The pagoda shimmered again, its jade and silver surface catching the faint light of the twilight. All heads turned as the seventeenth floor glowed faintly, its radiance brighter, more insistent than before.
A single presence had entered, its arrival marked by no lightning, no fanfare—just a quiet hum that resonated through the plain, a subtle shift that spoke of a new challenger accepted by the ancient spire.
"Someone's already moved on," Voren muttered, his deep voice tinged with unease as he hefted his Warhammer, his knuckles whitening around its grip.
"From the sixteenth… to the seventeenth," Mei-Lin added, her voice steady but her fan trembling slightly, betraying the tension coiling within her.
Lysara's mouth pressed into a thin line, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. "It wasn't any of us."
