The Crucible held its breath.
Time thickened, and the world leaned into the silence Veyne had carved with his voice. His arrogance still echoed against stone, still hung in the air like smoke after fire.
But even he, chest heaving, eyes gleaming with victory, felt it.
Something was wrong.
Something had changed.
It began at the edge of perception—a crawling pressure beneath the skin, a tightening of the gut, a low pulse that didn't match the heartbeat of any man alive.
The sun seemed dimmer. The air tasted of ash.
Then came the sound.
Not a fanfare, not the roar of horns or the pound of drums.
But a creak.
A slow, groaning thing.
Metal dragging over stone. Ancient hinges yawning open.
The north gate was opening.
Gasps rippled through the stands. Even those who had never been to a match knew that gate. The Gate of Bone.
The one reserved for the condemned. Or the cursed.
Or the damned.
It had been that way since Ian walked through it those many months ago.
