The stair spiraled into blackness. Draven's boots scraped stone, every step echoing like a drum. Feyra padded low at his side, ears pinned, tail stiff. Stonehide followed, claws dragging sparks from the wall. The hum had deepened again, not fast but heavy, like the heartbeat of something immense buried beneath.
They emerged into a chamber vast as a coliseum.
The floor was cracked stone, the walls etched with glyphs that glowed faint emerald. But what drew Draven's breath short were the chains.
Hundreds of them.
They hung from the ceiling, thick links of black iron, swaying though no wind stirred. Some ended in shackles. Some ended in hooks. Others pierced through the ribcages of skeletons fused into stone.
The door sealed behind them.
The hum grew into a roar.
The chains moved.
They whipped down like serpents, lashing around Feyra's legs, Stonehide's bulk, Draven's arms. He slashed one with his knife — sparks flew, steel screeched, but the chain only tightened, biting into flesh. Feyra yelped, dragged to the floor, vines of light struggling against iron. Stonehide roared, thrashing, but three coils bound its plates, dragging it to its knees.
Draven gritted his teeth, lungs straining as a chain looped his throat.
This is what they want me to be. A handler. A master. Or nothing.
Whisper pressed into his skull, not sound but intent:
"Mark them. Command them. With chains you can save them. Without, you will watch them break."
Feyra's whimpers stabbed his ears. Stonehide's scales cracked under pressure, green veins flickering weak.
His knife trembled in his hand. If he carved the glyph, he could bind them. Make the chains vanish. Dominion's power, here, offered freely.
His heart thundered. His breath was fire.
He raised the blade—
And drove it into his own arm, tearing through skin where the chain had burned.
Blood spilled hot, spattering stone.
"No chains," he rasped through clenched teeth. "Not theirs. Not mine."
The chamber shuddered. Chains convulsed, clattering in a storm of iron.
Feyra's body burst with green light, aura surging outward in a wave. The shackles binding her hissed, then melted like wax under spring rain. She leapt, pressing against Draven, warmth flooding his wound.
Stonehide bellowed, emerald veins blazing along its plates. It heaved once — and the chains shattered, links exploding into shards of ash.
Draven collapsed to his knees, breath tearing his lungs, blood dripping down his arm. Feyra licked at the wound, her warmth knitting flesh. Stonehide loomed above him, still trembling but unbroken, rumbling low in defiance.
The floor glowed. Glyphs erupted in green fire, spreading across the chamber. The chains dissolved into dust, fading into nothing.
And then he saw it.
Above, beyond the smoke, past the dying chains, a shadow vast enough to swallow the hall.
Wings draped in vines. Antlers branching like a forest. Eyes burning emerald suns.
The Verdant Warden.
It did not speak. But Draven felt its gaze, immense and ancient, settling on him. Weighing him. Judging.
The vision held for a heartbeat—then was gone.
At the far end, stone split with a groan, revealing another stair spiraling down into emerald glow.
Draven rose slowly, gripping Feyra and Stonehide both. His arm throbbed, his chest burned, but his voice was steady.
"If this is the weight of chains," he whispered, "I'll carry it until none remain."
And together, they descended.