Gate Eleven did not open.
It inhaled.
Stone folded inward without sound, a black seam splitting the wall beneath the Abyssal Training Ground like a mouth remembering hunger. Cold air spilled through first. Not dungeon cold. Not the wet mineral chill of Bloodstone Halls or the stale underground breath of the first floors.
Funeral cold.
Old flowers. Damp cloth. Metal coins left over dead eyes.
Every student behind me took half a step back.
Good. The trap had shown its edge.
Fear was the only honest thing in the corridor.
Aiden's hand went to his sword. Liora's fingers tightened around her hilt. Elara stared at the dark as if the roots beneath the academy had started whispering in a language only grief understood. Niko stopped breathing loudly enough for me to notice. Ren stood half a pace behind our line, carrying a lantern he had no business carrying and wearing the expression of a boy who had realized too late that useful people died near important ones.
