The courtyard of the Outer Disciples reeked of sweat and iron.
Chains hung from wooden racks, training poles were slick with blood, and the ground was packed hard from endless drills. Here, the weak learned to die, and the strong sharpened their claws.
Draven stood among them, plain in tattered robes, his hair tied back with a strip of cloth. Though his veins still burned from initiation, he showed no pain. Pain was weakness, and weakness was blood in the water.
"Thirty-six veins," someone muttered loudly enough for all to hear. "More than most Inner Disciples start with."
Another snorted. "In a corpse's body. He won't last a week. The chains will eat him alive."
Laughter rippled through the courtyard. The disciples circled him like vultures, their eyes bright with envy and malice.
Veyra Malachor stood at the front, arms folded, his smile thin. He had orchestrated this, of course. The favored heir of the Outer Sect could not allow a nameless beggar to eclipse him.
"Brothers," Veyra said smoothly, his voice carrying like silk over knives, "the sect values merit. If one of us rises, we should celebrate, no?"
The words dripped false honey. The crowd chuckled.
Veyra's gaze fell on Draven. "Then let us celebrate with a trial."
A murmur ran through the disciples. Trials were not meant for new initiates. They broke bodies. They killed. But no one dared contradict Veyra.
Draven's expression was calm. He bowed slightly. "If that is the sect's will, I obey."
Veyra's smile widened. "Good. Then let the Trial of Chains begin."
The Trial of Chains was simple—survive.
In the center of the courtyard stood a massive iron pillar wrapped in living chains, their links glowing faintly with silver fire. At the Elder's command, the chains writhed, striking out like serpents.
Each disciple had to endure one strike. Failure meant disqualification—or death.
Today, however, the rules shifted.
"Draven Noctis," Veyra said, his voice sharp as glass, "you will endure three strikes. If you live, we acknowledge your place. If you fail…" He spread his hands gracefully. "Then the sect wastes no resources on brittle flesh."
Laughter erupted again. Some disciples smirked. Others looked away uneasily.
Draven stepped into the circle without hesitation. His veins throbbed, his body screamed weakness, but his mind was a razor.
The chains stirred.
Do not resist, the Observatory whispered. Endure. Let them think you survive by fortune alone.
The first chain lashed out, striking his chest with the force of a hammer. Pain exploded, his ribs shuddered, blood filled his mouth—but he did not fall.
The crowd gasped.
The second chain whipped across his back, tearing skin, cracking bone. Draven staggered, his knees buckled—but he forced himself upright.
His lips curved faintly.
The third strike came like thunder, slamming into his shoulder. Flesh burned, silver light seared through him, and for a heartbeat his vision went white.
Then it cleared.
And he was still standing.
Silence fell.
Draven's body was broken, blood dripping down his arms, but his back remained straight, his eyes cold.
He turned his gaze on Veyra, unblinking.
"Three strikes," he said hoarsely. "The sect's will is done."
The disciples whispered furiously. Some looked at him with awe. Others with hatred. But none could deny him.
Even Veyra's smile faltered. Just for a moment.
Then he clapped slowly. "Impressive. Very impressive. Perhaps Heaven does favor beggars after all."
His words rang hollow. The crowd knew it. Draven had survived, and with survival came a seed of fear.
That night, in the barracks, the whispers grew louder.
"He stood after three chains."
"No one survives that, not even Inner Disciples."
"He won't last. He can't."
But their voices betrayed unease. And unease was the first crack in their chains.
Seraphine Dusk appeared at his side, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Her dagger gleamed faintly as she toyed with it.
"You should have died," she said softly.
Draven met her gaze. "Yet here I am."
She tilted her head, studying him. "You bleed like the rest. But you don't break. I don't like mysteries."
He smiled faintly. "Then stay close. Perhaps you'll learn something."
Her silver eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, she smiled.
Dangerous. Beautiful. Useful.
When the barracks finally quieted, Draven lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling. His body ached, his veins pulsed with pain, but his mind was alive.
The Observatory stirred again, its voice coiling through his thoughts like a serpent.
The chains bind the weak. The clever wear them as masks. Do you understand, Draven Noctis?
His lips curled faintly. "Yes. If they see me as lucky, they will underestimate me. If they see me as broken, they will not notice my teeth."
The Observatory whispered approval, cold and vast.
Then wear the mask. And when the time comes—tear theirs away.
Draven closed his eyes. For the first time since entering the sect, he felt not like prey—but predator in waiting.
At dawn, a messenger arrived at the barracks.
"Draven Noctis!" the disciple barked. "You are summoned to the Inner Court. The Elders wish to test your shadow."
The barracks erupted in whispers. The Inner Court? For an Outer Disciple? Impossible.
Yet Draven only rose, straightening his torn robes.
The mask was working.
And now the next snare awaited.