The silence did not break immediately.
It lingered—thick, unnatural—pressing down on the shattered Forgeheart Arena like a held breath after a scream. Dust hung in the air, heavy and opaque, swallowing sound and light alike. The crowd, moments ago deafening, had been reduced to nothing more than silhouettes frozen in place. No cheers. No panic.
Just disbelief.
Then—
Mana flared.
Seven pillars of power surged upward from the high platform, ripping through the settling dust like spears of light. The Dwarven Elders rose into the sky almost simultaneously, propelled by ancient runic platforms and pure elemental force. Stone cracked beneath where they had stood, the air vibrating violently as their presence asserted itself.
High above the ruined arena, the seven elders hovered, cloaks and beards whipping in the turbulent air.
"What in the forge-father's name was that?!" one elder barked, eyes scanning the devastation below.
