The survivors had barely been dropped onto the stone when the Overseers' chains stirred again. No chance to sleep. No balm for their wounds. The cavern floor itself seemed to pulse beneath them, as though the Forge's heartbeat had burrowed into the Hollow's bones.
Draven forced his body upright, limbs heavy, muscles raw from strain. All around him, the other disciples shifted like corpses trying to rise—Bellhounds muttering prayers through cracked lips, Crimson Claws spitting blood in defiance, Silent Veil swaying like shades that refused to disperse.
A hiss of laughter spilled from Overseer Malrec's throat. "Pathetic. You think endurance is bought with respite? No. Endurance is tested at the brink of collapse. Only those who break and yet still crawl are worthy of the Hollow's chain."
The porcelain-masked Overseer raised her hand. "The Forge fed well. But its hunger spreads. There are depths yet untouched by your flesh."
The ground split once more. A vast fissure tore open before them, breathing out a wind so cold it froze the sweat on their skin. Within the chasm flickered faint violet flames, casting ghastly light on walls slick with black moss.
Malrec's chain lashed outward, hooking around the nearest survivor's arm. With a violent jerk, he hurled the boy into the abyss. The scream cut off into a wet crunch. The Overseer's grin sharpened.
"Down," he barked. "Into the Hollow's Breath. Those who climb out again will have proven marrow worth tempering. Those who fall… feed the Hollow."
Chains whipped again, wrapping around wrists and ankles, dragging survivors toward the abyss. Some struggled. One Bellhound disciple shrieked, clawing at the stone, nails tearing off against the rock. A Claw beside him hacked at the chain with a broken blade—only for another Overseer's hook to seize his throat and haul him screaming into the pit.
There was no choice.
Draven let the chain drag him, muscles coiling for the plunge. His mind, however, raced ahead. The Hollow's Breath… a descent and an ascent. Not just survival, but proof of will. The Overseers want us ground down until only cruelty and cunning remain. Very well.
They were cast into the abyss.
The air roared past, cold biting their faces, violet flame light twisting into blurs. The drop seemed endless. Draven angled his body, forcing breath steady despite the plunge. Around him, bodies flailed, cries echoing against stone. One Claw struck the wall, bones shattering as his corpse tumbled. Another Bellhound tried to spread his limbs to slow descent—only to be pierced by jagged outcroppings that tore him apart.
Then came the impact.
Draven struck water so cold it burned, the shock forcing air from his lungs. Darkness closed around him as he sank into the Hollow's underground lake. Faint violet fire danced across its surface, whispering promises that clawed at the mind.
Breathe, and the Hollow will claim you.
He forced his body upward, breaking the surface with a gasp. Around him, survivors surfaced in fits—gasping, coughing, some already dragged down by pale, eyeless things that writhed in the depths. Screams bubbled before being swallowed whole.
"Swim!" Gorath's bellow cracked through the cavern. The Crimson Claw leader hacked at one of the pale serpents dragging his man under, splitting it into chunks that writhed even after death. His eyes burned red in the violet glow.
The Silent Veil glided across the surface like shadows untouched by water, their movements too graceful to be natural. Seraphine tilted her head toward Draven, a faint laugh drifting across the lake. "Will you drown here, little chain? Or will you climb?"
Draven ignored her, his gaze sweeping the cavern. At the far end, rising from the lake's heart, a jagged staircase of bone jutted upward into the dark. At its summit, a faint iron gate gleamed, wrapped in coils of black chain.
"There." His voice was low, but Yorin, floundering beside him, caught it. "The path up."
The Bellhound's eyes widened with reverence. "The Hollow shows the faithful their way."
Draven said nothing. He only swam harder.
The climb was worse than the plunge.
The staircase's bone steps were slick with blood, sharp edges cutting into bare feet. The survivors hauled themselves upward, clutching bone ridges, pushing past one another in desperation. The Overseers' chains coiled lazily above, watching, waiting, ready to strike down any who faltered.
Halfway up, a Bellhound slipped, his scream fading into the depths. Violet fire flared as something vast devoured him below. His brothers moaned prayers, but none moved to help.
The Claws shoved past all others, Gorath leading, axe carving through those who slowed his ascent. One disciple's body tumbled down, skull cracking against bone, scattering teeth across the steps.
The Veil whispered among themselves, vanishing into shadows clinging to the cavern walls, bypassing steps entirely. One appeared beside Draven for a moment, blade poised to slip into his ribs—only to pause when Seraphine's soft laugh echoed. "Not yet. Let him climb."
Blood ran slick underfoot. Every survivor's breath came ragged, their bodies breaking under strain.
Draven climbed steadily, never rushing, never faltering. His body screamed, but his mind was calm, each motion chosen to conserve strength. When another Bellhound slipped, he caught the youth's wrist and hauled him upward. Gratitude blazed in the boy's eyes—another thread bound.
When a Crimson Claw tried to shove past him, Draven twisted, letting the man's own momentum send him tumbling off the step into darkness. Gorath snarled when he saw it, axe grating against bone, hatred sharpening further.
At last, the survivors reached the gate. Chains slithered aside, iron grinding open to reveal a narrow passage. Beyond, Overseer Malrec stood waiting, grin wide enough to split his face.
"Not enough fell," he said with mock disappointment, though his eyes gleamed with hunger. "But the Hollow has fed. You crawl from the Breath baptized in despair. Remember it. It will never leave you."
The porcelain Overseer's voice drifted from the shadows, soft as silk. "Your marrow is thinned. Your bones cracked. Yet you still stand. Good. Then we may break you further."
The chains lashed out again, binding wrists, dragging the survivors forward.
Draven lowered his gaze, letting exhaustion mask the sharpness of his thoughts. Around him, only twelve still lived—Claws snarling, Veil whispering, Bellhounds praying through cracked teeth. Every face was pale, every eye hollowed, but none dared collapse.
For in the Hollow Sect, collapse was death.
And the trials had only just begun.