The bells tolled nine across Esgard.
Nine heavy chimes, slow and deep, rolling through the stone-choked streets like war drums in the dark.
And the city moved.
From every corner of its weathered bones, Esgard woke like a beast rising from slumber. Shadows spilled from alleys as people emerged—thieves, nobles, dreamers, debtors.
They all came, drawn like moths to a flame that promised ruin and glory.
The Crucible's gates yawned open like the mouth of a dragon—wide, jagged, and ancient. Its breath was hot with anticipation and the stink of too many bodies pressed too close.
Iron groaned. Dust swirled. The scent of sweat, smoke, and something more prevalent—blood baked into stone—hung heavy in the morning air.
They came in waves.
Nobles in silver-plated carriages, guarded by grim-eyed men bearing crested blades.
Commoners elbowing past guards with fists full of stolen coin, clothes damp from sweat or drink or both.
Children on shoulders, their eyes too wide.
