The Vale seemed deceptively quiet after the clash. Too quiet.
The disciples had set camp in a clearing rimmed by black pines, the air thick with damp mist. Fires sputtered low, throwing flickering light across strained faces. Every branch's creak and distant cry set nerves on edge.
Joren, however, sat squarely in the circle of firelight, laughing as though the forest itself bowed to him. His serpent coiled proudly at his side, scales shimmering faint jade even in half-darkness. Several juniors leaned in, hanging on his every word.
"I drove the tusk clean through," Joren boasted, carving the air with his hand. "The beast's eyes went wide, and it knew—it had no chance against me."
Laughter. Admiration. A few claps on the back.
Kaelen sat apart, as usual, nearer the shadows than the fire. His serpent was faint, translucent coils resting lightly on his shoulder, hardly noticed by anyone. He was not invited into the laughter.
But he listened. Always.
It began with a careless word. One of the juniors, still bruised and weary, muttered low, "If not for that one strike of his, I'd have been gored. He saved me."
Joren's grin widened. He took the praise like a crown. But the boy's tone carried a flicker of unease—gratitude tinged with the knowledge that his life had been precariously close to ending.
Another voice added, "True, but you also charged too quickly. Nearly dragged the line with you."
The laughter stuttered. Joren's smile hardened.
He leaned forward, voice sharp with edge. "So now I should hang back? Let beasts run us down because you're too slow? Without me, half of you wouldn't be breathing."
The circle fell silent.
It was only a moment. Then he laughed again, softer, dismissing the tension. But Kaelen had seen the crack—the way pride and insecurity warred in Joren's eyes.
Later, when most had slumped into uneasy sleep, Kaelen remained awake, silent and still. He traced the fire's glow over the faces of his peers.
Some whispered in dreams, clutching blankets tight. Others muttered about their families, their futures, the elders' recognition they hoped for. And some, always, stole glances at Joren—admiration mixed with envy, dependence shading into resentment.
A dangerous balance.
Kaelen's serpent flickered faint silver in the dark, unseen by others. He felt its hunger stirring again, the memory of corrupted Qi still coiled inside his veins. He breathed slowly, grounding himself, keeping the serpent's presence hidden.
Yet the whispers of the campfire lingered in his ears: praise, doubt, suspicion. He was not the only one with shadows forming around him.
The following morning brought another test of nerves. Supplies were counted, wounds checked. Several juniors noticed Kaelen had no injuries despite fighting. Their eyes lingered longer than before.
One sneered. "Strange how the weakest comes away spotless."
Murmurs spread. Joren caught them, smirking. "He hides in the back. Always has. That's why."
Kaelen's gaze dropped. He said nothing, only adjusted his pack and prepared for the march.
But inside, his serpent stirred. He felt the thin threads of suspicion tightening around him—not enough to choke yet, but enough to mark him. He would need to tread carefully.
And Joren… Joren's star still burned, but the first shadows were creeping at its edge.
That night, the elders would meet them again. The news of the boars would spread. Praise would be given, but Kaelen already knew to whom it would go.
He did not need it.
He would grow, as he always had—in silence. In secret.
And one day, when cracks widened and shadows deepened, the serpent would strike.