The heavy silver door did not break. It just died.
The pristine metal dissolved rapidly into a massive pile of hot, smoking gray ash, collapsing inward with a heavy hiss. Thick, sulfurous smoke rolled over the boots of the survivors. They inhaled, and their starving bodies immediately rejected the foul air. They bent double, coughing violently. Their throats were already dry as sandpaper from days without water. The thick smoke felt like swallowing crushed glass.
Through the rising gray dust, Morcant stood in the open archway.
His dark eyes scanned the ruined room. The High Elder did not draw a sword. He did not rush in to finish them. He just rested both hands comfortably on the handle of his heavy iron cane. His pristine dark furs were completely untouched by the chaos outside.
