The barracks were never truly silent. Even in the dead of night, steel clinked, boots echoed, hunters muttered in their sleep. But tonight, after the ritual, the silence was heavier—thicker. Ethan felt it pressing down like a shroud.
He lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling beams slick with shadows. His body ached with every breath, ribs burning, muscles raw. The faint glow of chain-marks pulsed along his arms and collarbone, threads of silver light weaving beneath his skin like a brand that would never fade.
Shadowfang lay curled at his feet, restless. The beast's golden fire dimmed and flared in uneasy rhythm, as though he too sensed the weight of unseen eyes.
Ethan shifted, his throat dry. "They're watching, aren't they?"
The beast's low rumble was answer enough.
Across the room, Lyra leaned against the wall, her serpent draped like a sash of living fire across her shoulders. She hadn't slept. Her eyes followed Ethan with a sharpness that was almost protective, but underneath was a shadow of fear.
"They won't forgive this," she said quietly.
Ethan turned his head toward her. "Surviving?"
"Defying." Her lips curved in a bitter smile. "You weren't supposed to bend the ritual. You were supposed to crawl out broken, or not at all. Now you've made them curious. And the Guild doesn't tolerate curiosities for long."
Her serpent hissed, coils tightening against her arm.
Ethan forced himself to sit up, though every muscle screamed. "Then let them come."
Lyra studied him for a long moment, then shook her head. "You sound like Shadowfang."
The beast flicked his ears but didn't open his eyes.
---
By dawn, word had spread. Hunters lingered in corridors, whispering as Ethan passed, their stares heavy with a mixture of awe, fear, and something sharper—envy. Some crossed themselves in old superstitious gestures. Others spat as he walked by, muttering curses under their breath.
One hunter, broad-shouldered with a scar running down his cheek, stepped into Ethan's path. His gaze was cold, lips curled in disdain.
"So the chains didn't eat you alive," he sneered. "Guess they like their meat rotten."
Laughter rippled through the gathered hunters, though it was thin and uneasy.
Ethan stopped, meeting his eyes. He didn't raise his voice, didn't snarl. He only said, calm and even, "Better rotten and alive than polished and buried."
The scarred hunter's jaw tightened, but he didn't reply. Instead, he stepped aside, the mockery in his eyes dimming into something closer to calculation.
Lyra caught up to Ethan once they were alone in the stone passage. "You just made an enemy."
"I already had enemies." Ethan's voice was low. "At least now I can see one of them clearly."
---
That evening, the Overseer came.
Ethan had expected chains and threats, but the man who entered his quarters was not the Master of Chains. He wore no mask, only a hood that shadowed his gaunt face. His robes were simpler than the others, but his presence carried a weight that made the air hum.
"Ethan Vale," he said softly, voice like rusted steel. "Do you know what you've done?"
Ethan stood, Shadowfang rising to his side, flames flickering with warning. "Survived."
The Overseer's lips twitched, almost a smile. "More than that. You have taken what was meant to consume you and turned it inward. Hunters die in the ritual because they resist too weakly—or yield too easily. You… bent the chains. That is not survival. That is theft."
"Then chain me," Ethan said coldly.
The Overseer chuckled, low and humorless. "If they wanted you dead, Vale, you'd already be hanging from the ceiling with your beast beside you. No. They're not done with you yet. They want to see what kind of monster you'll become."
Ethan's fists tightened. "And you? What do you want?"
The Overseer stepped closer, shadows clinging to his frame. His eyes gleamed, old and weary, but not cruel. "I want you to understand that the Guild is a cage, yes—but cages break. And when they do, what escapes is never what went in."
For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then the Overseer turned toward the door.
"Beware the Master," he murmured before leaving. "He will not forgive a weapon that refuses to be wielded."
---
That night, Ethan dreamed again.
He was back in the wasteland of chains, but this time it wasn't endless silence. The chains moved, groaning, straining as though something enormous pulled at them from below. Sparks rained from their grinding links, and the sky bled red.
From the shadows emerged not his double, but a shape vast and formless, made entirely of writhing links. A thousand eyes glimmered in its depths. When it spoke, the sound was all hunger.
You are ours, child of defiance. Every link you bend is still a link. Every mark you wear is still our brand. You can fight, but you will break. They all break.
Ethan stood firm, Shadowfang blazing beside him, fire pushing back the dark. His voice was hoarse but steady. "Then I'll break the chains before they break me."
The creature laughed, a sound that shook the wasteland apart.
He woke drenched in sweat, the marks on his skin glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Lyra stirred across the room, eyes catching the glow. For once, she didn't speak. She only met his gaze, and in hers he saw the reflection of his own fear.
Fear not of death, but of what he might become.
---
The next day, training resumed. The Guild did not allow its hunters rest, even those who had danced with death.
Ethan stood in the practice yard, blade in hand, sweat dripping down his spine. Shadowfang circled, flames leaving scorch marks in the dirt. Lyra sparred nearby, her serpent darting like lightning.
The scarred hunter from before watched from the sidelines, arms folded, lips curling in something between hatred and intrigue.
The Guild wanted to test him. Ethan knew it. Every opponent they sent was sharper, faster, crueler. But the chains inside him moved with his breath now, whispering, guiding. His strikes grew heavier, his reactions faster.
When his blade clashed against steel, sparks danced like fireflies. When he moved, the chains sang in his bones.
The others saw it too. And with every victory, every display of strength, the whispers grew louder.
Monster.
Weapon.
Not one of us.
By dusk, Ethan was left alone in the yard, chest heaving, knuckles bloodied. Shadowfang pressed against him, golden fire flickering low.
The beast's eyes met his. Ethan saw no fear there, only fierce loyalty. But he also saw a question unspoken: How much longer can you fight them before you become what they fear?
Ethan wiped blood from his mouth, gaze hardening. "As long as it takes."
---
That night, bells tolled again. Not for death this time, but for summons.
Hunters were called to the great hall, torches flickering against banners of black and crimson. At the far end, the Master of Chains waited, his mask gleaming.
Ethan felt every eye turn toward him as he entered, whispers crawling like spiders across the room.
The Master raised a hand. Silence fell.
"Tonight," his voice thundered, "we hunt."
And Ethan knew—this was no ordinary mission. This was a test. Not of skill, not of survival. A test of whether he was still Ethan Vale… or the chains' newest puppet.
---
Chapter End.
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