The gate slammed behind them, iron seals locking with the sound of bones snapping.
The eight survivors collapsed into a smaller chamber, their bodies sagging against stone walls slick with condensation. The air here was still, heavy with copper and dust. For the first time since the Forge began, there was no beast roaring, no chains slashing, no Overseer demanding marrow.
Only silence.
It was worse than screams.
Yorin dropped to his knees, retching bile onto the floor. His hands shook violently as he pressed them together, muttering fragments of Bellhound scripture. "Chains bind… chains guide… chains—" He gagged again.
One of the other Bellhounds—a wiry boy with half his scalp burned—snapped, voice high and cracked. "Stop whispering! Your prayers didn't save anyone! Didn't save him!" He jabbed a finger at the corpse-dust still clinging to his sleeve, the faint remnants of the brother he'd killed in the Chamber of Lies. His eyes rolled wild, veins bulging at the temples.
Yorin flinched, guilt gnawing through his posture. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then let his forehead rest against the stone.
The Overseers had not followed through the gate. But that didn't mean they weren't watching. Everyone in the chamber knew the Hollow's eyes were on them, unseen, recording every word, every twitch, every fracture.
Draven sat apart from the others, legs folded, back straight. His breathing was measured, gaze lowered, as if he had given in to exhaustion. In truth, he was counting heartbeats, watching shadows shift, memorizing who leaned against whom, who stared at whom, who muttered, who remained silent.
Eight remain. The field is small enough now to matter. Each survivor will remember every look, every word spoken here. This is where the true killing begins.
Seraphine glided to the center of the chamber, her shadow stretching unnaturally long against the flickering light. She twirled her dagger idly, its edge clean despite the chaos of the trial. Her lips curled in amusement.
"How fragile you all are," she whispered. "Illusions, smoke, whispers—and half of you turned your blades on your own brothers. How quickly loyalty rots when the Hollow breathes against your ear."
The scorched Bellhound bared his teeth. "You enjoyed it! I saw you cut down a Veil, smiling like it was a dance!"
Seraphine's eyes gleamed. "Of course I enjoyed it. Why else would one enter the Hollow if not to strip the mask of civility? Besides…" She flicked the dagger, letting it spin once before catching it. "…he was weak. Better to die now than crawl further."
The remaining Silent Veil disciple, a girl pale as parchment with lips stained black, hissed between her teeth. "One day, shadow-dancer, your laughter will end with your throat open."
Seraphine tilted her head, as if the idea delighted her.
Gorath's voice thundered then, silencing the chamber. The Crimson Claw's massive frame was a wall of blood and muscle, his axe resting heavy across his lap. His eyes burned not with madness, but with focus—locked entirely on Draven.
"You," he growled. "I saw what you did in the illusions. You moved too clean. Too careful. No hesitation. While the rest of us bled our minds dry, you looked… steady." His grip tightened on the haft of his axe. "You're hiding something."
The chamber stilled. All eyes turned to Draven.
Slowly, he raised his head. His expression was calm, voice even, almost quiet. "Hiding? Or enduring? Do you want me to thrash wildly like you did, spilling blood without knowing whose throat you struck?"
Gorath snarled, rising to his feet. His shadow swallowed the space between them.
Seraphine leaned forward, smile widening. The Silent Veil girl's eyes narrowed. Yorin lifted his head weakly, lips trembling as if to speak.
Before the tension could ignite, chains clattered above. A single porcelain mask descended from the ceiling, its black eyes hollow, its smile faintly curved.
The Overseer's voice slithered through the chamber.
"Good. Whisper. Threaten. Accuse. That is the marrow of sect life. The Hollow is not only steel and flesh—it is suspicion, rivalry, hunger. Prove you can thrive in silence, or be crushed when the noise returns."
The mask tilted as if amused. Then it vanished upward, chains retracting into the unseen ceiling.
The survivors did not speak for a long while after.
At last, Yorin whispered hoarsely, "We should… we should not turn on each other. That's what they want. If we divide now, none of us will reach the inner gates."
The scorched Bellhound spat on the floor. "Your words killed more than any Overseer. Don't preach to me, coward."
The Silent Veil girl murmured, voice low and venomous, "Allies are just future corpses. Remember that."
Draven closed his eyes again, hiding the faintest trace of a smile. He had not spoken more than a few words, yet suspicion now swirled around him like smoke. Some would see him as threat. Others as a rock of control. Both were useful. Both could be bent.
Eight remain. But only three or four will walk further. I will make sure I am among them. And when they claw at one another, they will not even notice whose hand guided the blade.
The chamber's silence deepened, broken only by ragged breaths and the distant, irregular drip of unseen water. The Hollow Sect was giving them a moment of stillness—just enough for paranoia to steep, just enough for new rivalries to root themselves.
Soon, the gate would open again.
And none of them would be ready.