The sky above Forgeheart Arena felt wrong.
Not storm-dark.
Not night-dark.
But heavy—like the world itself was holding its breath.
Ash and dust still drifted lazily through the air, illuminated by broken rune-light and the distant glow of magma veins beneath the shattered stone. Below, the arena lay in ruins—cracked platforms, collapsed stands, fractured runic arrays still sparking weakly as if confused about whether they should exist anymore.
High above it all, suspended in the open sky, tension coiled so tightly it felt visible.
The seven dwarven elders hovered in a loose formation, their expressions grim, their auras flaring instinctively as they faced Durgan Blackvein.
At the center of it— Durgan stood relaxed.
One arm rested casually at his side.
