The Guild did not celebrate victories.
No cheers greeted Ethan when he staggered from the pit. No warmth. Only silence, heavy and brittle, as though every soul who watched feared to speak. The silence weighed more than the chains ever had.
Ethan's body screamed with pain. Each step was fire through his ribs, blood dripping from gashes unhealed. Shadowfang walked at his side, limping, yet his golden fire still burned faintly, a shield against the chill.
The Overseers parted as Ethan passed. None reached to help. Their eyes tracked him like predators measuring prey, but behind their masks he saw something new—an edge of caution.
The Guild Master's crow-mask tilted, unreadable. His voice was calm, too calm.
"You walked the Trial of Chains, and you did not break. From this day forward, your name will not be whispered with contempt, but with warning."
Ethan forced himself to meet that gaze. "Was that your intention? To make me into a warning?"
The mask inclined slightly. "Intention matters little. You endured. That is enough."
He turned, cloak sweeping. "Rest. Heal. The next trial waits for no one."
---
They gave Ethan no healer. No elixirs. No bedchamber softer than stone. He and Shadowfang were left in a barrack cell, a bucket of water shoved inside as though that could mend shattered ribs.
Ethan slumped against the wall, sliding down until the cold stone bit into his spine. Shadowfang pressed against him, head resting across his lap. The wolf's breath was ragged, yet steady.
"Rest, boy," Ethan whispered, fingers brushing singed fur. "You saved me more times than I can count."
Through the bond, he felt warmth—a tired but fierce affirmation. A promise: Always.
Yet beneath it, something darker stirred. The same force that had surged through Ethan in the pit, when Shadowfang's howl had unleashed fire strong enough to scorch the chains. It hadn't been just Shadowfang. The chains had responded to Ethan. Bent to him.
He lifted his wrist, staring at the faint outline of links burned into his skin. Not just his oath-mark anymore—something more. Something alive.
What did the Guild see in me? Why test me with chains?
Questions circled like vultures, never landing, never answered.
---
The following day, whispers spread through the Guild like wildfire.
He felt them in the way initiates stepped aside when he walked the training yard. He saw them in the way Overseers spoke in hushed tones when his name passed their lips. Even Lyra, whose sharp tongue had mocked him since the first day, looked at him now with narrowed eyes, calculating.
She cornered him after drills, her gaze sharp as knives.
"You should be dead."
"Glad to disappoint," Ethan muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
Her lips curled. "That trial kills half who face it. The chains don't loosen. They don't yield. But they did for you. Why?"
"I don't know." He tried to move past her, but she stepped in front of him.
"You're lying. The Guild doesn't waste trials. If they put you in the pit, it's because they suspected something. And now the Overseers look at you like you're a blade they can't decide whether to sharpen or shatter."
Her voice dropped lower. "Whatever you are, Veyra, it won't end well. For you. Or for us."
Ethan met her stare, steady. "Then maybe you should stop worrying about me and start worrying about yourself."
But even as he said it, doubt gnawed. Lyra wasn't wrong. The Overseers' eyes followed him everywhere. The Guild Master's silence was louder than words.
---
That night, Ethan dreamed.
Chains rattled in endless dark, stretching beyond sight. Voices whispered through the links, not in words but in pulses that beat against his mind. He walked barefoot on stone, each step echoing.
At the center of the void, a throne stood. Not gilded. Not carved. Made of iron, forged from chains themselves.
And upon it, a figure sat. Its face was hidden, its body wrapped in links that writhed like serpents.
The figure raised its hand. Chains coiled from the throne, reaching toward Ethan, brushing his skin with cold fire.
The whispers surged, clearer now. Bearer… bound… heir of chains…
Ethan jerked awake, sweat soaking his tunic. The cell was silent, Shadowfang asleep beside him. Yet his wrist burned where the brand lay, glowing faintly in the dark.
---
The next days blurred into routine. Training. Hunts. Pain. Yet nothing felt ordinary anymore. Initiates kept their distance. Overseers tested him more harshly, as if probing his limits.
On the third night, a message arrived. A scrap of parchment slipped beneath his door.
Meet me in the lower archives. Midnight. Come alone.
No name. No seal.
Ethan should have burned it. Should have ignored it. But something in his gut twisted. Curiosity? Fear? Or the same instinct that had dragged him through the chains—an instinct that refused to let him stay blind.
At midnight, he went.
---
The lower archives were a maze beneath the Guild, lined with shelves sagging under dust and parchment. Torches burned low, shadows swallowing the corners.
Ethan moved silently, Shadowfang padding at his heel despite the "come alone" warning. The wolf's golden eyes pierced the dark.
At the far end of a corridor, a figure waited. Cloaked, hood low.
"You came," the voice whispered. Feminine. Low and sharp.
Ethan's hand hovered near his dagger. "Who are you?"
The hood tilted back just enough for torchlight to catch. Lyra.
He almost laughed, though no humor touched his lips. "If this is another of your games—"
"Quiet." Her eyes darted around, wary. "I shouldn't be here. Neither should you. But you need to know."
"Know what?"
"That the Guild Master didn't put you in the Trial to break you." Her voice trembled, though her eyes stayed hard. "He put you there to wake you."
Ethan's chest tightened. "Wake me?"
Lyra nodded. "The chains aren't just tools. They're alive. They've been here longer than the Guild. Longer than the citadel itself. They choose. And they chose you."
The words struck like a blade. Ethan shook his head. "That's impossible. They're iron. Nothing more."
"Tell yourself that if it helps you sleep," Lyra whispered. "But I saw what happened in the pit. You didn't just survive—you bent them. No initiate has ever done that. Not in a hundred years."
Her voice dropped lower, urgent. "That makes you dangerous. To them. To us. To everyone. The Guild will not let it go unchallenged. Some will want to use you. Others will want you dead before you grow into whatever the chains saw."
Ethan swallowed, throat dry. "And you? What do you want?"
Lyra's expression flickered, softer for a heartbeat. "I want to survive. If that means standing beside you—or cutting you down—I haven't decided yet."
She stepped back, shadows swallowing her again. "Watch your back, Veyra. From now on, every step you take will tighten the chains around you."
And then she was gone.
---
Ethan stood in the dark, Shadowfang's growl low at his side. His heart pounded, his mind a storm.
The chains weren't finished with him. That much was certain.
But whether they were his weapon, or his prison—he did not yet know.
---
Chapter End.
---