His father's fist connected with his jaw. Blood sprayed across marble floors. His mother stood frozen, one hand pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
"Weak!" Another blow. "Pathetic!" The voice thundered through the dining hall.
Cel tried to speak, to beg, but his father's hands were already at his back, nails digging into divine flesh, tearing away the Moon Goddess's mark—
His eyes snapped open.
The ceiling of his room stared back. Wooden beams. Familiar cracks.
Cel's breath came in short gasps. Sweat soaked through his shirt, making the fabric cling to his skin. He pushed himself upright, pressing his palms against his face.
'Just a dream.'
The same dream that came whenever exhaustion finally dragged him under. He didn't need sleep anymore - Eternal Witness had freed him from that necessity. But four months of relentless training had taught him that not needing sleep and not benefiting from it were different things entirely.
His body could push indefinitely. His mind couldn't.
So he slept. Not often. But sometimes.
And the nightmares always waited.
Cel swung his legs off the bed, feet finding cold floor. Dawn light filtered through his window - pale and gray, the sun not yet fully risen.
An off day. Their weekly rest from training.
One day before the nobles would arrive.
He stood and moved to the basin in the corner, splashing water on his face. The cold helped ground him, washing away the lingering fragments of the dream.
An hour later, Cel walked the capital's streets with his hood drawn up. His feet carried him without conscious direction through familiar routes. Past the market square. Through the craftsmen's quarter. Down the narrow street where the Moon Church waited.
The building rose ahead - simple stone, unmarked except for the crescent carved above its door. Cel's hand found the handle and pulled.
The door swung open.
He froze.
Lyra knelt on the floor near the altar, her dress bunched around her knees as she scrubbed at stone with a wet cloth. Water dripped from the fabric, leaving dark trails across pale rock.
She looked up at the sound of the door. Surprise crossed her face - eyes widening, hands freezing mid-scrub - before recognition softened her expression into a warm smile.
"Oh… Good Morning." She started to rise, then seemed to remember the cloth in her hands and settled back down. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone this early."
Cel stared at her. At the bucket filled with murky water. At her reddened hands.
"What are you doing?"
"Cleaning." She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
A sharp voice cut through from the shadows near the entrance. "And that's exactly the problem, my lady."
A woman in servant's attire stepped forward - Lyra's personal maid, the same one who'd collected her after each visit. Her expression carried the particular exhaustion of someone fighting a losing battle.
"You shouldn't be doing this," the woman continued, her tone gentle but firm. "It's not proper."
"It's perfectly proper when I want to do it, Margaret." Lyra's voice remained gentle but firm, as if they'd had that conversation countless times.
Another figure emerged from a different corner - a younger servant Cel hadn't noticed before, carrying a second bucket. She bowed quickly when Cel's attention found her.
Cel scanned the church interior. Empty benches. Dusty corners. Just Lyra and the two maids in the entire space.
"Is there no one else maintaining this place?" he asked.
Margaret sighed softly. "The Royal House owns this church, young master, but..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "It is not maintained. Has not been for some time."
"That's why I do it." Lyra cut in proudly, as if announcing good news rather than confessing to doing a servant's work.
Margaret's hand rose to touch her temples. "And that's why we're helping. We can't let our young lady do all the work alone."
The younger servant nodded vigorously, her agreement silent but emphatic.
Cel looked at Lyra again. At her smile. At the way she knelt on cold stone.
Their father would have beaten her senseless for this.
The thought arrived with cold certainty. Lord Aldric would have seen his daughter scrubbing floors and lost whatever thin restraint he possessed. The shame of it. A noble child doing servant's work.
But Lyra simply smiled and went back to her scrubbing.
"I'll help."
The words left Cel's mouth before thought could catch up.
Margaret's eyes widened. "Young master, you don't need to—"
"I want to."
"Really?" Lyra's face brightened, voice lifting with genuine warmth. "That would be wonderful."
Margaret and the younger servant exchanged glances, clearly uncertain how to refuse a Chosen who'd already made up his mind.
"There's another cloth in my bucket," Lyra said, gesturing. "And we still need to clean the benches. And the windows. And—oh, the altar could use polishing too."
The work began.
Cel found himself on his knees beside Lyra, scrubbing at ancient stone that held dirt in every crack and crevice. The water in his bucket turned gray within minutes, then nearly black.
"You don't have to press so hard," Lyra said, demonstrating with her own cloth. "Just steady circles. Like this."
Margaret worked on the benches, her movements efficient and practiced. The younger servant cleaned the windows with careful strokes.
They fell into an easy rhythm. The silence broke occasionally with conversation - Lyra asking about Cel's studies at the Academy, Margaret offering tips on removing particularly stubborn stains, the younger servant making quiet observations about the dust patterns.
"I come here every week," Lyra said as they moved to a new section of floor. "Sometimes twice. It feels wrong to let it fall apart like this."
"The Moon Goddess deserves better," Margaret added from her position at the benches.
"Exactly!" Lyra's enthusiasm bubbled over. "She's a goddess, same as the others. Just because she doesn't have a Great Clan doesn't mean her church should be forgotten."
Cel's hands stilled for just a moment. Then resumed their circular scrubbing.
The hours passed in comfortable work. The church slowly transformed around them - dust cleared from corners, grime lifted from stone, windows letting in more light than before.
By the time they finished, afternoon had faded toward evening. The church looked... better. Not perfect, but cared for.
"Thank you," Margaret said, bowing deeply to Cel. "Your help made this go much faster."
"Yes, thank you." Lyra glanced back inside. "It usually takes us hours longer. Having another person really makes a difference."
The other maid bowed as well, gathering the buckets.
They parted at the church entrance. The two maids heading back toward whatever duties awaited them. Lyra promising to see Cel again soon, her smile warm and genuine.
He pulled his hood back up and stepped into the evening streets, his feet turning toward familiar ground.
The Golden Hart's door swung open beneath his hand.
Sound crashed over him like a physical wave.
Music. Laughter. Voices raised in celebration, argument or both. The tavern was packed - every table full, people standing in clusters between them, the bar lined with patrons waving for drinks.
Cel paused in the doorway, momentarily overwhelmed.
The bartender spotted him immediately. His weathered face split in a wide grin.
"Ah, there you are!" He beckoned with one hand, the gesture exaggerated. A wink followed. "Come here, boy!"
Cel navigated through the crowd, confusion clear on his face.
'What's going on her?'
Strong hands gripped his shoulders the moment he reached the bar. The bartender spun him around to face the room, one arm wrapping around his shoulders in a gesture that was half-embrace, half-presentation.
"This is Cel!" the bartender announced, his voice carrying over the din. "If someone beats him, everything goes on the house!"
The tavern erupted.
Cel twisted his head, staring at the bartender. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Drinking contest, of course!" The bartender's grin widened. "Been talking you up for an hour now. You wouldn't make a liar out of me, would you?"
"You think that boy can drink?" someone shouted from across the room, laughter following the words.
"He looks barely old enough to hold a tankard!"
"You sure you want to lose all your money, old man?"
The bartender's arm tightened around Cel's shoulders. "This boy puts away more ale than any three of you combined! I've seen it myself!"
"Then I'll take first challenge!" A broad-shouldered man pushed through the crowd, already swaying slightly. "Easy coins!"
A table cleared instantly, patrons scrambling to make space. Chairs scraped. Bets started flying through the air - coins exchanged hands, odds called out and adjusted.
The man dropped into a chair with a heavy thud, gesturing at the seat across from him.
Cel looked at the bartender.
The bartender's eyes gleamed with anticipation.
Cel sat.
Two massive tankards appeared on the table, filled to the brim. Foam spilled over the edges.
"First one to stop loses," the challenger announced, lifting his drink. "Simple enough for you, boy?"
Cel lifted his own tankard.
They drank.
The man who challenged Cel went down after six rounds. His face had gone from red to a sickly pallor, and he stumbled away from the table muttering curses.
Cheers erupted from those who'd bet on Cel. Groans from those who hadn't.
"Next!" someone called.
A woman took the seat. Confident, experienced. She matched him drink for drink through eight rounds before her eyes glazed and she had to concede.
Then another challenger. And another.
The crowd grew larger. People pressing in from all sides, abandoning their own tables to watch. Voices rose higher with each victory, disbelief mixing with growing enthusiasm.
"How is he still standing?"
"That's his tenth opponent!"
"I've never seen anything like it!"
Cel felt... something shifting. A warmth spread through his chest that hadn't been there before. His thoughts moved a fraction slower. The edges of his vision had started to blur slightly.
The alcohol was finally affecting him.
Apparently, his divinely forged body wasn't immune - just extraordinarily resistant. But even the strongest resistance had limits. And he'd been drinking steadily for hours now.
Strangely, he didn't care.
The warmth felt... good. Pleasant. Like the weight he carried had lightened just slightly.
A man collapsed face-first onto the table after round four. The crowd roared.
Another challenger sat down. This one massive, his arms thick as tree trunks. He glared at Cel across the table.
They drank. One tankard. Two. Three.
The man's face grew redder with each round. Veins stood out on his temples. But he kept pace, determination written across his features.
Seven rounds passed.
The man slammed his empty drink on the table. "That's it. I'm done."
But his expression shifted immediately - anger replacing defeat.
"This isn't fair!" He pointed at Cel, his words slurring. "I'd beat you easily if this were an arm wrestling contest instead!"
The crowd turned on him immediately.
"You lost! Accept it!"
"Don't be a sore loser!"
"You want to arm wrestle a boy half your size? Have some shame!"
Cel's mouth moved before his mind caught up. The alcohol made everything feel distant, decisions easier.
"Fine by me."
Silence crashed down.
The crowd stared. The massive man blinked, clearly not expecting agreement.
"You... you sure, boy?"
"Why not?" Cel answered without thinking. "Let's do it."
The table cleared. They positioned themselves, elbows planted, hands clasped.
"Three!" someone called. The crowd joined in. "Two! One!"
The man's strength hit immediately - real force behind it. Enough to make Cel actually engage his muscles instead of relying purely on his divine body.
But only slightly.
The man's hand slammed to the table within seconds.
The tavern exploded.
"Did you see that?"
"The kid's a monster!"
"Who else wants to try?"
The drinking contest transformed. One by one, patrons lined up to test their arm against Cel's. Some lasted longer than others. But none won.
Cel felt the warmth in his chest growing stronger. He found himself smiling. He laughed at jokes he normally wouldn't find funny. Responded to teasing with his own.
The crowd loved it. They cheered for him. Clapped his shoulder. Treated him like he belonged.
It felt... really good.
A new figure approached through the crowd. Hooded. Moving with confidence that suggested sobriety.
He sat across from Cel and pulled back his hood.
A face Cel's age looked back at him. Broad features. Stone-gray eyes, steady and direct.
They clasped hands.
The countdown began.
The moment their match started, Cel felt the difference. Real strength. Not just muscle and determination - something more. Divine enhancement.
Another Chosen.
Cel had to actually push. Had to engage more of his strength than he'd used for any previous challenger.
The wood beneath their elbows groaned.
Both of them pushed harder.
The table exploded.
Fragments flew outward. Their hands separated as the surface between them simply ceased to exist, reduced to splinters and broken planks. Cel fell forward, hitting the floor in a graceless heap.
Complete silence followed.
Every eye in the tavern locked on the destruction. On the two young men who'd just shattered a solid table through arm strength alone.
"AHHH, MY BEAUTIFUL TABLE!"
The bartender's wail broke through. He clutched his head, staring at the wreckage.
His opponent stood smoothly, brushing splinters from his clothes. A faint smile touched his face - genuine satisfaction. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pouch, tossing it to the bartender without looking.
It landed with a heavy clink.
"Fair trade," he said. A brief nod toward Cel.
Then he turned and walked toward the door.
The crowd parted automatically, too stunned to speak.
He vanished into the street.
The tavern remained frozen for another heartbeat. Then someone laughed. Then another. The party resumed as if nothing had happened, voices rising even higher than before.
Cel sat among the destruction, staring at the doorway where the stranger had disappeared.
His vision swam. The room tilted slightly.
The bartender appeared beside him, still clutching the money pouch. "You alright, boy?"
"Sure," Cel said. The word came out slurred.
"Right. Well, enjoy your winnings. You certainly earned them."
Cel blinked. 'Winnings?'
He tried to ask, but the words wouldn't form properly. The warmth in his chest had spread to his limbs, making them heavy and distant.
The tavern spun.
Everything after became haze.
Sensation returned slowly.
Cool ground beneath him. The scent of flowers.
Cel's eyes opened.
A face hovered above him. Silver mask catching light. Rose-colored lips curved in a gentle smile.
Selina.
"Chosen One, I'm pleased you found joy. Though I wonder if you'll remember doing so."