Joren's name filled the mountain like a bell struck too often. Every courtyard, every hall, every training ground echoed with it—praise for his brilliance, whispers of his arrogance, speculation about how far he might rise or how soon he might fall.
Kaelen let the noise wash over him like rain on stone. Where others craned their necks to watch the golden serpent coil in the arena, Kaelen lowered his gaze and slipped unnoticed into the folds of shadow.
It was a gift, this distraction. While Joren blazed like fire, Kaelen could smolder unseen.
The Soul Palace pulsed faintly within him as he sat cross-legged in the quiet of his chamber. His silver serpent curled along the edges of that inner space, its form still muted, but sharper now, cleaner in line. Each molt brought it closer to something alive.
In his hands, Kaelen traced the meridian maps he had memorized from the stag illusion. The crackle of Qi through its horn, the surge through its chest—he had replayed it countless times. Tonight, he meant to shape it.
He inhaled, guiding the energy along his own meridians. The crackle was faint at first, a spark no brighter than an ember. Sweat prickled along his spine as he forced the Qi into patterns not meant for him, his serpent tightening in resistance.
"Hold," he whispered to himself.
The spark flared. For an instant, a glimmer of light arced across his palm, the echo of the stag's horn. It fizzled quickly, but the pattern remained, etched deeper in muscle and mind.
Kaelen exhaled, trembling but steady. Progress. Always progress.
Two nights later, he sought a place where eyes did not wander. The northern cliffs dropped steep into shadowed ravines, where wind howled like a beast's breath. Few disciples trained there—the footing was treacherous, the silence oppressive.
Perfect.
Kaelen stood at the edge, serpent faint at his side. He gathered Qi, let the meridian flow ignite, and thrust forward. A crackling arc leapt from his palm, striking the cliff wall. Stone splintered, dust falling into the dark below.
His lips curved. The technique still lacked force, but the shape was right. It would grow sharper with each repetition.
A rustle stirred behind him.
Kaelen froze, serpent coiling close. Slowly, he turned.
A disciple stood a few paces back, arms crossed—one of Joren's hangers-on, a boy named Sareth, his serpent a dull bronze. His smirk was sharp, but his eyes flickered with uncertainty.
"Practicing in the dark?" Sareth drawled. "Strange place for someone so… unimpressive."
Kaelen's expression stayed calm. "Strange place for someone looking for gossip."
Sareth bristled. "Careful. Joren doesn't take kindly to shadows creeping where they don't belong."
Kaelen's serpent flickered faintly, eyes like chips of silver. "Then perhaps you shouldn't be here."
For a moment, silence stretched taut between them. Sareth shifted, his bravado fraying. He muttered something under his breath and stalked off, his bronze serpent flickering weakly behind him.
Kaelen watched until the shadows swallowed him. He didn't fear Sareth—the boy lacked weight. But whispers carried quickly, and Kaelen could not afford too much light.
He would need to be more careful.
Back in his chamber, Kaelen steadied his breath. The Soul Palace stirred again, faint echoes of the stag's power weaving into its walls. He could feel the serpent pressing against its husk, hunger deepening, strength coiling tighter.
He traced the memory of Sareth's smirk in his mind. Rivals came in many forms—loud like Joren, petty like Sareth. Both were dangerous in their own ways.
But while they postured in light, Kaelen grew sharper in dark.
The next morning, training resumed on the terraces. Joren shone again, his serpent coiling with dazzling force as he crushed another sparring partner. The disciples applauded loudly, the instructors praised faintly, and the elders looked on with careful silence.
Kaelen stood in line, quiet as ever. When his turn came, he stepped lightly into the ring, serpent faint, movements precise. His strikes landed quick and clean, enough to end the match but not enough to draw attention.
The disciples barely noticed. The instructors nodded once and dismissed him.
Perfect.
No one saw the faint crackle that lingered in his palm as he stepped from the ring, hidden by the curl of his fingers.
No one but him.
That night, when the mountain slept, Kaelen returned to the cliffs. He stood alone in the wind, serpent coiling faintly at his side, and let the stag's spark flare once more. Stronger this time. Clearer.
He smiled, faint and sharp.
Let them look at Joren. Let them whisper of brilliance and arrogance.
While they watched the fire, the shadow learned to strike.