The carriage slowed to a halt before the third gate.
Stone towers loomed overhead, their surfaces layered with frost and reinforced by thick mana-etched plates that pulsed faintly beneath the snow, like a slumbering heartbeat. The gate itself was massive, twin slabs of dark metal veined with ancient sigils, each line worn smooth by time yet still humming with restrained authority. Rows of Royal Guild Awakeneds stood watch along the walls and elevated platforms above, their silhouettes rigid against the gray sky, eyes tracking every movement below.
The rider reined in the mutant horse and climbed down first, boots crunching against the snow, then he pointed...
"This is it," he said quietly. "Third wall checkpoint."
Bruce and Duke stepped down moments later. The cold here felt sharper, cleaner somehow, as though the wall itself filtered the air, stripping it down to something more absolute. The space carried weight. Expectation.
