The day of the Inner Disciple Trials dawned beneath a bruised sky. Clouds dragged themselves across the horizon, their bellies heavy with silver light, as if the heavens themselves hesitated to witness what was about to unfold.
The sect was awake long before the sun climbed the chains. Every court, every terrace, every balcony swarmed with bodies. Outer disciples jostled for space along the rails, their whispers like the hiss of a storm through the canyons. Elders stood in their solemn ranks above, robes of deep indigo trailing across the polished stone, their faces carved into masks of judgment.
And beneath them all lay the arena.
A vast pit, circular and black, sunk into the bones of the mountain. Chains thick as towers stretched from its rim down into the abyss, their links glowing faintly as if blood pulsed through them. The pit was bottomless to the eye, yet every disciple knew its floor existed—because every year, screams rose from that depth before they were cut short.
The trial was not fought under open skies. It was fought in the hollow belly of the sect, where the chains sang the loudest.
Draven stood among the chosen. His robe clung to his shoulders, damp with the mist that seeped from the abyss. Dozens of others ringed him, faces taut, eyes flickering with nerves or arrogance. Veyra stood near the front, her chin lifted high, her gaze sharp enough to slice. The disciples around her formed an unspoken cordon, none daring to brush too close.
Malachor was not far, his smile a subtle thing, like the curl of smoke. He gave Draven the smallest nod, a signal that said: Not yet, but soon.
A gong thundered from above. Its sound rolled across the mountain, deep enough to shake marrow. Conversations died. A hush fell.
From the high terrace, the Grand Elder stepped forward. His hair was white as ash, his skin creased like old parchment, but his voice boomed with the clarity of a blade striking stone.
"Chains weigh upon the weak," he intoned. "Chains temper the strong. You stand here not as disciples but as ore in the forge. The trial below will decide which of you may endure fire and hammering, and which will shatter into dust."
His gaze swept the assembly, cold and absolute.
"There are no rules but survival. There are no allies but those who last. There is no mercy. The sect will not descend to retrieve the fallen. Those who live will rise as Inner Disciples. Those who do not—"
He raised one skeletal hand. The chains that lined the abyss groaned in unison, the sound like a thousand throats choking.
"—are forgotten."
The gong struck again. The first chain lowered, its links grinding against stone, forming a bridge into the pit. The disciples stiffened. One by one, they were ordered forward.
Draven's heart did not quicken. His breath did not falter. The abyss called to him, and he answered with silence.
When his turn came, he stepped onto the chain. The metal vibrated beneath his feet, alive, whispering through the soles of his boots. The world above seemed to retreat with every step he took, until all that remained was mist, chain, and the yawning dark below.
The descent was endless. The air grew colder, sharper, the mist thick enough to sting the skin. He heard the faint scuff of feet ahead, the rasp of breath behind. Yet no one spoke. Words had no place here.
At last, the chain ended.
The pit floor sprawled beneath them—a vast expanse of black stone, cracked and scarred from battles of decades past. Chains sprouted from the walls and ceiling like roots of some colossal tree, crisscrossing in every direction, forming bridges, barriers, and cages. The air was heavy, dense with Yin qi that pressed against the chest like a weight.
Torches blazed to life along the walls, their flames pale and cold, casting shifting shadows. The disciples spread out, some clumping together in hasty alliances, others stalking alone with eyes like cornered wolves.
Above, far above, the rim of the abyss glowed faintly. The elders were watching. The entire sect was watching.
A gong rang one final time, its echo reverberating through the chains.
The trial began.
The silence shattered almost immediately. A scream cut through the air, sharp and raw, as one disciple was dragged across the stone and slammed against a chain-spike. Another group lunged at each other, fists and weapons flashing, chains rattling as they used the links themselves to swing and strike.
Chaos erupted.
Draven did not move at first. He stood with his hands at his sides, eyes scanning, weighing. Panic was a predator, and many had already succumbed to it. They rushed blindly, seeking quick kills or safety in numbers. Both paths led to death.
Veyra's laughter rang out like a blade against glass. She strode into the fray, her chains whipping in long arcs, striking down two disciples with a single swing. Her allies closed ranks around her, forming a wedge that carved through the chaos. She was not merely fighting—she was declaring her dominion.
Draven watched. Not yet.
Malachor appeared at his shoulder, silent as shadow. His eyes flicked toward Veyra, then back at Draven. A question, unspoken.
Draven's lips curved the faintest degree. Not yet.
Instead, he turned toward a smaller cluster of disciples locked in a desperate struggle. He slipped into their periphery like smoke. A chain lashed past, meant for another, and Draven caught it mid-swing, jerking it free. The wielder stumbled, off balance, and Draven struck him in the throat with the chain's own weight. The man collapsed, gasping.
The others froze. For a heartbeat, they seemed to weigh whether to strike him as well. Then the chaos pressed in again, and they scattered, leaving the fallen behind.
Draven did not chase. He crouched beside the gasping disciple, studying him. Weak lungs, trembling limbs, panic flooding his eyes. Not worth keeping. Draven let him choke and turned away.
The trial had only just begun, and already the pit smelled of blood and fear. Screams echoed from every corner, cut short as quickly as they rose. Chains rang like bells as disciples swung across gaps, striking from above, ambushing from behind. The pit itself seemed to hunger.
And yet, in the midst of it, Draven felt a strange clarity.
Every move was an opening. Every scream a distraction. Every rival was a chain waiting to be seized.
He moved through the chaos like a shadow wearing flesh.
The first night of the trial was far from over.
And Draven Noctis had only just begun to weave his chain.