The cavern was silent, save for the dripping of ichor from shattered stone. Smoke still curled from the ground where the beast had unraveled into nothingness, a stench of burnt bone and bitter iron that clung to the lungs.
Disciples lay sprawled in heaps, half-dead and trembling, others hunched over the corpses of their fellows with hollow eyes. The trial had ended, but the survivors did not yet feel alive.
Of the sixty who had entered, barely two dozen remained. Their faces were pale, their hands shaking as they wiped black blood from their blades.
Overseer Malrec's laughter broke the stillness. "Ah… beautiful. Half of you gone, half of you clinging to life. That is the shape of a worthy crop." His words were thick with amusement, dripping like venom.
Another Overseer stepped forward, her face hidden beneath a cracked porcelain mask. "Do you feel it now? How death prunes weakness. Each corpse is a gift, a space carved for you to grow." Her voice was soft, almost tender, yet it scraped against the ear like steel on bone.
The disciples shuddered but said nothing.
Draven knelt among the dead, chain coiled loosely in his hand. His chest rose and fell with careful slowness, but his mind did not rest. He could feel the eyes on him. Gratitude from some, suspicion from others, and hatred—oh, the hatred burned strongest from those who had lost comrades while he had stood tall at the end.
He kept his gaze down, feigning exhaustion. Better to let them think him merely lucky. Let their tongues sharpen in whispers rather than blades, for now.
Yorin of the Bellhounds dragged himself forward, robes shredded, blood soaking his chest. He dropped to one knee beside Draven, voice hoarse but fervent. "You spoke… and the chains answered. You showed us where to strike. Without you, we'd all be bones in its gut."
Draven inclined his head faintly, offering neither denial nor pride. "We all survived because each played their part."
The Bellhound's eyes shone with zealous light. "Still… the Hollow watches you. Perhaps you are chosen." His followers murmured, though their voices were cracked from screams.
At that, Gorath spat blood onto the ground, leaning on his axe. "Chosen? Don't make me laugh." His gaze fixed on Draven, burning with barely restrained rage. "He didn't fight harder than the rest of us—he just slithered into command when the beast was weakest. Don't dress cowardice in silk."
Several Crimson Claws grunted in agreement, their glares sharpening toward Draven.
Before tension could snap, Seraphine stepped forward, her veil still damp with ichor. She tilted her head, eyes gleaming faintly in the half-light. "Cowardice?" Her voice was smooth, cutting. "No, Gorath. He saw what you did not. He chained the soul when you hacked at the flesh. You call that weakness?"
The air thickened. Gorath's followers stiffened, some reaching for weapons. The Bellhounds shifted uneasily, muttering prayers. The Silent Veil's remaining shadows stood behind Seraphine, their blades angled casually but unmistakably at the Crimson Claws.
For a moment, the battlefield threatened to reignite.
The Overseer with the porcelain mask let out a low laugh. "Yes… good. Let anger bloom. Let envy sharpen you. The sect thrives not on peace, but on friction."
Malrec's grin widened. "But enough posturing. You live, and that is reward enough for now. Tomorrow, you will be given new flesh to tear apart. For tonight, nurse your wounds and choose your allies well. We will see who remains standing when the moon wanes."
With that, the Overseers dissolved into shadow, their laughter echoing until only silence remained.
The disciples shifted uneasily. Without the Overseers' oppressive presence, the cavern seemed emptier, yet no safer.
Draven finally rose, his body aching with each movement. He let his gaze drift across the factions, noting their states.
The Bellhounds: fewer than seven left, but their zeal burned brighter for it. Yorin limped, yet his followers clung tighter to him, whispering praises for his endurance.
The Crimson Claws: Gorath stood at their head, though barely a dozen remained. Their bodies were broken, but their hatred was a crutch, binding them together in fury.
The Silent Veil: no more than five shadows, but their steps were light, their blades still gleaming. Seraphine's veil fluttered as she watched Draven with a smile that never reached her eyes.
And the scattered others—drifters from lesser sects, loners who had survived by clinging to stronger shields. Their eyes flickered between factions, searching desperately for a place to belong before the next trial consumed them.
Draven let silence stretch before he spoke, his voice quiet but cutting enough to reach every ear. "We are alive. That makes us targets. Remember the Overseer's words—every ally, every corpse, every betrayal is a chain. The wise will forge them. The foolish will be bound by them."
He turned away then, as if spent, as if too weary to play further games. But his words lingered, weaving through the survivors like smoke.
Some frowned, suspicious. Others whispered, thoughtful. And a few—too few—looked at him with something close to respect.
That was enough. Seeds only needed to be planted once. The blood would water them.
As the disciples gathered the corpses into heaps and tended to wounds with ragged cloth and bitter herbs, whispers spread in every corner. Some cursed Draven for stealing command. Others argued that without him, none would have struck true at the beast's soul.
Seraphine drifted near, her steps soundless. She stood close enough that only he could hear her murmur. "You tie knots well, Draven. But careful—knots can strangle as easily as they bind."
He met her gaze, expression unreadable. "Only the careless are strangled."
She smiled faintly, veil slipping to reveal teeth sharp as a whisper. Then she melted back into the shadows of her Veil.
Gorath's voice thundered moments later, rallying his Crimson Claws. "Don't let his silver tongue fool you. When the next trial comes, see who bleeds first. Watch him hide behind your blades."
The Claws growled their agreement, fists tightening on their weapons.
Yorin's voice rose in response, half chant, half defiance. "The Hollow sees through masks. If Draven hides, then why does the Hollow grant his chain power?" His followers echoed, a ragged chorus, each word a spark thrown into dry kindling.
The cavern became a battlefield of words, each faction sharpening its lines, suspicion and rivalry burning hotter than their wounds.
Draven withdrew to the shadows, leaning against cold stone. His body trembled—not from weakness, but from restraint. He could almost feel the chains already forming between them, links forged of hatred, zeal, envy, and fear.
He smiled faintly, closing his eyes as exhaustion finally claimed his limbs. The Overseers had given them a night of rest, but it was no mercy. It was another trap, another crucible.
And when the next dawn came, those chains would tighten.