The gates of the Coiled Night Clan opened beneath a sky painted with grey clouds and serpent-like streaks of dusk. Blood and dust still clung to the twins as they rode through the path of shadowed stone, silence falling over disciples and elders alike as Kalen and Raelith passed. Their return was expected, but not so soon. And never with the head of a prince.
Their father, Kran, met them beneath the great obsidian pillars, his cold gaze lingering on the blood-stained satchel that hung from Kalen's hip. Without a word, he turned and led them to the inner sanctum, toward the throne of the Clan Head.
The hall was lit by blackfire braziers. Silent robed elders lined the sides, their serpents coiled and watching. Upon her throne of twisted bone and iron sat the Clan Head—Veilara—her face veiled in sheer crimson, her presence quiet, suffocating.
"You have done what no knight in your generation could," she said. Her voice was not praise; it was an acknowledgment, a cold verdict.
Kalen stepped forward and placed the sack at her feet. The blood-soaked cloth parted to reveal the severed head of Prince Thalen Veyron.
One of the elders whispered, "Five hundred blood coins... the voidroot... the Pale Fang relic."
Veilara nodded. "You will receive all. But more than that, you have proven you are ready for the next path."
She gestured, and a scroll wrapped in silver serpent-hide was brought forward by a masked attendant. It pulsed faintly with darkness.
"This," she said, "is the Serpent's Maw—our forbidden technique. Few have earned it. Fewer still survived its completion. You may study it now. And then, you will leave."
"Leave?" Raelith asked.
"To the Obsidian Fang Academy," Veilara said. "You will be forged among monsters—assassins from rival sects, noble clans, and warborn cults. You will not be coddled. You will not be favored. You will rise, or you will die."
A shadow fell over her voice. "And should you rise… the blood of gods may one day weep beneath your heel."
---
They left the next morning. The serpent-bound scroll safely stowed in Raelith's satchel, the blood coins transferred to their account, and the voidroot secured. They crossed the western mountains on horseback, then traded steeds for shadow-rafts down the rivers of Thorne, arriving at the academy gates two days later.
Obsidian Fang Academy was a fortress carved into a dead mountain, shrouded in mist and cursed flora. The gates bore hundreds of weapons fused into its metal—blades of fallen students. Above the arch was a phrase written in abyssal script:
"Kill to live. Rise to command. Die forgotten."
A figure awaited them—tall, pale-eyed, armored in black robes and spiked serpent-bone. His voice was a rasp.
"I am Master Veylok. Welcome to the Culling Jungle."
No greetings. No instruction. Just a shove through the inner gate.
What lay beyond was a sprawling death forest cloaked in green fog. Tall obsidian trees bled crimson sap. Serrated vines slithered. The earth hissed. Overhead, flocks of voidcrows spiraled.
There were over five thousand new students. None spoke. Their names weren't called. Their ranks didn't matter.
A gong thundered.
Then madness began.
---
The jungle erupted into slaughter.
A spear burst through a boy's spine before he could react. A girl screamed as her own serpent turned on her—too weak to bond fully. Explosions of poison and shadow techniques crackled through the thick air.
Kalen and Raelith moved like blades.
Their serpents slithered at their heels—Kalen's bone-white serpent lunging and coiling through foes, Raelith's black serpent with red eyes striking from the dark.
A trio of assassins from the Crimson Gale Sect surrounded them, each wielding curved daggers. Their movements were fast—but not fast enough.
Raelith whispered, "Veil of Fangs."
His serpent vanished into smoke, then struck from three directions, tearing flesh from bone. Kalen finished the last one with a palm strike that cracked the man's ribs inward.
"Keep moving," Kalen muttered.
The ground itself betrayed the weak. A student stepped onto a mossy patch—his leg was devoured by acid. Screams became a chorus. Another group was wiped out by a single illusion trap—left fighting each other, eyes filled with madness.
Raelith inhaled. "We're being watched."
From the canopy above, shadowed eyes observed. Figures hidden—elites. Instructors. Perhaps even rival clans.
They were not stopping the bloodshed.
This was the trial.
---
By nightfall, only a thousand remained. Half mad. Half crippled. Most trembling.
The twins stood atop a mound of corpses, untouched, their blades soaked but steady. Blood stained their cloaks, but their eyes were colder than the moonlight.
Around them, other survivors began to form silent factions—beast handlers, blood mages, silent monks. Tensions brewed. Fights flared.
Then came the call.
A horn. Dull and ancient.
A shadowed gate opened at the far end of the jungle. Those who made it through were allowed to pass.
---
Inside, they were taken to a chamber lit by hundreds of black candles. A serpent mural sprawled across the ceiling. In the center, a pool of obsidian liquid.
Master Veylok stood there again.
"You have killed. You have survived. Now, we see what festers in your soul."
This was the preparation chamber. Cleansing before the next trial.
The Core Awakening would begin at dawn.
As others wept or trembled, Kalen and Raelith sat cross-legged. Their serpents coiled calmly beside them, full and content.
Raelith pulled out the Serpent's Maw scroll.
"It's time," he whispered. "We learn it. And we never fall behind."
Kalen nodded, voice quiet.
"No gods. No kings. Only blades."