The camp held its breath.
A stillness settled over the ridge, the kind born not of calm but of dread suspended. Soldiers whispered in low voices. Mages kept their hands near their belts, their runes half-etched and glowing faintly. Horses shuffled nervously, their eyes wide with something older than fear.
Leon had not crossed the threshold. But he had answered.
The gate no longer pulsed. It stood inert, as if satisfied with the taste of his defiance. Yet something had changed. The snow had stopped, the wind dead. Even the sky above—grey and cracked like old glass—had quieted.
And then, without warning, the eye blinked.
Only once.
It didn't open or close like flesh. It simply shimmered—and vanished. The entire gate went dark.
Then Leon collapsed.
No shout, no cry. Just a sharp exhale and a sudden drop, like a puppet with its strings cut. Elena caught him before he hit the stone, lowering him gently to the ground. His body was cold. Too cold.
