Alek didn't back away.
Nor did he strike.
He simply raised one hand—palm open—and the sanctum answered.
A tremor ran through the obsidian floor. Runes around the basin flashed from soft gold to violent red. The throne behind Alek cracked apart, its roots unraveling into tendrils of living wood and bone. They slithered along the walls, fusing into the architecture.
The chamber reshaped itself.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Just enough to become an arena.
A new ring of wards ignited around the platform, forming a glowing circle thirty feet wide. The cloth runes above tore away, revealing a ceilingless dome of storm-lit sky where none had existed.
This was not illusion.
This was will.
Alek stepped into the center.
"So," he said, voice echoing now, twisted by power, "you're ready to burn."
Caliste drew his blade.
