The barracks stank of damp straw and sweat.
Dozens of Outer Disciples lay in their cots, some feigning sleep, some whispering in the dark. Yet in the moonlit silence, Draven knew every eye was awake. They were watching him. Judging him.
And one stood over his cot.
A girl with silver eyes, her hair tied in a black ribbon, a dagger gleaming faintly in her hand. Her face was sharp, pretty in a way that promised cruelty, her smile thin as a blade.
"Draven Noctis," she whispered, voice soft enough to avoid the listening ears. "You should rise."
Draven's eyes opened fully. He had not been asleep—he never slept easily in cages. His body still ached from the Chains of Initiation, every vein raw, but his mind was sharp.
He sat up slowly. "And why should I?"
Her dagger traced a line against the straw by his throat. "Because some people do not like miracles. Thirty-six veins, they say. Too much fortune for a nameless wretch. You should have died on the chains. Some still think you should."
The whispers of the other disciples in the dark grew thicker, like a hundred snakes hissing.
Draven studied her calmly. "And you?"
Her lips curved. "My name is Seraphine Dusk. My family sold me to this sect when I was nine. I learned quickly—kill or be killed, and the chains tighten slower around your neck. If I slit your throat tonight, I gain favor. If I protect you, perhaps I gain something else."
She leaned close, her silver eyes gleaming. "So tell me, miracle boy—are you worth more alive or dead?"
Most mortals would have begged. Most new disciples would have offered promises or fallen silent. But Draven only tilted his head, his lips forming the faintest smile.
"You brought the dagger," he murmured. "But you've been speaking too long. If you wanted me dead, I already would be. So—what is it you truly want?"
Her smile faltered. Just for a heartbeat.
Around them, the barracks shifted. Some disciples pretended to snore. Others watched with hungry eyes, waiting for blood.
Draven moved suddenly. Not fast—his body could not yet move like a cultivator's—but with precision. He seized her wrist, turning the dagger just enough that its tip now hovered over her own throat.
The barracks went still.
Seraphine's silver eyes widened—but then narrowed again, her smile returning. "Bold. Very bold."
Draven leaned close, his voice low, intimate as poison. "If you truly came to kill me, you failed. If you came to test me—you succeeded. Either way, you walk away alive only because I allow it."
For a long breath, their eyes locked. Then she withdrew the dagger, stepping back gracefully, as though she had never intended violence at all.
"You are dangerous," she murmured. "I like dangerous."
She sheathed the blade and melted back into the shadows, vanishing between the rows of cots.
The other disciples whispered louder now, fear mixing with curiosity. Some glared with hatred. Others stared with grudging respect.
Draven lay back down, his expression calm. But inside, he marked Seraphine Dusk. A snake—beautiful, venomous, unpredictable. Useful, if handled carefully.
All pawns are useful, the Observatory whispered.
And then, for the second time, the voice deepened, its weight pressing into his veins like chains of light.
The moon is a prison.
Draven's breath caught. His eyes flicked upward, though only the wooden ceiling loomed above.
A prison.
The fractured moon, worshiped by sects, feared by mortals—it was not protection. Not Heaven's mercy. It was a cage.
For what?
The whisper did not answer. It never answered fully. It gave half-truths, fragments, seeds of doubt. Yet each word lodged into him like a hook, dragging him deeper toward a path none else could see.
The moon is a prison.
Draven closed his eyes. A faint smile touched his lips.
"So the chains are not to guard us," he murmured silently. "They are to keep something else locked away."
The thought alone was poison. Heresy enough to warrant death. But Draven savored it.
Because if the moon was a prison…
Then perhaps freedom lay in breaking it.
Dawn never came to the Shattered Moon Realm. Only the endless glow of silver light bleeding through clouds.
When the disciples rose, the barracks buzzed with murmurs. Draven's survival, his thirty-six veins, the attempted assassination—every word spread like wildfire.
And word had reached the ears of those who mattered.
That morning, as the disciples gathered in the outer courtyard, Draven found himself summoned again. This time, not by Veyra.
But by an Elder.
The courtyard fell silent as the figure appeared: a tall man draped in robes of woven silver chains, his hair white, his eyes glowing faintly with moonlight. The weight of his aura pressed down on every disciple like an ocean, forcing even the arrogant to bow low.
Elder Varaxes, one of the Silver Chain Sect's longest-standing overseers. His name alone silenced rebellion.
He studied Draven with eyes that seemed to pierce flesh and soul alike. "So. You are the one who broke the array."
Draven bowed deeply, expression humble but not meek. "This disciple merely endured what Heaven allowed."
Varaxes's lips twitched faintly. "Endured? You tore the Chains of Initiation apart. Mortals are not meant to bear such weight. Tell me, boy—do you think yourself chosen?"
The crowd stiffened. It was a trap. A single wrong word, and his corpse would feed ghost beasts before nightfall.
Draven lowered his head further, voice steady. "I think nothing, Elder. I only serve. If chains hold me, I obey. If chains break, I endure. I do not question Heaven."
The words were careful, obedient. Yet behind them lay an edge, a truth hidden like a dagger.
Varaxes studied him for a long, long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Very well. You will remain in the outer sect. But know this: every vein you opened is a chain you cannot hide. The moon sees all. And the Silver Chain sees for the moon."
He turned, his chains clinking, and the disciples bowed until he vanished.
The courtyard buzzed again, louder than before. Some whispered admiration. Others whispered hatred. But all eyes returned to Draven.
The nameless wretch had survived the Elder's gaze.
Draven stood silently, his lips curved faintly. He felt the Observatory's whisper still burning inside him.
The moon is a prison.
And if Elder Varaxes spoke true, the sect itself was nothing but its warden.
That night, as Draven sat alone in the barracks, the Observatory stirred again. This time, not only a whisper—but an image.
For a fleeting heartbeat, he saw it:
A world beneath a blazing golden sun. Rivers sparkling, skies endless blue, mountains alive with warmth.
And then chains fell across the vision, shattering it into silver shards.
The fractured moon bled light again.
And Draven whispered into the darkness:
"I will break you."