Too fast.
Too many.
Too close.
Jorun's magma lance led the assault, cutting through the air and leaving a streak of bubbling, seared glass in its wake. A compressed wind-edge followed straight from the front. And from behind — a cone of flame-charged pressure twisted forward like a scythe of heat.
There was no time.
Rejection flickered weakly — instinctive, automatic. Barely a shimmer.
The crowd didn't cry out.
They watched.
Because everyone wanted to know:
Could the one who made the prince bleed survive the weight of expectation?
Caelith's knees faltered.
His blade dipped.
And that was when someone else stepped in.
A figure — slim, smug, cloaked in distortion. The heat from the magma didn't touch him. The wind sheared off his aura like rain on glass.
Farren.
The jellyfish-shaped veil that had once only shimmered faintly was now glowing — threads of invisible mana trailing through the air, pulsing with a quiet, intelligent hum.
