The council adjourned not long after. Plans reshuffled. Eyes watched him leave the chamber.
His path was set.
The Crucible would open.
And beneath it, a fire older than vengeance rose once more.
—–—
The city howled.
From the lowest gutters of the Sunk District to the rich balconies of High districts, Esgard rose with fire. Banners snapped in the wind — black, crimson, and bone-white — each bearing the mark of the Sovereign: a flame wrapped in thorns.
Merchants shouted over the roar of foot traffic, selling roasted meats, betting slips, carved totems of past champions.
Children painted their faces like arena beasts. Drunks stumbled through the crowd with hollow helms on their heads and marks carved into their forearms.
The Crucible had returned.
And with it, the old, terrible rhythm.
A rhythm of flesh.
Of flame.
Of blood.
