The sect stretched up the mountainside in silent, symmetrical tiers.
Hidden deep within the Graypine Forest, at the edge of the southern frontier provinces, it sat coiled between cliffs like a patient beast — tucked just far enough from the empire's reach to do as it pleased.
Pavilions on terraced slopes. White stone courts. Pale-gold railings. Roofs glazed a calm green, capped with simple, elegant carvings. Lotus ponds and neat pines broke the symmetry. Wind chimes tinkled in the breeze. Bells rang somewhere high above.
It looked tasteful.
That is — if you didn't know what kind of place it really was.
If you didn't know about the spider carvings scattered along the courtyards. The ones that were part of a massive, active killing array.
Nothing was as it seemed.
In fact, even the water here felt like bait.
He passed one of the lotus ponds.
Paused.
Just for a second.
Like always, the same thought crept in:
They look a shade too dark.
But he didn't have the luxury to care right now — his side throbbed with every step, and the blood sticking to his ribs was starting to itch.
And it wasn't just the architecture that felt… off.
Up ahead, a pair of disciples crossed the path, heads low, moving in quiet sync.
They wore the same thing: black robes with wide sleeves, gold-threaded webwork curling at the cuffs and hem, dark green sashes tied at the waist. A long white tassel hung from each belt.
Official sect robes.
There was something almost regal about the design — sharp, elegant, and just slightly ominous.
His outfit matched — more or less.
If you ignored the fresh blood, the torn sleeve, the bruise blooming across his ribs… and the tassel.
His was gold, not white.
Proof of his rank.
Core disciple.
The youngest on record.
Probably ever.
Not that he looked that young at first glance.
Maybe it was the robes — all formal structure and embroidery.
Maybe it was the tension that hung over the sect like mist.
But most disciples here looked older than they were.
At a glance, he passed for thirteen or fourteen.
Only on a second look would you realize the truth.
"Ow."
He winced and pressed a hand to his side.
The bruise — if you could still call it just that — had gotten worse.
Deep and throbbing, like something was trying to crawl out of his ribs.
This is bad.
He glanced down.
The torn fabric was stuck to his skin, stained dark and still damp.
His house wasn't far, but he didn't have anything there that could fix this.
No pills. No salves. No first-aid miracle medicine lying forgotten in a drawer.
He thought — briefly — about asking his allocated master.
Kael.
Technically his teacher, but realistically...
That guy was practically a walking warning sign.
Even when he smiled, something about it made his skin crawl.
He'd probably poke my wound just for fun.
So no. Not him.
That left one other option.
He could already hear the scolding.
>>>
The Resource Hall was quiet.
It always was — the kind of quiet that felt suspicious.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of old wood and dried herbs.
Half library, half storage closet.
Several disciples lingered between shelves and tables, flipping through scrolls or pretending not to eavesdrop. A few glanced up as the door opened, then quietly went back to their own business.
But he wasn't here for them.
A girl sat behind the counter looking down, one leg lazily swinging under the desk.
Her robes matched the sect's official design — black, sharp-lined, stitched with gold-threaded webwork and cinched by a dark green sash. But the tailoring curved differently: fitted at the waist, flared slightly at the hips.
It gave the otherwise ominous look a deceptive sort of elegance.
A deep jade tassel hung from her belt.
Not white like the outer disciples he saw earlier.
Not gold like his.
Jade. Inner disciple.
He stepped forward, entering the hall fully as the door clicked shut behind him.
His footsteps were soft, hesitant — he wasn't used to asking for help.
Three paces in, the pain hit.
It flared up beneath his ribs, raw and sudden, like something sharp twisting under the skin. He hissed and hunched slightly, pressing a hand to his side.
That's when she looked up — brushing a loose strand of hair behind one ear as her eyes found his.
Her face was the kind that made people try to guess her background. Smooth features, light skin with a faint flush to the cheeks, and dark lashes that looked a touch too long to be natural. There was a soft curve of red to her lips, subtle but deliberate — the kind of detail you only noticed after you'd already been staring too long.
A crooked smile tugged at her mouth.
"Well, if it isn't Riven. What did you do this time?"
Riven.
That was his name.
She was one of maybe four people in the entire sect who actually knew it.
And the only one who smiled when she said it.
Her name was Lumi.
Or Big Sis Lumi, as she insisted on being called.
With his status as a core disciple, she was technically supposed to call him Senior Brother.
But from the very first week, she'd refused to address a ten-year-old as her superior — especially one three years her junior.
Instead, she'd promoted herself to honorary elder sister on the spot.
And somehow… it had stuck.
She was the only person he felt like he could actually ask for help.
He gave her a look, mostly deadpan. "Got clawed."
Her smile widened — just a touch too pleased.
Why does she look so happy?
"A bear hit me," he said flatly. He shifted his weight, careful not to wince. No need to overshare.
She stood and rounded the counter in one smooth motion, her steps light, already zeroed in on the dark stain at his side.
"…Oh. You're actually hurt."
"It's not that bad."
"Then why is there blood on my floor?"
She tugged the torn edge of his sleeve aside — not rough, but not gentle either. Her brow creased as she took in the mess beneath: swelling, bruising, broken skin.
"You're lucky it didn't open your side clean."
He let out a breath. "I don't feel very lucky."
She snorted. "Uh-huh. Stand still."
He didn't argue.
Her fingers hovered over the wound for a moment longer, expression unreadable.
Then she pulled back with a faint sigh — not annoyed, not exactly gentle either. Just... careful.
And that was the strange part.
Something was always off when he talked to Lumi.
She was nice. Too nice — especially for a place like this.
Kindness here usually came with a price, or a knife tucked behind it.
But hers felt... different. Disarming. Like she hadn't gotten the memo about how Venomthread worked.
Sometimes, it made him forget where he was.
Sometimes, it made him feel like he could trust her.
Which, here, was probably more dangerous than most poisons.
What the hell is her plan?
She turned away without a word and crossed to the back wall, rummaging through the shelves.
A moment later, she returned with a small black jar.
"This'll stop the bleeding," she said, holding it out. "Clean it first, cold water. Apply while damp."
He reached for it. She didn't let go.
"You owe me."
"I said thanks."
"'Thanks' isn't a valid currency. Try again."
"…I'm broke."
She grinned. "I know."
The sects currency were merit coins. He didn't have any left. In fact he had spent his last ones with her.
He gave her a look. She gave him a wink.
"Don't worry. I'll make an exception. You can pay later."
He took the jar. "Thanks."
"Still not valid currency," she said, smug as ever, and stepped back.
He gave a small nod and turned to leave.
Behind him, someone shifted.
A group of outer disciples loitered near the entrance shelves, pretending to read — badly. One of them, taller, older, kept his eyes on Lumi a beat too long. Then shifted toward Riven.
He didn't like how close they were.
For a second, his hand twitched near the knife at his waist.
Then he saw the gold tassel at Riven's belt — and forced his hand back down.
He looked away.
He couldn't mess with him.
Not yet.
>>>
Outside, the air was cooler.
The courtyard in front had emptied some, but the sharp crack of a punch echoed from a nearby practice ring.
One disciple staggered back, clutching his gut. Blood hit the dirt.
Riven paused, watching the other disciple shake out his fist.
He let out a breath through his nose.
There it was.
That was more like it.
That was easier to deal with.
Feeling slightly less stifled, he started toward home.
But he didn't make it all the way.
Just as he reached the edge of the path, someone stepped out of his house.
On the soft gravel, with shadows stretching long in the early dusk, stood a girl.
She wore the sect's standard robes — black silk, green sash, faint gold webwork — but hers were altered.
A pale apron tied neatly around the waist, trimmed with ruffles at the hem and cuffs.
No tassel.
A servant uniform.
She was maybe his age. Slighter than most. Hair braided tight, posture straight.
Her eyes found his.
Cold. Flat.
The kind of look you only ever saw right before someone tried to kill you.