The Forgeheart Arena trembled with anticipation, a low, volcanic hum rippling through the stone floor as Sylthara stood alone at the center. The magma-veins beneath the arena glowed brighter, reacting instinctively to Elder Thrain's rising aura.
The elder descended from his stone throne with steps heavy enough to rattle dust from the pillars. His armor clinked with the weight of centuries, runes pulsing a harsh, unyielding red. His presence alone felt like the pressure of a mountain settling on Sylthara's shoulders.
He stopped only a few paces from her, towering, beard braided with ember-lit rings that flickered as he spoke.
"Dark Elf," Elder Thrain rumbled, voice deep enough to stir the air itself,
"Why me?"
The arena fell silent.
Tens of thousands leaned forward.
The dwarves—normally loud, unruly—were utterly still.
Even the magma seemed to pause, held in suspense.
Sylthara did not answer immediately.
