Morning drills began with the clang of steel on steel, disciples clashing in the practice yard under the elders' watchful eyes. Dust swirled with every strike, the air sharp with exertion.
Kaelen moved among them quietly, as always. His serpent flickered faint and grey at his side, the perfect picture of mediocrity. He let others shine—Joren especially, whose serpent gleamed jade-bright as it snapped at a sparring partner. Cheers rose for him, as they always did.
But Kaelen's focus wasn't on Joren. It was on the glances.
Elders watched him more often now. A fraction longer than they should. Their gazes seemed casual, but he felt the weight behind them. It hadn't been like this before the Archive.
By midday, whispers followed him in the mess hall.
"Did you hear? Someone tested the Archive seals again."
"They say it was an outer disciple, bold enough to try sneaking into the restricted shelves."
"And yet, no one's been punished. Maybe they don't know who it is."
Kaelen ate in silence, every word sharpening his caution. Joren sat at the next table, serpent coiled lazily around his wrist, eyes glittering with amusement. When Kaelen's gaze brushed his, Joren smiled thinly—as if to say, They'll find you eventually.
That evening, Kaelen was summoned again—not to the Hall of Inquiry, but to Elder Shael's pavilion.
The elder was known for his harsh discipline and sharper suspicion. His pavilion overlooked the lower courtyards, its balcony lined with bells that chimed faintly in the mountain wind.
Kaelen bowed low. "Elder."
"Rise," Shael said, his voice smooth as polished stone. His eyes, however, were knives. "Tell me, Kaelen—how fares your training?"
"As expected of one with poor talent," Kaelen answered evenly. "Steady, unremarkable."
"Unremarkable," Shael repeated. He studied Kaelen for a long moment, then leaned forward. "You were seen near the quarry two nights past."
Kaelen's pulse spiked. His bow deepened. "Yes, Elder. I was testing myself. Even wastes must work harder if they wish to keep pace."
Shael's lips curved faintly. "And what did you discover?"
"That my limits remain close, Elder."
The silence stretched. A bell chimed in the wind.
At last, Shael leaned back. "Do not stray where you do not belong. The sect has no use for shadows that linger too far from the light."
Kaelen bowed again, hiding the taut coil of tension in his chest.
When he returned to his quarters, he sat long in the dark, serpent faintly visible within his Soul Palace. Its eyes gleamed dim silver, echoing his unease.
The noose was tightening. Elders suspected something, even if they lacked proof. Joren was circling, waiting for him to stumble. And the whispers of the fang still burned in his veins, urging him to push further.
Kaelen clenched his fists.
Suspicion meant eyes. Eyes meant he had to become what they least expected: a shadow so mundane, so forgettable, that even their scrutiny slid past.
And in that forgettable shell, he would sharpen his fangs until no one could strip them from him.
The next day, he sparred in the yard, taking falls when he could, landing only modest strikes when allowed. Joren triumphed again, cheered by peers, praised by elders. Kaelen stayed small, silent, invisible.
But in the depth of night, when the sect slept and the mountain winds howled, he returned to the quarry. There, he whispered the fang's pathways into being, each corrosive strike carving deeper into stone.
If the noose was tightening, he would not wait to be strangled.
He would learn to cut it.