The Fifth Gate is famous primarily because no one can name the first four. This has not stopped travellers from insisting the numbering is correct, as if admitting confusion would cause the Gate to become offended and close permanently. Some say the earlier gates collapsed; others say they were never built. A few claim they are metaphorical, which is usually the point where the conversation becomes unbearable.
The Gate itself is large, stone, and so profoundly unimpressed by everything that one feels judged simply by standing near it. It does not open—at least not in any way we would call “opening”—but certain artefacts have a habit of appearing nearby, as if the Gate occasionally clears out its pockets.
Fragments from the Fifth Gate tend to exhibit peculiar structural inconsistencies: surfaces worn in patterns that do not match known weathering, inscriptions that rearrange themselves when politely ignored, and an overall sense that the object was part of a larger mechanism that became tired of functioning.
Attempts to activate the Gate have yielded predictable results: nothing, nothing, a minor tremor, and one unfortunate incident involving a scholar who proclaimed, “I think it’s listening.” The Gate did not respond, which was probably for the best.
In catalogue terms, the Fifth Gate is classified as a transitional site, meaning it is either a threshold or a threat, or possibly both, depending on its mood. Whatever lies beyond it remains unknown, which suits the Gate just fine.