The sect's grand hall was alive with murmurs. Shafts of morning light cut through the lattice windows, falling across carved pillars and polished stone. Disciples lined the steps in neat rows, their eyes fixed on the dais where Elder Ryn awaited them.
Kaelen stood among them, still as water. Beside him, Joren carried himself like a blade catching sun—shoulders square, jaw high, his serpent faintly coiled around his form in a show of casual dominance.
"Today," Elder Ryn's voice carried, deep and deliberate, "we review the conduct of those who returned from the Vale."
The air shifted. All eyes flicked to Joren, then Kaelen, then the other squads scattered among the ranks. The Vale mission was still fresh in everyone's blood.
Joren stepped forward without being called. "Elder," he said, bowing half-heartedly. "The Vale was a victory. Under my lead, the disciples returned intact. The beast slain. The sect's name honored."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Too bold. Too sharp.
Kaelen watched from stillness, his gaze lowered.
Elder Ryn's expression did not change, but his silence stretched until the hall itself seemed to hold its breath. Finally, he said, "Victory is not measured in flesh alone, Joren. Reports tell of discord. Of squads fracturing. Of risks taken that endangered your peers."
The words landed like stones in still water.
Joren's lips tightened, but he did not bow further. "With respect, Elder, discipline must bend in the field. Weak links drag down the strong. I acted for efficiency. The results speak louder than timid methods."
Gasps broke out. Even some elders on the side benches stirred.
Kaelen's heart beat steady, his eyes half-lidded. He let none of his thoughts touch his face, though inwardly he noted the shift. Joren had drawn his blade too far.
Elder Ryn's gaze cooled. "Results without unity fracture the sect's foundation. You mistake arrogance for strength. Discipline binds us because it keeps us from tearing ourselves apart."
For the first time, Joren faltered. His serpent flickered faintly, coils loosening. He masked it quickly, chin lifting again, but the ripple had already passed through the hall.
Kaelen saw it. So did the other disciples.
So did the rival elders.
After dismissal, the courtyards buzzed like stirred hives. Disciples clustered in whispers—some praising Joren's boldness, others muttering of his disrespect. Admiration tangled with unease, and unease grew faster than praise.
Kaelen lingered at the edge of the gathering, listening.
"He spoke like an elder himself," one youth whispered.
"Or like a fool," another hissed.
"He'll still rise," a third said, though his tone lacked conviction.
Kaelen's lips barely curved. Fire shone brightest before it cracked.
That night, in the training yards, Joren pushed himself harder than before. His serpent burned gold, its coils lashing as he struck through dummies and shattered wooden posts. Sweat streaked his skin, his breath sharp with pride and fury.
A ring of admirers gathered, clapping and praising. But beneath the noise, Kaelen heard it—the brittle edge in Joren's strikes, the strain where control should have been.
Kaelen practiced in a quiet corner, serpent faint at his side, movements efficient and unremarkable. No one watched him. No one needed to.
He preferred it that way.
Later, walking back through the lantern-lit corridors, Kaelen caught fragments of elder voices.
"…burns too hot…"
"…discipline tested…"
"…a prodigy, yes, but reckless…"
The whispers curled like smoke. Not condemnation yet, but doubt. Doubt was the seed of downfall.
Kaelen moved on silently, each step measured.
Joren's fire blinded most, but Kaelen could already see the cracks forming.
All he had to do was wait.
That night, in his chamber, Kaelen sat cross-legged in the dim glow. The Soul Palace pulsed faintly, his serpent brushing against the walls as if listening.
"Let them watch the fire," he murmured, voice low.
His serpent's silver eyes flickered in the dark.
"While we learn to strike unseen."