Cailen moved first.
There was no hesitation, no measuring step. A sharp twist of his wrist sent a coiled gust skimming low across the sand, a ripple of compressed air shaped to trip rather than harm.
The grit hissed as it slid along the surface, striking with enough force to stagger most in their opening stance.
Logan shifted to his right, smooth and deliberate, letting the wind carry past him in a harmless arc.
The gust lost coherence a few paces behind him, scattering harmlessly against the containment ward.
Cailen's mouth curled into a deeper smirk. The first strike was rarely meant to land—it was meant to set the pace.
A second wave came almost before Logan's feet settled.
This one was sharper, the edges jagged, laced with sand from the arena floor. Tiny flecks stung his cheek as the wind broke against a faint mana shield he'd raised on instinct.
The barrier shuddered in his palm before absorbing the force, leaving the air around him swirling with spent grit.
