The heat receded.
Not violently.
Not all at once.
Like a great beast settling back into sleep, the magma beneath the arena sank, its furious glow dimming to dull crimson before sealing itself beneath layers of blackstone. The volcanic stones that had risen and fallen like the ribs of a living creature lowered themselves obediently, locking back into the familiar geometry of the Forgeheart Arena.
The barrier shimmered once—twice—and dissolved into motes of fading light.
Normality returned.
And somehow, it felt unreal.
Sylthara still stood at the center of the arena.
Her chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. Heat haze clung faintly to her obsidian skin, sweat tracing slow lines along her temples and collarbone. Her dagger hung loosely at her side, its point nearly touching the ground, her fingers barely strong enough to keep hold of it.
Exhausted.
Burned.
Barely standing.
