The walls of fire roared higher, sealing the ring in a circle of blazing light. Heat pressed against Elira's skin, the ground trembling faintly as the runes pulsed beneath her boots. The crowd beyond was a distant thunder, their voices blurred by the fire.
In this circle, only five remained. Soon, only one would.
Marcell shifted to her left, his blade angled loosely but his grin sharp. "Guess it's just us against four strangers, huh? Easy odds."
The lightning-wielder barked a laugh, arcs crackling across his arms. "Easy—for us."
The four spread out with quick precision, cutting off escape, their eyes fixed on Elira. She felt it immediately—their intent wasn't scattered, it was unified. They wanted her first.
The silver flame inside her chest pulsed once, hard, like a heartbeat of warning.
The first strike came without hesitation.
Twin blades slashed low and fast, their wielder moving with deadly grace. Elira twisted, her silver flame flaring into a shield that deflected the strike with a shriek of metal. At the same instant, lightning cracked toward her from the opposite side, forcing her to drop into a roll, heat searing her back as the bolt scorched stone.
"Four on one, really?" Marcell growled, intercepting the smoke-cloaked fighter as he lunged for Elira's flank. His sword clashed against a dagger that seemed to shift in and out of reality, their strikes sparking. "You want her, you go through me!"
The crimson-eyed opponent didn't waste time on words. Fire coiled around his fists, his steps pounding like war drums as he charged. Elira rose to meet him, her silver flame flaring sharp. His punch met her palm with a shockwave that split the air, the clash of fire against fire blinding white.
The force drove her back a step—but no further.
Elira's silver flame surged, wrapping his fire in its glow, devouring it as though it were fuel. His eyes widened, shock flashing across his face.
"What—"
She slammed her other hand into his chest, her flame bursting outward. He was thrown back into the wall of fire, which spat and hissed before spitting him unconscious onto the ground. The runes lit briefly, chains dragging his limp body away.
The crowd roared above, voices shaking the air.
"One down," Elira said, her breath steady, her silver eyes locked on the remaining three.
For the first time, hesitation flickered in their stances.
Elsewhere in the Arena, flames roared as other rings clashed. Through the wall of fire, Elira caught glimpses—Serenya standing amid a storm of blades, her sword cutting arcs of crimson fire through three attackers at once. Her expression was unreadable, unshaken, each strike precise.
Another wall flickered, revealing Vaelith's battle. Shadows rippled like living things, dragging his opponents into darkness only to spit them out battered and broken. His movements were minimal, but devastating, his gaze cold as night.
The crowd reacted in waves—cheers for each display of dominance, gasps at sudden reversals. Elira's silver flame had drawn the loudest so far, whispers already rippling: What flame is that? Who is she?
But her fight wasn't over.
The twin-blade wielder darted forward again, faster this time, his strikes weaving in a storm meant to overwhelm. Elira's flame clashed against his steel, each impact ringing like a bell, sparks scattering. He moved like water, relentless, flowing from one attack to the next.
Lightning struck again from behind. Elira pivoted, her flame extending in a sweep that caught the bolt mid-air, splitting it into threads of silver light that hissed harmlessly into the stone.
But the smoke-cloaked fighter was the real danger. While the others pressed openly, he vanished into shifting shadows, striking from angles that blurred reality. Marcell barely held him at bay, his grin gritted now, sweat streaking down his brow.
"Elira!" he shouted, blocking another dagger strike. "Finish them—fast!"
The silver flame pulsed again inside her, hotter, hungrier, pressing against her chest as if demanding to be unleashed.
She drew a deep breath. And let it out.
Her flame burst outward in a ring of silver light. It met the twin blades, wrapped them, burned through the steel until they shattered into molten fragments. The wielder staggered back, crying out, his hands scorched.
Before he could recover, Elira struck, her silver flame coiling into her fist. She drove it into his gut, the impact sending him sprawling unconscious across the ring. The chains claimed him immediately.
"Two down," Marcell panted, his blade locking against the smoke fighter's dagger.
The lightning-wielder cursed, sparks building into a storm around him. "Monster!" he spat, arcs dancing wildly. "You won't take me so easily!"
He unleashed the storm. Bolts cascaded in every direction, tearing into stone, ripping scars across the ring. The heat and noise were blinding, deafening.
Elira stepped forward into it.
The lightning struck her silver flame—and bent, twisting away as though repelled. The storm collapsed inward, arcs drawn into her flame, devoured like the crimson fire before.
The boy's eyes went wide with horror. "Impossible—"
Her palm met his chest, her flame erupting in a burst that hurled him out of the ring.
"Three."
The roar of the crowd was thunderous, voices clashing like a thousand drums.
Only the smoke-cloaked fighter remained.
He hissed, his body blurring in and out of shadow, his dagger slashing toward Elira's throat. Marcell lunged, but the man's form slipped past, intangible.
Elira closed her eyes for a breath, the ember within her burning steady. She felt the flicker of shadow, the distortion of space.
When his blade cut forward, her silver flame flared—not outward, but inward, wrapping her skin in a sheath of light. The dagger met her throat—and shattered like glass.
The fighter froze, disbelief etched across his face.
Elira's eyes opened, silver fire burning within. She stepped forward, her hand seizing his chest.
"Four."
Her flame surged, not in destruction but in dominance, overwhelming his shadow, devouring it until his body collapsed. The chains took him swiftly, dragging him from the Arena.
The walls of fire fell.
The crowd erupted, a storm of voices shaking the Arena to its foundations.
Elira stood at the center of her ring, silver flame still burning around her, her chest heaving with exertion. Marcell staggered beside her, his blade lowered, his grin wild with exhausted pride.
"You," he panted, "are terrifying."
She did not answer. Her gaze had lifted, past the crowd, past the roaring Arena—toward the golden-haired boy in another ring.
He had finished his fight too. None of his opponents stood. His flame burned like a sun, radiant, blinding, arrogant.
And he was staring at her.
Not with mockery. Not with dismissal.
But with recognition.
The Trial was far from over.