The groan of the iron door was not a mechanical sound; it was the vocalization
of a mountain that had been forced to swallow a secret too hot for its stone
belly to contain. As the heavy, soot-stained metal swung inward, the air that
rushed out didn't just carry heat—it carried Intent. It was a dry, searing
pressure that smelled of scorched history and the metallic tang of unspent
potential.
I stood at the threshold, the Fourth Coil of the Sieve-mark on my wrist glowing
with a rhythmic, violent violet light. The mark wasn't just itching anymore; it
was burrowing, the black ink feeling like a set of roots digging through my
muscle to latch onto the bone. My ivory skin, already flushed from the
environmental heat of the Burning Wastelands, began to shimmer with a fine,
golden perspiration that evaporated into steam the moment it touched the air.
Beside me, Kaelen let out a low, pained grunt. His shadow-aura, which had been
