The courtyard had been swept clean for the elders' assembly, its stone tiles gleaming under the pale sun. Dozens of disciples stood in neat rows, heads bowed. The air smelled faintly of incense, sharp enough to sting the nose.
Joren stood at the front.
He was everything the sect wanted its rising stars to be—straight-backed, shoulders broad, flame serpent coiling proudly behind him. His expression bore a practiced calm, though his eyes glimmered when they darted toward the elders seated above.
When Elder Ryn announced his name, the cheer that rippled through the ranks was almost rehearsed. Joren stepped forward, bowing low, as the elder praised his strength during the Vale mission. Words like discipline, promise, flame-bearer of the sect rang across the courtyard.
Kaelen stood somewhere in the middle ranks, head bent like the rest. He clapped when the others clapped. He smiled when the others smiled. Only his serpent, hidden in the quiet coil of his Soul Palace, stirred with a faint hiss.
That afternoon, the mood in the sect shifted.
Joren's name was on every tongue—his strike against the stag, his leadership in the field, the way his serpent burned brighter than the rest. His supporters swelled, younger disciples gravitating toward him with shining eyes. Even some seniors, long cautious of rising talents, began to nod in his direction.
But arrogance crept fast.
Joren took to walking the sect grounds like they already belonged to him. He corrected others too quickly, his voice sharp even with those above his rank. During one spar, he barked at a fellow disciple for striking him off balance—then lashed with his serpent harder than the rules allowed, sending the boy sprawling with bloodied ribs.
Whispers followed. Not loud, not yet, but Kaelen heard them as he drifted unnoticed at the edges of groups.
"He's strong, but he doesn't hold back.""Pride fits him too easily.""The elders praise him too soon—he grows careless."
The mistake came during a council gathering.
Joren was summoned with several other promising disciples to stand before three elders. The meeting was meant to be simple: a recognition of progress, a reminder of duties, and a reinforcement of discipline.
But when Elder Ryn spoke of the Vale mission, Joren's response edged beyond courtesy.
"Yes, Elder," he said, bowing shallowly. "The beast was strong, but not beyond my measure. Had the others not faltered, the stag would have fallen sooner."
A murmur went through the chamber. Elder Vey, known for her sharp eye, tilted her head. "You would say your fellows lacked?"
Joren's jaw tightened. He could have retreated, could have softened his words—but pride burned too bright. "I carried much of the burden. The others fought well enough, but it was my strike that turned the battle."
The silence afterward was heavy. Kaelen was not present, but the echoes of it reached the training yards before nightfall.
Arrogance before the elders. A claim that undermined not only his peers but the unity the sect prized.
The backlash was subtle at first.
An older disciple declined to spar with him. Another corrected his form in front of juniors with pointed sharpness. The elders did not rebuke him openly, but their silence was not the same warmth it had been.
Joren noticed. And that was the worst of it. His pride stung, but instead of cooling, it hardened into anger.
Kaelen saw it in the set of his shoulders, the tightness in his smile. In the yard one evening, Joren's strikes landed a little too sharp on his sparring partner. When he caught Kaelen watching, their eyes met for a flicker, and for the first time, Kaelen saw not confidence but a flash of unease.
A crack in the flame.
That night, Kaelen sat alone by the stream, watching moonlight ripple across water. His serpent uncoiled faintly behind him, scales glinting silver.
The sect was beginning to turn its gaze, not fully, not enough—but the fire they praised so loudly was already starting to smoke.
And Kaelen, hidden in shadow, felt the coil within him tighten.
Patience was power.