A Seven-Day Descent into Glory, Grit, and a Glimpse of What Comes Next   ⸻   Day One: The Invitation   The letter arrived tied to the hilt of a dagger plunged into his chamber door.   Elegant. Direct. Dramatic.   He liked it.   Severus Snake, red-scaled and sharp-tongued, tugged the parchment free and broke the wax—crimson, sealed with a chain in the shape of a serpent devouring itself. The Crimson Chain had issued its call at last. He had bled for this recognition in the Cinder Circle, left opponents spellstruck and speechless.   He arrived at Cinder Gate just after dawn, coat flaring like a cape, saber polished to a mirror shine. The gatekeeper didn’t even look up.   “Three victories logged. No exile brands. Application fee is ten gold.”   “Consider it an investment,” Severus said, flicking the coins with a flourish.   He was handed a red sash and a scroll containing the guild’s rules, regulations, and reputation. He didn’t read it. He already planned to outshine it.   ⸻   Day Two: Trial by Flame and Sand   His trial match was not public. There were no crowds—only torchlight, sweat, and a sand pit ringed by iron-blooded guild champions.   They sent Brusk—a half-ogre with shoulders like siege walls and a voice like gravel rolled in oil. He carried a hammer forged from the axle of a war cart and grinned as if this would be quick.   Severus bowed with one hand behind his back.   Then he moved.   Whispers shaped into spells lashed through the air. The ogre stumbled, confused. Severus danced under a swing that could fell a horse, flicked his saber into the brute’s exposed side, and whispered a final word into his ear that made the giant shudder and collapse.   Silence.   Then a slow, deliberate clap from the upper balcony.   ⸻   Day Three: The Oath of Ironblood   The ceremony took place in the Hall of Echoes, beneath murals of blood and glory.   The guildmistress stood before him, eyes sharp beneath a circlet of red iron.   “Do you swear to uphold the code of the Crimson Chain, to pay your share, to wear your scars with pride?”   Severus placed one clawed hand on the hilt of the ceremonial blade.   “I swear. Though I plan to avoid the scars.”   The blade pulsed once—binding the oath.   They pinned a crimson sigil to his sash.   “Ironblood,” they said in unison.   Severus turned from the hall with the stride of a man who was already picturing his statue beside the others.   ⸻   Day Four: First Strike   Posters littered the walls of Isondale: “SEVERUS RETURNS: Now With the Chain.”   The first official match of the week was a spectacle—torchlight, cheering crowds, and a stage prepared for stories.   His opponent was a bladesinger from Frandyln with a reputation for speed and illusions. She conjured copies of herself and cast arcane blades from every angle.   Severus shattered the mirror images with laughter-laced magic and dropped her with a final strike through the illusion’s core.   The crowd erupted. Coins rained. Somewhere in the back row, a bard struck up the first notes of a song that was now becoming all too familiar.   “Backwards they go, with flair and flow…”   He left the pit not with a bow—but with a wink.   ⸻   Day Five: Beneath the Blood and Glory   The guild never slept. That morning, Severus joined the training circle, sparring with fellow Ironbloods. A human duelist named Marn offered him a bet he couldn’t refuse.   “Loser pays tonight’s drink tab.”   Severus didn’t pay.   Afterward, he walked the markets in his crimson sash, basking in recognition. A child ran past him humming:   “They start where monsters make their bed…”   A merchant caught his eye and nodded.   “You one of them Backwards Delvers?”   Severus grinned.   “The one with the best name in the song.”   But beneath the joy, rumors spread:   A village gone missing in the east. Giants gathering. The earth itself rumbling.   Severus made note. Glory didn’t end in sand.   ⸻   Day Six: Two More Bites   His second official match was midday—a clean win against a goliath hammer-fighter. The man relied on brute strength. Severus relied on tempo, footwork, and just the right insult to send his blood boiling.   He walked away untouched.   That evening, he fought again. An unsanctioned match in the guild’s lower ring. No gold, just reputation.   He made it look effortless.   Later that night, he climbed the steps of the Hall of Ledgers, handed over 10 gold pieces—his 5% cut from the 200 gold he earned this week.   “Here’s to keeping the lights on,” he said. “And polishing my statue when it goes up.”   ⸻   Day Seven: The Spotlight Holds   His final match of the week was an exhibition bout against a monk with chain-wrapped fists and more scars than memory.   The match was brutal. Close. The kind that told stories without needing words.   They circled for minutes before clashing—blades and fists, taunts and sweat. The monk nearly took him down with a grapple, but Severus slithered free and finished with a somersaulting strike and a fire-laced dissonant chord.   As the crowd roared, a bard on the sidelines stood and sang the final verse of the ballad.   “Now Severus plays the final chord, And tales will ever grow…”   He turned to the crowd, blood on his knuckles and pride in his spine.   “Remember this,” he said. “Ironbloods don’t break. They strike.”   And strike he would—when the hills whispered, when the giants rose, and when the real stories returned to claim them all.