Thalen had never seen a place as still as the chamber that held the Tyrant's Gate.
Carved into the bedrock of Mount Volarik a mountain long forbidden to most the gate was not simply a structure. It was a presence. A monument of black stone that pulsed with power, rimmed with silver veins that glowed faintly beneath the dim torchlight. Above the arch, ancient runes shimmered in a language no one alive could read. Yet Thalen felt the meaning as if it were whispered into his soul: Only the worthy carry the will of fire.
Arkan stood beside him, arms folded behind his back. The old SSS Hero was quiet, his storm-gray eyes staring at the gate as if remembering some war long past.
"The gate opens only once every five years," Arkan said at last, voice low. "And only for one candidate. One."
Thalen swallowed. "Has anyone passed?"
"Not since I did." Arkan's expression remained unreadable. "That was thirty-one years ago. Before me, there were three. Since me, none."
