The arena's thunder had not yet faded when Ian returned to his seat.
The high seat. The Sovereign's throne — a chair of onyx and bone, carved from the skull of a fallen Crucible beast and set atop the viewing platform where once the nobles presided.
Now, they bowed.
Ian didn't sit immediately. He stood behind the chair, gloved hands resting on the backrest as his gaze swept across the Crucible below.
Already, the sands were being swept clean of ritual flame. Charred lines were raked away, and from the eastern gates, the cages rolled in.
Massive iron constructs. Each rattled like a storm, chains trembling, wheels grinding against stone.
The stench of mana-beast breath spilled out ahead of them — rot, fur, and that acrid sharpness that only beasts soaked in corrupted essence carried.
