The bells of Blackstone Keep had barely ceased their midnight toll when the whispers began.
They slithered through the barracks, coiling from bed to bed, lips pressed to ears in the dark. Some spoke of Ethan Vale as a savior—one who had faced the alpha and triumphed where others would have perished. Others called him cursed, a vessel for the chains that should have devoured him but hadn't.
No one spoke to his face. No one dared.
Ethan lay awake, Shadowfang curled at his feet, amber eyes gleaming faintly in the dark. The whispers pressed in, heavier than the bruises on his ribs. He wasn't blind to the tension. He could feel it: the shift of weight in the bunks, the furtive glances in the hall, the space that grew wider around him with every passing hour.
Lyra was the only one who still treated him like a man and not a myth—or a weapon. Even now, she sat cross-legged on her cot, serpent coiled like a living crown about her shoulders. Her gaze cut to him in the dim light.
"You can't ignore it," she murmured.
"I know." Ethan rubbed his temples, chains whispering faintly beneath his skin. "But if I confront it now, I give them reason to believe the stories. They'll think the Guild was right—that I'm different."
Her lips curved faintly. Not amusement. Agreement. "Then you let the whispers grow until they choke the wrong throat."
Before he could answer, the barracks door swung open. A man slipped inside, tall, broad-shouldered, with a face carved in stern lines. His armor bore no Guild crest—only black leather reinforced with steel. A scar split his brow, vanishing into his hairline.
The room fell silent.
"Vale," the man said, voice rough as gravel. "You're summoned."
Ethan rose, Shadowfang at his side. Lyra's serpent hissed, scales flashing. "Where?" she demanded.
The man's gaze flicked to her, then back to Ethan. "Council Chamber. The Overseers want him."
The tension in the room sharpened. Summoned by the Overseers in the dead of night? That was no honor. That was a trial.
Ethan nodded once, ignoring the eyes that followed him as he stepped into the corridor. The man led him through winding halls, deeper into the Keep's belly. The air grew colder, thicker, torches burning lower the further they went.
The Council Chamber was a cavern of stone, high-ceilinged and ringed with chains that hung from unseen rafters. The Overseers sat upon their thrones of iron, masks gleaming in the faint blue light. Their presence pressed down like a mountain.
At the center of the chamber, a single chair waited—no ordinary seat, but a throne of chains. Its links writhed faintly, alive, pulsing with a rhythm that mirrored Ethan's own heartbeat.
The Master of Chains gestured. "Sit."
Every instinct screamed against it. But Shadowfang growled softly, and Ethan forced himself forward. He lowered into the chair, metal cold against his back. The chains slithered, coiling around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. Not binding him yet—testing.
The Overseers spoke in unison, voices distorted, impossible to place.
"You carry what none before you have endured."
"The chains did not consume you."
"They obeyed you."
The links tightened, breath shuddering in Ethan's chest. He felt them probing, seeking, whispering. Images flashed in his mind—blood on stone, Shadowfang's flames, the alpha's roar. He clenched his jaw, refusing to yield.
The Master's voice cut through the haze. "We must know why. The Guild must understand what you are."
"I'm a hunter," Ethan rasped.
The chains constricted. No. More. More than that.
Pain seared through him, white-hot. Shadowfang snarled, flames flaring around his form, but the Overseers raised their hands and the beast froze, shackled by invisible force.
"Enough," the Master commanded. The chains slackened, just enough for Ethan to drag in air. Sweat dripped down his temple, his body trembling.
"You will undergo the Binding Ritual," the Master declared. "Not in years, not in months. Tomorrow."
Shock rippled through the chamber. Even the Overseers shifted, murmurs breaking the stillness. Hunters did not attempt the Binding until years of service, after countless trials. To undergo it now was to court death.
Ethan's stomach twisted. He knew what the Binding was: the ritual that fully merged a hunter's soul with the chains. Success meant power beyond reckoning. Failure meant annihilation.
The Master's gaze burned through his mask. "The chains chose you. Tomorrow, we see if you truly belong to them—or if you are nothing more than a vessel to be discarded."
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When Ethan returned to the barracks, dawn was breaking. Lyra sat waiting, her serpent coiled tight. One look at his face and she rose, crossing to him.
"What did they do?" she demanded.
"They didn't kill me," he said flatly. "Not yet. Tomorrow… they want the Binding."
Her eyes widened, fury flashing. "That's suicide. No one survives that this early. No one."
Ethan sank onto his cot, Shadowfang curling close. The beast's flames licked faintly at his skin, warm, steady. "That's the point. They don't care if I live or die. They just want to see what happens when the chains are forced deeper."
Lyra's hands clenched. "Then we don't let them. We find a way out."
Ethan met her gaze. Exhaustion pressed heavy, but beneath it, a spark still burned. "And where would we run? The Guild's reach is everywhere. The chains are in me. Even if we escape these walls, I can't escape them."
Her serpent hissed, tasting the air. "Then we use them. Play their game. Let them think they've won—until you're strong enough to break their chains, not wear them."
For the first time, Ethan let himself breathe. It wasn't hope, not yet. But it was something.
He closed his eyes, feeling Shadowfang's steady presence beside him. Tomorrow, he would step into the fire. Tomorrow, he might not come back.
But if he did… the Guild would regret chaining him.
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Chapter End.
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