The entrance doors loomed ahead—black iron, inlaid with frost that never melted. Two guards stood at either side, their masks carved into expressions of frozen deference. They did not move. They did not flinch.

Instead, as Y/n approached, both guards lowered their halberds in perfect unison and pressed them against the stone floor. A single, sharp thud. They pushed the gates open without a word spoken.

The great doors swung inward, groaning like the throat of some ancient beast.

Some of the Harbingers had been mid-conversation. That died. Others had been waiting, arms crossed, expressions carved in stone. Those too shifted.

The gates finished their slow swing, and every eye in the room found the entrance. Found Y/n.

Pierro stood at the head of the table, one hand resting on the back of an empty chair—a chair that had never been filled, not in all the years this hall had hosted its monsters. His mask revealed nothing, but the slight tilt of his head said everything.

At the far side of the table, Scaramouche let out a short, derisive breath.

Every Harbinger's attention was fixed on the doorway.