Ash turned his eyes to the gate.
The fourth gate groaned- low, drawn out, and reluctant. It wasn't just noise; it was dread manifest. The massive slab of stone creaked open inch by painful inch, metal grinding on metal like a dirge being played too slowly. Symbols embedded in the archway flickered with unstable light, pulsing with tension.
Ash's fur bristled. Something was different. The very air tasted sharper.
The gate trembled.
From the shadowy archway came a sound like old bones grinding on obsidian—dry, sharp, and unnatural. The gate cracked open just slightly, but it was enough.
He stepped back instinctively.
The first of the tendrils slid into view.
They were nightmarish, the color of midnight oil and shaped like serpents made of muscle and razors. Where they touched the ground, the stone hissed faintly. One dragged itself over a crack, and as it passed, that fissure deepened—widened—as if the arena itself was trying to avoid contact.
