Two days.
Two days until the Crucible opened and blood was cast like wine across its sands.
Esgard felt it.
The entire city throbbed like wound, raw and exposed beneath a sky ablaze with tension. Every breath carried weight.
Every glance lingered too long.
The capital of spectacle was holding its breath—not in mourning, nor joy—but fear.
Because something old was coming back.
And this time, it wasn't returning quietly.
By morning, the main gates of the Arena were already flanked by dozens of makeshift tents.
Vendors set up ramshackle stalls painted in ash and crimson, offering hand-carved bone effigies of Ian, wooden replicas of Veyne's sword, and spiced meat roasted over hellfire coals they claimed were blessed by battle priests.
The air outside the Crucible district buzzed like a hive.
Laughter. Gambling. Arguing. Prayers.
More prayers than there should have been.
But beneath it all—expectation.
