The Inner Court loomed above the barracks like a mountain of iron and shadow.
While the Outer Courtyard stank of sweat and mud, the Inner Court was a temple of order. Polished obsidian tiles reflected the pale light of dawn, and statues of chained saints lined the stairway, their eyes downcast, their mouths sealed with silver.
Every Outer Disciple knew the rules: look, but do not climb.
Yet today, Draven walked the steps.
Whispers followed him even here. Disciples training in the courtyard paused to stare as he passed. Some scoffed. Others narrowed their eyes, already measuring him as rival or prey. But none stepped forward.
The Trial of Chains had marked him.
And the Elders had summoned him.
The Inner Hall was vast, its roof lost in darkness, its walls veined with chains that pulsed faintly as if alive. At the center rose a dais of black stone, and upon it sat three Elders of the Silver Chain Sect.
Elder Malachor, tall and gaunt, his eyes like pools of frozen oil.Elder Xyra, her hair a silver waterfall, her fingers crowned with rings of bone.Elder Voren, hunched, his face hidden behind an iron veil, yet his voice could flay skin when he chose to speak.
Draven entered, bowed, and waited.
Elder Xyra's gaze fell upon him first. "So. The beggar who endures three chains." Her voice was soft, yet the air grew heavy beneath it. "How curious."
Elder Malachor's lips curved faintly. "Not curious. Dangerous. To endure the Trial so early… it reeks of arrogance."
Elder Voren's voice rasped through the veil. "No. It reeks of fate."
The chamber grew still.
Draven kept his head bowed, though his mind raced. Their words were not idle. Every sentence was a hook. Every glance a blade.
"Rise," Xyra commanded.
He obeyed.
Her eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Draven Noctis. How did you endure three strikes when men twice your strength have fallen to one?"
The truth—the Observatory guided me, weaving whispers through my veins—would be death.
Instead, Draven lowered his gaze, voice even. "This disciple does not know, Elder. Perhaps fortune. Perhaps stubbornness. My body breaks, yet I did not wish to shame the sect on my first day."
A ripple ran through the Elders.
Clever. Not claiming strength. Not denying fortune. Humble enough to avoid pride, yet sharp enough to plant seeds of loyalty.
But not all seeds sprouted the same.
Malachor sneered. "A convenient answer. Fortune is a lie told by the cunning. I say he hides something."
"Perhaps," Xyra murmured. Her eyes flicked across Draven's veins, glowing faintly with silver light. "Yet his body holds thirty-six Moon Veins, and already they pulse with rhythm. Hidden talent? Or hidden chains?"
Voren's rasp cut through the debate. "Test him."
Chains fell from the ceiling like serpents, clattering onto the floor around Draven. They coiled, glowing faintly with power, each link humming with the weight of law.
"This is the Vein Resonance Trial," Xyra said. "You will submit. If your body aligns with the sect's chains, you are one of us. If not…"
She smiled faintly. "Then we will tear the truth from your bones."
The chains rose, wrapping around Draven's arms, chest, throat. Pain lanced through him, sharp as lightning, cold as moonlight.
Submit, the chains whispered. Bind yourself. Serve.
His veins throbbed, blood searing as the resonance pushed deeper, seeking weakness, demanding obedience.
The Observatory stirred within him, vast and silent.
Endure. But do not yield. They want to own your shadow. Give them only your mask.
Draven closed his eyes. He let his body tremble, his breath ragged. To the Elders, he appeared as a disciple struggling desperately against the sect's trial.
Inside, however, he guided the chains carefully. Not rejecting them, not embracing them. Just enough harmony to pass, just enough discord to remain unclaimed.
Minutes passed like hours.
Finally, the chains withdrew.
The chamber was silent.
Xyra's eyes narrowed. "He resonates. Poorly, but he resonates. Enough to mark him as disciple."
Malachor's sneer deepened. "A thin resonance, weaker than even a child's. He is nothing."
"Nothing does not survive three chains," Voren rasped.
The silence that followed was heavy. Dangerous.
Then Xyra smiled faintly. "Very well. He is sect disciple. His shadow belongs to the Silver Chain."
Her eyes lingered on him a heartbeat too long. "For now."
Draven bowed once more, then was dismissed.
When he stepped from the Inner Hall, the cold morning air struck him like water. He drew a slow breath, steadying his pulse.
The sect thought him weak but loyal. A poor resonance, barely worth notice.
Perfect.
The Observatory whispered, pleased.
Now the Elders will forget you, Draven Noctis. They will look elsewhere, never seeing the knife at their throat until it drinks their blood.
His lips curved faintly.
"Good," he murmured. "Let them believe I am nothing."
That night, whispers spread through the Outer Disciple barracks.
"Summoned by the Inner Court…""…and lived to return?""…they say his resonance was weak, almost worthless."
Laughter followed the last rumor. Relief.
But Seraphine Dusk did not laugh. She leaned against the barracks door, watching him with silver eyes.
"You played well," she said quietly.
Draven arched a brow. "Played?"
She smiled thinly. "Weak enough to be ignored. Strong enough to be remembered. That balance kills more rivals than any blade."
She turned, vanishing into the night.
Draven lay back on his cot, staring at the shadows above.
The mask was holding.
But masks could be broken.
And soon, Veyra Malachor would test its cracks.
The next morning, word spread of a challenge.
Veyra had invoked the Duel of Chains—a sanctioned fight to the death, disguised as sect tradition.
And his chosen opponent was Draven Noctis.