The shrine was no longer silent.
Draven lay on the cold stone floor, his body bruised, when the sound of boots scraping against roots pulled him from half-consciousness. His eyes opened slowly. He had slept little—his mind would not allow it.
And there, framed in the silver light leaking through the cracks, stood a figure cloaked in pale robes. A porcelain mask hid their face, smooth and expressionless, with only a faint carving of a crescent moon at the brow.
The insignia of the Silver Chain Sect.
Draven's breath steadied. He did not move suddenly. His ribs ached, his blood was thin in his veins, but his mind remained sharp.
"Draven Noctis," the masked disciple said. Their voice was muffled, distorted by the porcelain, neither warm nor cruel. "You are summoned."
Summoned.
That word carried weight. Mortals were not summoned. Mortals were taken—dragged into tribute, or crushed beneath ghost beasts while sects watched from their towers. But summoned?
His lips curled faintly. "By who?"
The disciple tilted their head. "By the chains. And the chains do not tolerate delay."
Behind them, more shadows moved—two others in silver robes, their masks unmarked. Outer Disciples. They stood like silent wardens, hands on their short swords, ready to strike if he resisted.
Draven rose slowly, feigning weakness even as his eyes calculated every angle. He counted three opponents. Two armed. One leading. He could stab the first, disarm the second, maybe vanish into the marsh—
No.
The whisper came again, soft, vast, echoing within him. Not yet. The chain must be entered before it can be broken.
Draven suppressed a smirk. The Observatory guided him still. Then he would go.
"Very well," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "Lead the way."
They marched through the marshlands beneath the fractured moon. The yin mist thickened, curling like claws around their legs. Ghostly cries echoed in the distance—beasts prowling the night.
The disciples carried lanterns of black iron, their flames burning with pale blue fire. The beasts avoided that light. Even so, Draven's eyes never left the swamp. One misstep, one hesitation, and they would all be dragged under.
Hours passed before the mist thinned and stone walls rose from the earth.
The Silver Chain Sect's outer gate loomed above: a massive arch carved with runes that glowed silver in the moonlight. Chains of black steel stretched across the sky like webs, anchoring the sect's mountain fortress to the fractured moon above.
Draven's eyes narrowed. He had seen the sect's towers from afar, but never this close. The chains looked less like protections, more like shackles biting into heaven itself.
The masked disciple gestured. "Enter."
They passed beneath the gate. At once, the weight of yin qi lessened, replaced by cold, suffocating order. Every stone step, every chain-wrapped statue, every glowing rune screamed one truth: obedience.
Draven inhaled slowly. His ribs still ached, his body screamed weakness, but his mind sharpened. This was the first snare. If he misstepped now, he would die before his path even began.
The disciples brought him into the sect's outer hall, where mortals knelt in rows. Ragged, starving villagers bowed with their foreheads pressed to stone, their backs trembling. Offerings of herbs, ores, even children were piled before armored disciples.
The hall stank of fear.
A sharp voice cut through the silence.
"So this is the one?"
From the stairway descended a youth clad in pale silver robes trimmed with black thread. His hair was long, his features refined, but his eyes gleamed with arrogance. Unlike the masked guards, his face was bare.
This was Veyra Malachor, son of an Elder and widely spoken of as the most promising among the Outer Disciples.
The disciples at Draven's side bowed low. "Yes, Senior Brother Veyra. He slew a Marsh Wraith Serpent. As a mortal."
Gasps rippled among the kneeling mortals. To slay such a beast uninitiated—impossible.
Veyra's lips curled into a sneer. He circled Draven like a predator, looking him up and down. "This one? He reeks of filth. His bones are brittle, his flesh rotten. A gust of yin wind could end him."
Draven bowed slightly, neither humble nor arrogant. His eyes met Veyra's without flinching. "Then perhaps the serpent was weaker than it appeared."
A dangerous silence followed. Several disciples stiffened. Mortals were not to speak so boldly.
But Draven held the silence, his expression unreadable. He had learned long ago—fear was blood to wolves. Show none, and sometimes they pause before biting.
Veyra studied him. Then, slowly, he laughed. "Bold tongue indeed. Perhaps worth testing." He turned, his robe swaying like a shadow. "Bring him to the Chains of Initiation."
The Chains of Initiation lay deep within the sect's courtyard: a vast circle carved into the ground, chains driven into stone like spears, their links glowing with silver fire.
It was here mortals were tested for veins—where those unfit became corpses.
Draven stood in the circle, shirt torn from his chest, the cold air biting into his scarred skin. Disciples and mortals gathered at the edges, whispering.
Veyra stood above them, smiling faintly. "Draven Noctis. If you are as extraordinary as they claim, the chains will awaken your Moon Veins. If not—well. The beasts will eat well tonight."
The crowd murmured. No mortal dared speak openly, but eyes flickered with both pity and hunger.
Draven's heart was steady. He had no illusions—failure meant death. But in that moment, the whisper stirred again.
Enter. Thirty-six veins shall open. A path none can deny.
His lips curved faintly. Very well.
The disciples activated the array.
Chains of silver fire lashed upward, piercing into his body like fangs. Pain exploded through him, searing every vein, every bone. He bit down on his tongue, tasting blood, refusing to scream.
The crowd gasped.
For most mortals, one vein—two, at best—might open. Their bodies would shatter beyond that.
But Draven's body glowed with lines of pale silver.
One vein.
Five veins.
Ten veins.
The disciples shouted in disbelief.
"Impossible!"
"His flesh should have torn apart!"
The veins kept opening, his body convulsing but refusing to break.
Twenty veins.
Thirty veins.
At thirty-six, the circle erupted in light. The chains recoiled as though burned, and the array shattered with a thunderous crack.
Draven collapsed to one knee, chest heaving. His skin smoked, his blood boiled—but he lived.
Silence fell.
Even Veyra's smile faltered.
The crowd stared in awe and fear. To open thirty-six veins upon initiation was not just rare—it was monstrous.
Draven slowly lifted his head. His eyes gleamed cold, calculating, as if daring them to deny what they had seen.
The Observatory whispered, soft and triumphant.
The chains bind you now. Step forward, and the path of freedom begins.
Veyra broke the silence with a sharp clap. "Interesting." His voice dripped with disdain, yet his eyes betrayed unease. "Very interesting. Thirty-six veins, yet in a body that should already be a corpse. Perhaps Heaven enjoys its little jokes."
He leaned close to Draven, voice a whisper only he could hear.
"But remember this, filth. Every chain that raises you will one day strangle you. And I will be there to tighten it."
Draven met his gaze, expression unreadable. Only his lips moved slightly, whispering back:
"Then you had best make sure your hands are strong enough to hold the rope."
Veyra's smile froze.
The crowd gasped again. Disciples exchanged uneasy glances. A mortal should have begged. A mortal should have groveled.
But this mortal had not.
That night, Draven was cast into the Outer Disciples' quarters—a stone barracks lined with cold cots, filled with faces equal parts hungry and hostile.
Some sneered. Others whispered. But all eyes followed him.
Word had spread fast: the nameless wretch had opened thirty-six veins.
Draven lay on his cot, his body still wracked with pain, yet his mind alive.
Rivals already circled. Allies might reveal themselves. The Observatory whispered.
And for the first time, the sect itself had placed him within its chains.
Exactly as he wanted.
As Draven drifted in half-sleep, a shadow moved in the barracks. A girl with silver eyes and a dagger at her waist stood over him.
Her voice was a whisper colder than moonlight.
"Draven Noctis. If you value your veins, rise. Someone wants you dead before dawn."