Riven was still shaking.
The man stood in front of them, silent and unmoving, his presence heavy enough to make the forest feel smaller. Modred felt it pressing against his chest, something wrong, something dangerous.
Riven moved without warning.
He charged, halberd slicing forward in a clean arc meant to end the encounter instantly.
The man stepped in.
A crushing punch slammed into Riven's gut, folding him in half mid-stride. Before Modred or Lysara could react, another strike followed—hard, direct—connecting with Riven's face. His body was thrown aside, hitting the ground motionless.
"Riven—!"
Lysara barely finished speaking before pain exploded through her stomach. The man drove his fist into her gut, knocking the air out of her lungs. She collapsed beside Riven, gasping.
Modred lunged forward.
Something struck the back of his head.
The world went dark.
He woke to cold.
Black chains bound his arms and torso, tight and unnaturally heavy. They felt wrong—dead against his skin.
Modred snarled and forced his flame Arcana to rise.
Nothing happened.
The fire flickered once—then vanished completely. Weakness washed over him.
Footsteps approached.
The man stepped into view, looking down at him calmly.
"It's useless," he said. "Those chains are made to block Arcana."
Modred glared at him, breathing hard.
"Who are you?"
The man straightened.
"Marcel," he replied. "Commander of Division Two."
Modred clenched his fists. "Why did you attack us?"
Marcel didn't answer immediately.
Another figure entered the clearing.
He was shorter, wearing round glasses, with short hair and a calm, unreadable expression. He glanced briefly at Modred and the others before turning to Marcel.
"Division One has already raided Division Three," he said. "They're moving toward the peak. They intend to end the Rite quickly."
Marcel cursed under his breath.
"Those bastards," he muttered.
He turned back to the man. "Introduce yourself."
The newcomer adjusted his glasses.
"Albert," he said. "Legionnaire of Division Two."
His eyes flicked to Riven, then back to Modred.
Albert smirked faintly. "Sooner or later, we'll find your camp and crush it."
Modred exploded forward.
Despite the chains, he slammed his head into Albert's face.
Blood burst from Albert's nose as he staggered back in shock.
Before Modred could move again, Marcel stepped in.
He grabbed Lysara by the throat.
Her breath hitched violently as he lifted her slightly off the ground.
"Let her go!" Modred shouted, chains rattling as he struggled.
Marcel ignored him.
"The more you struggle," he said calmly, "the more I hurt her."
Marcel looked between them, then back to Modred. And threw Lysara down violently leaving her gasping for air.
"You're wasted here," he said.
Modred frowned. "What?"
"Division Four," Marcel continued, tone almost casual. "No influence. No victories. No future."
He stepped closer.
"But you," he said, eyes narrowing. "You're different. Raw. Violent. You could matter."
Modred laughed under his breath.
Marcel extended a hand.
"Leave Division Four," he said. "Join Division Two. I'll make you stronger than they ever could."
For a moment, the forest held its breath.
Then Modred grinned.
He lunged forward despite the chains and smashed his forehead straight into Marcel's face.
Bone cracked.
Blood sprayed across the ground as Marcel staggered back, clutching his nose.
Before Modred could even breathe—
The punches came.
One slammed into his ribs. Another crushed into his jaw. Then his stomach.
Again.
And again.
Marcel didn't shout.
He beat Modred down methodically, fists slick with blood, each strike heavy enough to blur the world. Teeth shattered. Skin split. Modred's vision swam red and black.
When Marcel finally stepped back, Modred collapsed, gasping, face ruined.
Marcel wiped blood from his knuckles and exhaled slowly.
"Tsk," he muttered. "Wrong choice."
He turned and seized Riven by the throat, lifting him just enough for his feet to scrape the ground.
Marcel finally faced them again.
"This Rite," he said, "is survival of the fittest."
His grip tightened slightly. Riven gasped.
"The strong are allowed to kill the insignificant."
Modred's eyes widened. "That's against the rules!"
Marcel smiled.
"How naïve."
Marcel released Riven.
He dropped to his knees, coughing hard, fingers digging into the dirt as he dragged air back into his lungs.
Modred surged forward.
"Don't touch him—"
The chain snapped tight.
Pain lanced through his shoulders as he was yanked back down.
Marcel didn't even look at Lysara or Riven again.
He crouched in front of Modred instead.
Close.
Too close.
Marcel watched him struggle against the chains for a moment longer.
Then he spoke again.
"You still think this is about winning?"
Modred froze.
Marcel tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely curious. "You believe that if you survive this place—if you outfight the others—you'll earn a seat in the Academy?"
His voice lowered.
"Those seats were decided long before you set foot in these mountains."
The words didn't register at first.
Modred stared at him. "…What?"
Marcel straightened, brushing dirt from his gloves.
"The noble houses submit their candidates months in advance," he said. "Names. Bloodlines. Sponsorships."
He glanced back at Modred, eyes flat. "You're not competing for a place. You're filling space."
Albert let out a quiet breath of amusement behind him.
Marcel continued, unhurried.
"You and the rest of Division Four were brought here for a different purpose."
He gestured toward the forest again—toward the blood-soaked ground, the silence, the absence of birds.
Modred shook his head slowly. "No. That's not—"
"You're not given to serve the Ardes," he said. "You're given to us."
Modred frowned.
"As toys."
The word landed without emphasis.
"To remove hesitation," Marcel continued. "To strip away the first-kill fear before it matters."
He glanced briefly at the blood-dark ground, then back to Modred.
"A soldier who freezes at his first kill is useless. A commander who hesitates is dead. The Rite exists to burn that weakness out early."
Albert adjusted his glasses, watching Modred carefully.
"The stronger the toy," Marcel went on, "the sharper we become."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"If you fight back, we learn. If you scream, we remember the sound. If you survive longer than expected, we improve."
Modred's breath came shallow.
"So even our resistance—"
"—benefits us," Marcel finished. "That's the point."
He stepped closer.
"You're not here to earn anything," he said quietly. "You're here so we can become better at killing."
The chains tightened as Modred's hands shook.
"And when you break," Marcel added, turning away, "someone else takes your place."
Modred laughed.
It came out wrong—too loud, too sharp, breaking against the silence of the forest.
"…That's a lie."
His voice shook.
Marcel didn't turn back.
"You're lying," Modred shouted, chains rattling violently as he strained against them. "That's not how this works. That's not why they sent us here!"
Marcel stopped walking.
Modred's breath came fast now, uneven.
"Say it again," he demanded. "Say it's true. Look at me and say it again."
Marcel turned slowly.
His face hadn't changed.
"You're still alive," he said. "That's the only reason me and you are having a conversation right now."
Modred shook his head hard, eyes wide, frantic.
"No—no, that's bullshit," he snapped. "We trained. We bled. We followed the rules."
His gaze flicked sharply to Lysara.
"Tell him," Modred said. "Tell him he's lying."
Lysara didn't answer.
Her eyes were on the ground.
Modred swallowed.
"Riven," he said, voice cracking now. "You know this is wrong. Say something."
Riven's jaw tightened.
He looked away.
Modred's chest tightened painfully.
"…Say it's a lie," he whispered.
Silence.
That silence was answer enough.
Modred's knees buckled against the chains.
"No," he breathed. "No, no, no—"
Albert stepped forward then, voice calm, almost curious.
"Why do you think only two people from Division Four have ever entered the Academy?"
Modred froze.
Albert adjusted his glasses.
"Not because the rest lacked talent," he continued. "Or effort."
He glanced at Lysara and Riven briefly.
"They were allowed through," Albert said. "Because someone found them useful."
Modred's vision blurred.
"So the rest—" His voice broke. "They just—"
Marcel cut in quietly.
"They stopped being relevant."
Something in Modred's chest collapsed inward.
All the training. All the nights. All the promises.
Gone.
He screamed then—not loud, not dramatic—but raw, ugly, tearing out of him like something wounded and cornered.
"You used us," he snarled. "You let them die—"
"Yes," Marcel said flatly.
The word landed like a sentence.
Modred shook violently against the chains, emerald eyes burning, tears mixing with blood and dirt.
Modred stopped shaking.
The change was abrupt enough to be unsettling.
His breathing slowed. His shoulders steadied. The chains around his arms went still.
When he lifted his head, his expression had emptied—no panic left in it, no disbelief.
His green emerald eyes darkened into something heavier, the color thickening until it looked almost black under the torchlight, a dull emerald glow gathering at their center. The air around him felt denser, as if something unseen had leaned closer.
Blood ran from his mouth, but he didn't wipe it away.
"I'll kill you," he said again.
His voice was lower now. Not loud.
Certain.
It carried differently—flat, controlled, stripped of emotion. The kind of tone used when a decision has already been made.
"I don't care how long it takes," Modred continued. "I don't care what you take from me."
"When these chains come off," he said, eyes locked on Marcel, "I will find you."
Marcel's expression finally shifted—just slightly.
"And when I do," Modred finished, "I'm going to enjoy every second of it."
Silence fell hard.
Lysara's breath caught.
Riven felt it then—that pressure crawling up his spine, the instinctive warning that something had crossed a line it couldn't return from.
Even Albert stopped smiling
Marcel's smile widened, dark and eager.
"Good," he replied. "I was hoping you'd say that."