The mountain was quieter at night, but quiet never meant peace. In the sect, silence carried weight—rumors whispered just beyond hearing, footsteps that paused in shadowed corridors, names spoken with care.
Joren thrived in that silence.
After the measure in the Stone Arena, his recognition by the elders had been as predictable as sunrise. Praise followed him wherever he walked: whispers of "brilliance," "the sect's golden hope," "unshakable serpent." He wore those words like armor, striding through courtyards as though the stone itself bowed to his step.
But recognition brought with it something sharper—expectation. And expectation was a burden Joren had never learned to carry lightly.
The first crack came two nights later, at a gathering of disciples in the eastern pavilion. Lanterns burned low, casting shadows over wine cups and half-eaten dishes. Disciples lounged on cushions, their serpents coiled faintly at their sides.
Joren stood at the center, wine in hand, his serpent gleaming faintly golden even at rest.
"You saw it yourselves," he said, voice carrying, "the elders barely spared a glance at the others. Dalen might have cut clean, yes, but clean isn't brilliance. Brilliance is power. Brilliance is overwhelming, not cautious."
Several nodded quickly, eager to be seen agreeing.
"But Dalen—" one disciple began carefully.
Joren's gaze snapped sharp, silencing him. "Dalen is solid. Solid like stone. And stone cracks under enough pressure. That is all."
A ripple of unease spread through the group. Everyone respected Dalen's steadiness. To dismiss him so openly, so carelessly, was bold. Too bold.
Kaelen, seated near the edge, lowered his eyes to his cup. He didn't need to join the conversation. Watching was enough. He saw the way disciples exchanged glances, weighing loyalty against caution. Joren's words weren't forgotten once the wine cooled—they would be carried, twisted, repeated.
The second crack came in training.
The outer disciples gathered at the northern terraces, sparring under the watchful eyes of instructors. Joren stepped into the ring against a senior disciple—a test meant to measure progress, not crush pride.
Joren didn't see it that way.
He unleashed his serpent with dazzling force, golden coils lashing through the air, striking hard enough to rattle the stone beneath their feet. His opponent stumbled, driven back again and again until the instructors called for restraint.
Joren didn't stop. One final strike sent the disciple sprawling, his serpent sputtering as it dissolved.
A hush fell. The instructors exchanged uneasy glances. The duel had crossed into humiliation, and humiliation had no place in measured sparring.
"Control, Joren," one said sharply. "Strength without discipline is a blade without a sheath."
Joren bowed stiffly, his smile a mask that did not reach his eyes.
The disciples whispered long after. Some admired the raw power. Others frowned at the recklessness. Kaelen heard both sides as he stepped into his own sparring match, keeping his serpent faint, his movements precise, his strength muted but sharp as a needle point.
He didn't need to draw eyes. Joren was drawing them all on his own—and burning himself under their weight.
The third crack came with the elders themselves.
In the high hall, after evening drills, Elder Ren praised Joren before the gathered disciples. "You shine bright, Joren. The sect's path may well be carried by your serpent."
Joren bowed deeply, pride swelling like fire in his chest. And then—he spoke.
"It is as it should be," he said. "Others train. Others struggle. But brilliance cannot be taught. It is born. And it is mine."
The words hung in the hall like smoke.
Disciples shifted uneasily. Some lowered their eyes, others raised their brows. Even Elder Ren, who so often smiled, let his expression falter for just a heartbeat. Elder Su's gaze, sharp as a blade, cut across the hall in silence.
Only Elder Huo betrayed nothing, his hawk eyes flicking once across the room—settling, for the briefest moment, on Kaelen in the back rows.
Kaelen bowed his head quickly, concealing the faint curve of his lips.
That night, whispers multiplied like wildfire. Joren's brilliance was still praised, but now the tone carried something sharper, something questioning. Admiration curdled with unease.
"He's strong, yes—but arrogant.""Too bold.""He doesn't see it yet, but the elders won't stomach such pride forever."
Kaelen walked the shadowed corridors alone, the night air cool against his skin. His serpent stirred within, faint silver light coiling tight.
Every arrogance Joren spilled in public was a gift. Every misstep widened the cracks in his image.
And Kaelen had patience. He would wait. He would sharpen.
When the time came, he would not need to strike with brilliance. He would strike with precision.
And brilliance would crumble.