The sect was a forge, and the disciples its metal. Every day leading to the trials, the heat of that forge grew unbearable.
The practice courts thrummed with Yin qi, clashes of technique ringing out like steel against steel. At dawn, disciples sprinted across stone bridges that swayed above the abyss, balancing under the weight of chains strapped to their backs. By dusk, the air thickened with the stench of blood and sweat as sparring duels devolved into vicious brawls. Elders overlooked it all from their high balconies, their expressions impassive, as if testing whether any ore would survive long enough to be shaped into a blade.
Draven stood at the edge of the third court, watching two disciples duel on the raised platform. One was broad-shouldered, swinging heavy chain-linked gauntlets with crushing force; the other was thin and quick, weaving between the blows like smoke. Each strike sent sparks flying, the crowd jeering and hollering with every near miss.
The thin one collapsed first, his ribs crushed under a brutal swing. The victor roared, raising his chain-bound fists high, but the elders did not so much as twitch. Victory here meant nothing. Every duel was a rehearsal for the trial, and no rehearsal mattered when the real bloodletting began.
Draven's gaze flicked over the crowd. They whispered names—favorites, dark horses, sacrificial lambs. His name was among them now, always spoken in hushed tones. Some called him clever. Others called him lucky. A few already predicted his death.
He felt none of their words pierce him. He had been named many things before—thief, liar, shadow, survivor. The labels mattered only as tools.
"Watching won't save you," a voice drawled at his side.
Draven turned. The speaker was the lean disciple he had seen flanking Veyra days before—the one with the long fingers and calculating eyes. He leaned against a pillar, arms folded, studying the crowd as though he too were merely an observer.
"You watch too," Draven said evenly.
A faint smile curved the man's lips. "Observation is the weapon of the weak. Or the wise. Which one are you?"
Draven did not answer. The man chuckled softly.
"My name is Malachor Vale. Remember it. The trial will not be fought alone. Everyone knows alliances matter more than fists."
Draven arched a brow. "And you've chosen me?"
"I've chosen no one," Malachor said lightly. "But I see chains before they tighten. Veyra's pride is already strangling her. Her leash will snap, and when it does, I intend to survive. You have a talent for surviving, Noctis. Perhaps even thriving."
Draven let silence stretch between them. Malachor was baiting him, probing for an opening. Too soon to reveal intent, too foolish to refuse outright. He inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgment without agreement.
"Perhaps we will speak again," he said.
Malachor's grin widened, sharp and sly. "Perhaps." He vanished back into the crowd, leaving only the faint echo of his words.
Draven's gaze lingered on the dueling platform, though his thoughts spiraled elsewhere. Malachor was dangerous—not because of strength, but because he understood the weight of perception. In a trial where betrayal was inevitable, men like him could topple whole factions with a single whisper.
He would not be underestimated.
That night, the chains hummed louder than usual. Draven sat cross-legged in his chamber, breath cold and steady, when the Observatory returned to him.
The vision unfurled in silence. The dome stretched wider than before, the stars glimmering like shards of broken glass. This time the constellations twisted violently, forming a cage that wrapped around him, chains descending from every direction.
A whisper slithered through the void:
"Trust the chain, and it will strangle. Break the chain, and you may bind another."
Draven's eyes narrowed. The Observatory did not reveal outcomes—it revealed temptations. Trust, betrayal, chains as both prison and weapon. It was not guidance but reflection, amplifying what already lay in his heart.
When he returned to himself, his hands were cold as ice. He stared at them for a long while, then clenched his fists. The vision did not frighten him. It clarified. The trial was not about power—it was about who understood the chain better.
The following days bled together. Rivalries grew sharper. He saw disciples beaten half to death in the training courts, their allies turning away with cold eyes. He saw new groups form in shadowed corners, bargains whispered over smuggled talismans and pills. He heard Veyra's name invoked again and again, her reputation reforged into something crueler, hungrier, more desperate.
She sought dominance not through victory but through spectacle. Every duel she fought now ended with her opponent writhing in agony, her laughter echoing in the court. Her allies flanked her always, silent and loyal, though Draven saw the cracks forming in their stares. Pride was heavy to carry, and hers weighed them down like iron.
One evening, as the moonlight bled silver across the sect's terraces, Draven left his chamber and wandered the cliffside paths. The chains overhead glowed faintly, resonating with the moon's pull. He walked until the voices of disciples thinned, until only the hum of metal filled the air.
There, leaning against the railing, he found Malachor again. Alone this time.
"You walk like a man with ghosts at his heels," Malachor said without turning.
Draven stepped closer. "And you wait like a man who expects company."
Malachor chuckled, low and dry. "Perhaps both are true." He glanced over, his eyes glimmering. "Do you know why so many disciples die in the trials?"
"Because strength is not enough," Draven said.
"Because they do not understand chains," Malachor corrected. "Every chain has two ends. Bind your enemy, and you are bound as well. The clever learn to hold the other end without being seen."
Draven studied him carefully. These were not the words of a simple opportunist. They were the words of a man who had studied the sect's cruelty long enough to twist it into wisdom.
"And what do you propose?" Draven asked quietly.
Malachor's grin widened. "A leash for Veyra. Not today. Not tomorrow. But when the trial begins, her arrogance will blind her. If she thinks she commands the chain, we need only remind her who holds the other end."
Draven's silence was his answer. Not agreement, not refusal. Malachor seemed satisfied regardless.
The two stood together under the moonlight, listening to the chains hum like distant thunder. Neither spoke further, yet in that silence a seed of conspiracy took root.
When Draven returned to his chamber, he lay awake for hours. Veyra loomed in his thoughts, not as a rival but as a fulcrum. Break her, and others would fall. Break her, and he could rise.
The trial was only days away. And when it began, the sect would bear witness not to his death, not to his luck, but to his first true move upon their board.
The chains rattled faintly, as if in anticipation.
And Draven, eyes gleaming in the dark, smiled.