The manhole in the middle of one of Tulmud's wide, bustling avenues shifted with a low metallic groan.
At first, no one noticed; the city was alive that morning, its streets thrumming with the noise of merchants hawking wares and travelers shouting over the clatter of cart wheels. It was the second day of the tournament, and Tulmud's capital was swelling with bodies, nobles on horseback, armor‑clad soldiers, barefoot children darting between market stalls, and pilgrims clutching wooden charms.
Then the heavy disk of the manhole shuddered a second time. A few heads turned. It would take two, perhaps three strong men to drag that iron cover aside, yet here it was scraping inch by inch over stone. The chatter faltered as a pale hand emerged slender, unadorned save for faint scars running over knuckles. It was a hand that did not match the raw strength it was displaying. Murmurs swept through the crowd.
