The hammers stopped.
Not gradually.
Not reluctantly.
They simply ceased—midair, chains locked, heat still radiating—like a thought cut off halfway through forming.
Luca did not move.
The magma around him cooled in thin, cracking skins, dulling from molten gold to blackened red. Steam rose once, softly, then thinned into nothing. His body lay where it had fallen, half-submerged in hardened lava and blood, limbs twisted beyond anything that could still be called living.
No breath followed.
No reflex.
No tremor.
Silence pressed down on Forgeheart Arena so completely it felt physical—like weight on the chest.
Kyle was the first to understand.
Not because of sight.
Because of absence.
He stared at the center of the arena, waiting for something—anything—that had always followed Luca. A cough. A twitch. A stubborn refusal to stay down.
Nothing came.
