The cavern's stillness did not last.
The survivors had barely managed to bind wounds with strips of soiled cloth and settle against the cold stone when the sound of chains dragging split the silence. It began faint, a murmur that might have been imagined, but soon grew into a relentless thunder—metal scraping against unseen depths, echoing like the heartbeat of some vast and merciless god.
The Overseers had returned.
A dozen shadows bled from the walls, their cloaks indistinguishable from the cavern's darkness. Overseer Malrec was among them, his grin carved deeper than ever, eyes burning with a feverish delight.
"You thought the beast's death was reprieve?" His voice rang across the chamber, each word sharp enough to sting. "Fools. The Hollow does not reward weakness with rest. Those who pause too long become bones beneath our feet."
One of the lesser disciples groaned, clutching a half-healed gash across his ribs. "Please, Overseer—we cannot fight again so soon. At least grant us—"
The words ended in a scream as one of the shadows flicked his wrist. A black chain snapped forward, coiling around the disciple's throat. With a savage tug, the youth was lifted into the air. His body convulsed as the chain squeezed, cracking bone, until a wet pop silenced him forever.
The corpse was tossed aside like refuse.
Malrec's grin widened. "Rest is earned, not begged. Consider his death a lesson—you will either stand when commanded, or you will fall as feed for the Hollow."
No one dared to speak again.
The porcelain-masked Overseer stepped forward, her voice soft, almost coaxing. "The beast was the first pruning. Now, you will feed the Forge of Blood. Those who survive will be tempered, their marrow hardened. Those who perish will become part of your weapons."
At her gesture, the ground split open. The stone floor trembled, and from the abyss rose a colossal platform of black iron, slick with congealed crimson that steamed in the cavern's chill. Around its edges were carved runes that writhed as though alive.
"The Forge…" Yorin whispered, half in awe, half in dread. His Bellhound followers clutched at their beads, muttering prayers.
The Silent Veil said nothing, but Draven saw how even Seraphine's veil shifted with her quickened breath. The Crimson Claws, though, met the sight with savage grins. Gorath's axe gleamed as he hefted it across his shoulder, hatred still simmering in his eyes when they flickered toward Draven.
Malrec's voice boomed again. "You will battle one another upon the Forge. Each drop of blood spilled feeds the altar, and the altar will grant strength to the victor. You may kill, if you wish. You may cripple, if you dare. The Hollow does not coddle cowards."
A ripple passed through the survivors. The cavern filled with hushed whispers and sharp intakes of breath.
So soon. No time to rest, no time to mend alliances or enmities in private. Whatever was festering between factions would now spill across iron and blood.
The Overseers gave no more warning. Chains lashed out, binding wrists and ankles, dragging the survivors onto the platform in groups. The iron beneath Draven's feet was hot, pulsing faintly as though it carried a heartbeat of its own. It hummed in his bones, whispering promises of power.
He bent his knees, forcing his expression into a mask of weariness, though inside, his thoughts were sharp as knives. This is no mere trial. This is the sect's crucible—our strength against one another, our fear turned to offerings. The Forge will remember every scream.
Yorin staggered close to him, face pale but eyes burning. "If we bleed, then let it be as an offering the Hollow accepts. Stand with me, Draven."
Draven gave a faint nod, though inwardly he filed away the Bellhound's words. Zeal made a man easy to guide… and easier still to sacrifice.
Across the platform, Gorath bellowed, rallying his Crimson Claws. "You heard the Overseer! Strength decides who deserves breath! Come—let us split the weaklings and take what's ours!"
His followers roared back, pounding fists and weapons against their chests.
Seraphine's laughter rang out, soft yet cutting through the din. "Listen to the dog bark. So eager to bite, yet blind to the trap." She raised her blade with languid grace, her remaining Veil circling close, silent as shadows.
The Overseer in porcelain lifted her hand. Chains erupted from the edges of the Forge, striking sparks as they scraped across iron. "Begin."
The platform erupted into chaos.
Crimson Claws surged forward like a wave of steel and fury, Gorath at their head, axe descending in brutal arcs. The Bellhounds met them with ragged cries, swinging cracked staves and blades chipped from the beast's hide. Veil shadows darted in from the sides, blades flashing, cutting throats before vanishing into smoke.
Draven moved with care. He struck when needed—parrying a wild strike, shoving a wounded disciple into the path of another's blow—but always with precision, never waste. To those watching, he seemed merely another survivor struggling to keep his footing. But beneath that mask, every motion was chosen.
When a Bellhound stumbled near him, blood gushing from a shoulder wound, Draven caught him, steadying him with a firm grip. "Stand. Do not fall here." The youth's eyes widened, gratitude flaring. Another chain forged.
When a Crimson Claw lunged with a roar, Draven twisted aside, letting the man's own momentum carry him into a Veil's waiting blade. As the corpse dropped, Gorath snarled, eyes catching Draven's for the briefest moment. Hatred deepened. Another chain tightened.
The iron beneath them drank the blood greedily, glowing brighter with every drop. The runes along its edge pulsed, feeding on death, casting the battle in a crimson haze. The survivors fought not only one another but the Forge itself, for every wound bled heavier than it should, every scream lingered longer than mortal throats could hold.
Overseers watched from the cavern's rim, their laughter rising above the carnage. Malrec shouted encouragement like a spectator at sport. "Yes! Break them! Split their marrow! Feed the altar until it sings!"
The porcelain Overseer's voice was softer, but crueler still. "Each stroke you land, each scream you draw, is a chain binding you tighter to the Hollow. Do you feel it? The weight will never leave you."
Disciples fell. Some were butchered, their bodies sliding across hot iron into the Forge's cracks. Others were crippled, their arms severed or legs shattered, left writhing as their blood poured into glowing channels. The platform's hum grew deeper, vibrating in the survivors' bones.
And through it all, Draven maneuvered—not to win glory, not to draw eyes, but to remain at the center of survival. He steadied Bellhounds, struck down Crimson Claws when needed, and let the Veil carve shadows into the chaos.
When at last the Overseer raised her hand again, chains shot forth, binding the survivors where they stood. The battle froze.
Only fifteen still lived.
The Forge pulsed, glowing brighter now than when it had risen. The iron's runes throbbed like veins, and a wave of heat rolled outward, searing the air. Every survivor felt it sinking into their bones, crawling into marrow, reshaping what remained of their strength.
Malrec's grin stretched wider than ever. "Yes. Yes! The Forge has drunk deeply. It has tempered you in blood and despair. You are sharper for it… for now."
The porcelain Overseer tilted her head, regarding the survivors as though they were tools being inspected. "But the Hollow is never sated. Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow, we see how much further you can bleed."
The platform sank slowly back into the earth, dragging the corpses and spilled blood with it, leaving only scorched stone behind. The surviving disciples were dropped onto the cavern floor, trembling, breath ragged, skin still glowing faintly from the Forge's touch.
No one spoke. Not even Gorath, whose hatred for Draven still simmered behind clenched teeth, could find words. The Forge had devoured too much breath, too much strength.
Draven lay with his back to the cold stone, eyes closed, breathing carefully. But within, his mind churned.
The Bellhounds clung closer now, whispering his name like a talisman. The Claws sharpened their hatred into a promise of future blood. The Veil watched from shadows, measuring him with predator's patience.
The Forge had taken much—but it had given more. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones, in the subtle weight of the chain wrapped around his wrist. A tether had been forged, not only between him and the Hollow, but between him and every survivor who now either feared, hated, or leaned upon him.
And that, Draven thought with a faint smile, was the sharpest weapon of all.