Mind Over Magic

The gate was not a door.

It was a tear.

A seam in the world, pulled sideways through space and stitched open by something that should not have had fingers.

The name Zeyrthmal hovered midair, slowly twisting in on itself like a spiral devouring its own letters.

Alaric stood in front of it, alone.

Marcus was gone.

Not dead. Not retreated. Just... no longer present in a way that mattered. His last words still echoed in the room like a joke no one understood yet.

> "When you do, the Crown remembers."

The name pulsed again.

Thick heat swept through the vault, but it didn't burn. It pressed. Like gravity. Like breath that wanted to swallow something.

Alaric stared at it.