The abyss did not sleep.
When the torches guttered, when the screams dwindled to a background hum, when most of the disciples collapsed against chains or stone to claw a moment of rest, the pit itself seemed to breathe. Iron links creaked in the darkness, as though dragged by unseen hands. Groans rumbled from the black below, too deep to be human.
The first night of the trial had begun.
Draven sat with his back against a half-buried anchor stone, eyes half-lidded. He appeared to be resting, yet his awareness stretched through every sound around him. He noted where disciples clustered together, sharing food pellets or quietly sharpening their blades. He marked who sat alone, too proud—or too distrusted—to join a group.
The air reeked of sweat, blood, and rust. Shadows stretched thick, broken only by occasional torchlight glimmering off chain-links.
Across from him, not more than twenty paces away, Veyra's campfire blazed the brightest. She had claimed a plateau of stone as her own, her followers arrayed around her like loyal hounds. They murmured, laughed softly, boasted in half-whispers about the kills they had claimed. One tossed a severed chain fragment onto the fire for emphasis, drawing sparks.
Draven could almost hear the rhythm of their arrogance. Strong now, but it would fray. She was too bright, too loud. In time, she would cast shadows long enough for him to hide entire plans within them.
His own small cluster of allies—if they could even be called that—sat nearby. Two boys from the southern wing of the sect, still jittering with nerves. They had latched onto Draven after watching him dispatch a would-be attacker earlier with clinical precision.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" one finally whispered. His voice cracked, too loud in the silence of the pit.
Draven didn't move. "Because sleep is what the pit waits for."
The boy shuddered. The other swallowed hard and pressed closer to the faint glow of their dying torch.
Across the battlefield, a scream tore through the night. The boys flinched. Draven merely closed his eyes again. A lone disciple had tried to wander in the dark—whether searching for food, water, or prey did not matter. The chains had found him. His cries rose, then cut short in a wet crunch.
The abyss claimed its toll.
Around the pit, groups tightened their circles. Even Veyra's laughter faded into a more guarded silence.
But Draven waited. Patience was his blade. Already he saw it—cracks forming in the alliances hastily born in daylight. A boy refused to share rations. Another tried to edge closer to the warmth of a fire, only to be shoved back with drawn steel. Words hissed like snakes.
It wouldn't take long. The abyss didn't just test strength. It tested hunger. Greed. Trust.
And so, when the first real betrayal came, Draven was already watching.
A cluster of four disciples, barely holding together by nervous smiles, suddenly shattered. One of them—a lean, sharp-eyed youth—lunged without warning, driving a chain-dagger into the back of his companion. The boy's scream pierced the darkness. Blood spilled. The others scrambled in horror, only to be cut down in the frenzy.
By the time the echoes faded, only the lean youth stood alive, panting, his dagger dripping. He looked around wildly, daring anyone to challenge him.
The pit was silent, save for the slow creak of chains.
Draven's companions swallowed hard. One whispered, "Monsters… they're turning into monsters…"
Draven did not answer. His gaze lingered on the lone survivor. Not on the brutality—such things were inevitable—but on the pattern. Already, trust was breaking. Already, the pit was reshaping its players.
And he would shape it further.
"Stay," Draven murmured to his two companions, his tone flat, leaving no room for disobedience.
He rose, walking unhurriedly through the shadows. The killer's eyes snapped to him, wild and defensive, dagger raised.
Draven did not stop until he was within three steps. The torchlight flickered across his pale face, catching the cold gleam in his eyes.
"You killed them," he said softly. Not accusation. Not judgment. Simply fact.
The youth snarled, "They were weak. I won't die for weaklings."
"Good," Draven murmured. "Then you'll live."
Confusion flickered across the boy's face.
Draven's voice was calm, even, as though they were not standing amid corpses. "Stay alive. Keep your dagger sharp. But point it where I tell you. If you want to see dawn, your blade belongs to me now."
The youth's knuckles whitened on his weapon. His instincts screamed at him to fight. And yet… the abyss was watching. The chains groaned overhead, as though impatient. The boy's breath shuddered. Slowly, with a mix of fear and recognition, he lowered his dagger.
Draven turned and walked back to his camp without looking to see if the boy followed. He knew he would.
His companions stared as the killer joined their circle, eyes still twitching with madness, but his dagger now resting at his side.
Draven sat once more, leaning back against the anchor stone, as though nothing had happened.
The two boys gaped at him. Finally, one whispered, "How… how did you…"
Draven's eyes remained half-lidded. "The pit does not reward the strongest. It rewards the one who decides where strength is pointed."
Silence stretched, broken only by distant groans and the ceaseless creak of chains.
Across the battlefield, Veyra's fire still burned, bright and defiant. She had gathered many, and her presence shone like a star.
But in the shadows, Draven had taken his first piece. One killer bound not by loyalty, not by trust, but by inevitability.
And in the pit, inevitability was worth more than light.
The abyss breathed again, and its chains rattled like laughter.