The Arena was no longer a simple circle.
The ground had torn itself apart, massive platforms rising and falling, jagged walls of obsidian thrusting from the stone. Lava surged in cracks, spilling red rivers that steamed in the heat. Chains dangled from above, their ends glowing hot as if they had been dipped in fire. Every corner of the battlefield seemed alive—burning, shifting, waiting to devour those too slow to move.
And in the center of it all stood thirty survivors.
Some looked exhausted, leaning on weapons that trembled in their hands. Others—fewer—stood tall, their flames burning bright despite the nights of endless fighting. But all of them bore the same look: the hunger to survive.
The instructor's voice carried like thunder across the chaotic ground.
"This is the crucible where embers become flames. The forge where flames become fire. No more walls to shield you. No more isolation. Now—burn each other, until only one remains."
He lifted a hand. For a heartbeat, silence hung like a blade.
Then his hand dropped.
The battlefield erupted.
A dozen survivors surged toward one another instantly, the clash of weapons and flame resounding like thunder. Fireballs streaked through the air, lightning cracked from one side to the other. The crowd above screamed in exhilaration, their voices blending with the roar of the battlefield.
Elira felt her silver flame flicker in her chest, begging to be unleashed. But she held it down, forcing herself to breathe. She couldn't burn too fast—not here, not yet.
"Stay close," Serenya ordered, her crimson blade igniting in her hand.
Marcell smirked, rolling his shoulders. "Wasn't planning to let her get lonely."
Vaelith said nothing. His shadows lengthened across the cracked stone, curling like snakes, ready to strike.
For a moment, the four of them stood together, an unspoken alliance against the chaos that surged around them.
Then the whispers began.
"There she is—the silver flame!""Take her down first!""She's the threat!"
Eyes turned. Several groups shifted, their attention drawn not to the golden-haired boy blazing like a miniature sun, not to Serenya's crimson dominance, but to Elira—the girl who had burned silver.
And then they moved.
At least eight survivors broke from their skirmishes and charged straight for her.
Elira's chest tightened. The ember surged.
Marcell stepped in front of her, slamming his sword into the ground. Fire erupted from the crack, forming a wall that slowed the charge. "Really popular, aren't you?" he said, his grin sharp.
"Focus," Serenya snapped, meeting the first attacker with a swing that shattered their blade and sent them sprawling back.
Vaelith's shadows erupted, catching another assailant by the throat and slamming them into a wall of stone. His eyes glinted in the shifting light. "You draw them like moths to a flame," he said to Elira. "Burn them."
The words sank into her like a command. And the ember inside her answered.
Her silver flame roared to life, erupting around her in a brilliant, unnatural blaze. The air shimmered with heat, the ground beneath her feet cracking as the silver fire consumed it.
The charging survivors faltered, fear flickering in their eyes—but they did not stop.
One swung a glaive at her, its edge wrapped in lightning. Elira raised her hand, her silver fire catching the weapon, eating the lightning, then consuming the steel itself. The glaive melted in an instant, leaving the boy holding nothing but slag before her flame blasted him back.
Another leapt overhead, twin daggers flashing. Serenya intercepted him mid-air, her crimson blade cutting through both daggers in one swing. He landed hard, rolling away before Serenya's second strike could end him.
Marcell fought like a storm, his flames a torrent that lashed out in wide arcs, keeping three enemies at bay at once. He laughed even as his body bled, his grin feral, his voice carrying above the clash. "Come on then! Try and take her, if you dare!"
Vaelith struck silently, shadows lashing from the ground to wrap ankles, wrists, throats. Every time someone tried to reach Elira from behind, they were dragged into the darkness and flung aside like broken dolls.
Together, the four held against the tide.
But the tide did not stop.
From the far side of the battlefield, a voice rose above the chaos.
"Pathetic. All of you."
The golden-haired boy stepped forward, his flame blazing like molten gold. It burned so bright the battlefield itself seemed dim around him. The ground cracked at his feet as he walked, each step heavy with power.
The crowd roared his name, though Elira could not hear it through the thunder of her own heart.
His eyes locked on hers, blazing with the same intensity as his flame.
"You hide behind them," he called, his voice cutting across the chaos. "But your flame won't stay hidden. And when it burns out, I will be the one left standing."
He raised his hand, and golden fire surged into the sky, exploding outward like a miniature sun.
The battlefield paused, if only for a heartbeat, as his flame washed over them all. Survivors staggered, shielding their eyes. Even Serenya lowered her blade, squinting against the brilliance.
But Elira did not look away.
Her silver flame flared, brighter, hungrier, answering the challenge.
The crowd screamed, torn between awe and disbelief.
Silver and gold—the two flames that had never been seen together, now blazing across the battlefield.
And in that moment, Elira knew: the Trial would not end until one of them was consumed.
The clash resumed with renewed ferocity.
Alliances shattered in an instant. Survivors turned on one another, desperate to avoid being caught between the silver and the gold. Some hurled themselves at Elira's group, hoping to weaken her before the golden-haired boy struck. Others tried to ally with him, only to be burned by his disdain.
The battlefield itself shifted, platforms collapsing into lava, chains whipping across the air like living things. The Arena was alive, designed to force chaos, to strip away strategy until only raw survival remained.
But amid the chaos, Elira's flame held.
She burned through every strike, every attack, every fear. Her body ached, her chest screamed, but she refused to fall. Marcell's laughter carried beside her, Serenya's blade cut down enemies without pause, Vaelith's shadows consumed those who strayed too close.
And still, above it all, the golden-haired boy advanced.
Step by step, his golden fire devouring the battlefield, until he stood only a dozen paces from her.
The survivors scattered, unwilling to stand between them.
The crowd fell silent.
Only two flames remained.
Silver.Gold.
Their gazes locked, the battlefield forgotten.
The ember in Elira's chest surged, its whispers deafening now. Burn. Consume. Devour.
The boy raised his sword, golden fire spilling down its length. His voice was steady, his eyes merciless.
"Come, silver flame. Let us see whose fire the world remembers."
Elira's silver blaze roared to life, consuming the cracked stone beneath her, her hair lifting in the heat, her eyes glowing with unnatural brilliance.
Her voice was soft, but it carried.
"Then burn with me."
They surged forward.
And the battlefield erupted once more.