It always did.
The crack in the world sealed itself. The tavern owner peeked from behind the bar. Cermia tossed him a gold coin.
The tavern in the port city of Reingar was thick with the smell of cheap ale and desperation. Cermia loved it.
Glasses shattered. The floor cracked. And from the fissure in the wooden planks, a thin, purple-black smoke curled upward. It smelled of ozone and old magic.
“Best two out of three?” the merchant croaked.