The portal closed behind Captain Darien Holt with a sound like shattering glass.
Light bled away, leaving him standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Grand Arena's transit hall. The air here felt too clean—thick with incense and polished marble. Even after months away, the sharp contrast to Delta Outpost made his stomach turn. The Arena was supposed to be humanity's proud symbol—a fortress where champions gathered, a holy ground for the faithful.
Tonight, it felt more like a tomb.
Priests in silver robes moved quietly through the corridors, their faces pale beneath candlelight. The air hummed with tension. News of the ongoing collapse at Delta had clearly reached them, though no one dared speak of it aloud. The soldiers here walked with the stiffness of men waiting for something terrible to happen.
