THUMP.
The sound rolled through Forgeheart again—deep, steady, undeniable.
Not a metaphor. Not an illusion. A heartbeat.
The arena did not erupt. It froze.
The cooled magma around Luca's body cracked.
At first, it was subtle—hairline fractures spreading across the blackened crust like frost on glass. A thin line split open along his chest, and a faint glow pulsed beneath it, dim and irregular, as if something beneath the stone was remembering how to move.
THUMP.
The glow strengthened.
The blood pooled beneath Luca's body began to stir.
Not boiling. Not burning. Reversing.
The dark crimson seeped inward, crawling back toward torn flesh as if pulled by an invisible tide. Cuts sealed—not cleanly, not gently—but wrongly, edges snapping together with sharp, wet sounds as time folded back over them.
A rib shifted.
There was a sound—dry, hollow, unmistakable.
Crack.
Then another.
