legs felt unsteady, disconnected. He moved toward the altar, toward the pale stone mark of the Moon Goddess that watched over this forgotten space.
The crescent seemed to glow brighter in the fading light - or maybe that was just his imagination. He stood before it, staring up at the symbol that had changed everything.
A carriage accident.
So that was the story his father had told. Clean, tragic, unquestionable. And everyone had accepted it. His mother. His sister. The entire clan.
No one had looked deeper. No one had questioned what really happened to the disappointment, the failure, the boy marked by the wrong deity.
They'd moved on. Built new lives. Forgotten.
While he'd rotted in a cell.
The familiar burn of rage tried to surface - hot and bitter. But it couldn't quite catch hold. Not after hearing the pain in Lyra's voice. Not after seeing how much she still carried his memory.
Cel's forced himself to breathe.
He'd been gone for a year. Dead, as far as the world knew. In that time, everything had shifted - families had fractured, alliances had changed, stories had been written and believed.
He needed to know what else had happened.
Cel left the church, the heavy wooden doors closing softly behind him.
Evening had settled over the capital. The sky had deepened to purple-gray, and lamplighters were making their rounds through the streets. Warm light bloomed in windows as shops closed for the night and families gathered for dinner.
His feet carried him without conscious direction, following the flow of people still moving through the city. Workers heading home. Late shoppers finishing errands. Groups of friends laughing together as they moved between taverns.
A tavern.
The thought surfaced with sudden clarity. Places where people gathered. Where tongues loosened with drink. Where information flowed as freely as ale.
He'd never been to one before. His father had deemed such establishments beneath noble dignity - places for commoners and lesser merchants, not for nobles like him.
But he was no longer a Solmar.
A sign caught his eye - faded wood with a painted barrel and wheat sheaf. "The Golden Hart."
Cel pushed through the door.
Warmth hit him immediately - body heat and cooking fires, the scent of roasted meat and spilled ale. The space was larger than it looked from outside, with rough wooden tables scattered across the floor and a long bar dominating one wall. Perhaps thirty people filled the room, their conversations creating a steady hum that washed over everything.
No one looked up when he entered. Just another hooded figure seeking a drink.
Perfect.
He moved to the bar and slid onto an empty stool. The bartender - a broad man in his fifties, with the kind of shoulders that settled arguments without words - glanced over.
"What'll it be?"
Cel hesitated. He had no idea what to order. The extent of his knowledge about alcohol was that nobles drank wine and spirits, while commoners drank ale.
"Ale," he said.
The bartender nodded and turned away, pulling a tankard from beneath the bar and filling it from one of the barrels along the wall. He set it in front of Cel with a soft thunk.
Cel placed coins on the bar. The bartender swept them up and moved to serve another customer.
The tankard sat before him, amber liquid catching the lamplight. Cel lifted it and took a sip.
Nothing. No taste registered - just liquid sliding down his throat, neither pleasant nor unpleasant.
He drank more, watching the level drop. Around him, conversations continued - complaints about work, gossip about neighbors, plans for tomorrow. The normal rhythm of lives that hadn't been shattered and rebuilt.
The bartender returned after a few minutes. "How is it?"
Cel glanced at his half-empty tankard. "Fine."
"First time drinking?"
"Yes."
The bartender's eyebrows rose slightly. "You're handling it well. Most people make a face." He studied Cel with mild curiosity. "New to the city?"
"Recently arrived. I'm enrolled at the Academy."
The bartender nodded to himself. "Thought so. You've got that look - like you're still taking it all in. We get a few of you in here from time to time. Though most stick to the fancier places near the palace."
"I prefer this."
The bartender's expression warmed slightly. "Good answer." He moved to refill another customer's drink, then returned. "What clan?"
It took Cel a moment to realize the question wasn't about his affiliation, but his origin.
"Storm Clan territory," he said, using the lie Esrin had provided.
"Rough up there, I hear. With the Void and all." The bartender shook his head. "Can't imagine living that close to nothing."
"It has its challenges."
The conversation lapsed. Cel finished his first tankard and the bartender replaced it without being asked.
"So what brings you to the capital?" The question came casual, the easy interest of someone used to making small talk. "Besides the Academy."
"Wanted to see it." Not quite true, but not quite false either.
The bartender leaned against the bar, wiping down a glass. "Tense time to arrive. All the succession talk has everyone on edge."
Cel's attention sharpened. Succession had been a topic before he'd been taken - the aging Emperor, whispers of which prince would inherit the throne - but it had never been described as tense. "Succession? I thought that was settled. The First Prince—"
"Was the favorite, yeah. But not anymore." The bartender glanced around, lowering his voice slightly - not from fear, just habit. "First Prince still has the Emperor's support, but the Second Prince has the Empress backing him now - she's been pushing hard. And then there's the All-Blessed."
Cel went still. As far as he knew, there were only two princes.
"The All-Blessed?" he asked carefully.
"You haven't heard?" The bartender's eyebrows rose. "A kid blessed by all seven gods."
'What?' Cel nearly blurted out his disbelief.
Being blessed by all seven deities was impossible.
Only the royal bloodline could be chosen by multiple gods - it was their defining feature, the foundation of their right to rule. Commoners, nobles, even the highest clan lords could not be chosen by more than one deity.
But all seven? That had happened only once in history - the world's first Chosen who founded the Stellarion Empire.
"An illegitimate child," Cel said. Not a question.
"That's what everyone assumes. Has to be, right?" The bartender set down the tankard and picked up another. "But here's the thing - the Emperor hasn't acknowledged him as a prince yet. No title, no imperial name, nothing. Just... silence."
"Then how—"
"Life Clan took him in. Raised him, trained him, presented him at court." The bartender's tone carried a note of fascination. "They say he's the next Emperor whether the current one admits it or not. Ocean Clan's starting to agree. They figure if all seven gods chose him, that's authority enough."
Cel's mind raced. An illegitimate child. It was the only explanation. The Emperor had fathered a bastard, and somehow that child had received the impossible - blessings from every deity.
"What about the other clans?"
"Sun Clan's with the First Prince - they always back whoever the Emperor wants. Mountain Clan's with the Second because of the Empress. Storm Clan will probably follow Mountain, since Mountain's been keeping them alive." He paused. "Death Clan's a mess. No one knows what they'll do."
"Why?"
The bartender's expression shifted - not quite uncomfortable, but aware he was touching on sensitive topics. "You haven't heard about the Death Clan situation either?"
"Only vaguely. My village was small - news didn't reach us quickly." Cel kept his tone neutral. "Something about their heir?"
"Right. Well." The bartender refilled Cel's tankard for the third time. "Their heir - the Prince of Death - came back from some expedition as one of the Cursed. Then he killed the Sun Clan's greatest prodigy and vanished. Death Clan's been in chaos ever since. Even some of their own houses are talking about replacing the leading house entirely."
Raven. The bartender was talking about Raven.
But Cel forced himself not to react, just nodded slowly and drank more.
"The Sun Clan must be furious," he said.
"Furious doesn't cover it. They went on complete lockdown for months. Only recently started opening back up." The bartender shook his head. "The prodigy they lost - he had a Divine Oracle as his guide. Do you know how rare that is? And some Cursed just waltzed in and murdered him."
Cel almost laughed. The Sun Clan had lost their greatest prodigy. And here he sat, their greatest failure, carrying a Divine Oracle in his soul.
"Do they know why?" Cel asked, keeping his voice level.
"Why does anyone do anything?" The bartender's tone carried the same casual dismissal as before. "Revenge, madness, corruption - who knows? The Cursed aren't right in the head."
Cel's fingers tightened around his tankard, but he said nothing. Just drank.
The fourth tankard appeared. Then the fifth.
The bartender had been watching him with growing fascination.
"You're putting it away pretty steady for someone who's never touched the stuff."
Cel glanced at his latest drink. He'd lost count. The liquid went down as easily as water, with just as little effect.
"I don't feel anything," he admitted.
"Nothing?" The bartender refilled the tankard, looking genuinely curious now.
"You either have a hell of a constitution or you're lying to me." A pause. "But you don't seem like a liar."
Cel said nothing. Just drank.
The tavern's warmth had seeped into his shoulders, loosening muscles that had been tight since the church. Not from the alcohol - just from being somewhere anonymous. Somewhere no one knew what he was or what he'd survived.
"The succession's going to get messy," the bartender continued, returning to the earlier topic. "Three factions, and none of them willing to back down."
Cel drank more. The seventh - or was it eighth?
"Sounds complicated," he said.
"It is. And it's only going to get worse." The bartender leaned closer, voice dropping. "Rumor is the Emperor and Empress are barely speaking. He wants the First Prince. She wants the Second. And neither of them is backing down."
"What happens if they can't agree?"
"That's the question everyone's asking." The bartender straightened. "Best case? One of them concedes and the succession goes smoothly. Worst case?" He shook his head. "Civil war. The whole Empire tears itself apart."
The words settled over Cel like a weight.
A year ago, he would have cared deeply about clan politics. Would have analyzed every alliance, every potential outcome, trying to understand how it affected House Solmar's position.
Now it all felt distant. Abstract.
Let them fight over succession. Let the clans tear each other apart. None of it mattered.
He finished another tankard.
The bartender was watching him now with undisguised interest. "You're on your ninth. Most people would be under the table by now."
"I'm not."
"I can see that." A pause. "You sure you're alright?"
"Yes."
Not quite. But close enough.
The bartender studied him for a long moment, then seemed to come to some decision. "Look, I'll keep pouring if you keep paying. But I've got to ask - what are you looking for here? Because if it's information, I've told you what I know. If it's oblivion..." He gestured at the empty tankards. "Well, doesn't seem like that's working."
Cel stared at the amber liquid in his current drink.
What was he looking for?
Not oblivion. His divine body didn't seem capable of granting him that mercy.
He'd come for information. He'd gotten it - the clans were fracturing, succession looming, his family scattered. All the facts he'd needed.
The world had kept turning while he died and came back. Everyone else knew their place in it.
He was still trying to remember what it felt like to have one.
"Just trying to figure out where I fit," Cel said finally.