The Arena vanished into sound and flame.
Silver and gold collided in the center of the battlefield, their light so blinding that for a heartbeat even the crowd could not see. The roar of the impact thundered through stone, shaking platforms, cracking walls, sending fragments tumbling into the rivers of lava below.
Elira's silver fire surged outward, devouring the heat, the air, even the light itself. The golden-haired boy's flame pushed back, blazing radiant and overwhelming, like a sun that refused to be eclipsed.
When their blades met, the world shuddered.
The silver swallowed. The gold seared.
Both refused to break.
Around them, chaos reigned.
The survivors who had once fought for position were thrown into disarray. Those too close to the clash were flung back by the sheer force of it, their flames snuffed out like candles. Others scrambled onto higher platforms, their eyes wide with awe and terror.
But not everyone fled.
From the left, a spear of crimson flame cut through the smoke—Serenya, her eyes sharp as blades, charging toward the duel. Another survivor leapt at her, intercepting her mid-swing, their blades locking with a clang. Sparks erupted as she snarled, crimson fire spilling from her blade in a wave that incinerated the ground beneath them.
"Stay out of my way," she hissed, her voice like steel.
From the right, Marcell laughed as three survivors cornered him at once. His sword spun in a reckless arc, fire flaring outward in an explosion that forced them back. His grin was feral, blood dripping from a cut across his cheek.
"Don't run," he taunted, flames flaring brighter around him. "The fun's only starting!"
Behind them, Vaelith moved like a shadow through the battlefield. Where others fought with fire, he wielded silence. His shadows curled around an enemy's throat, cutting off their flame before they could scream. Another fell to his dagger, silent, quick, forgotten. His eyes never left Elira and the golden-haired boy.
His whisper was for himself alone. "The fire of kings."
Elira's chest ached as the duel raged on.
Every strike sent shudders through her arms. Every swing of her silver flame felt heavier, as though the ember inside her demanded more—more fire, more strength, more of her.
The golden-haired boy fought with merciless precision. His flame did not waver, did not falter. Where her silver burned hungrily, devouring everything it touched, his gold blazed with authority, dominating the field as though it were his birthright.
"You fight like a beast," he said between strikes, his blade arcing down toward her shoulder. She caught it, her silver devouring the edge. His eyes narrowed, his voice low. "But fire without a master is nothing."
Elira's flame flared in answer, burning hotter, brighter. Her lips curled in defiance.
"Then burn with nothing."
She pushed forward, silver fire surging along her blade. The impact shook the platform beneath them, cracks spiderwebbing outward. Lava hissed below, chunks of stone crumbling into the abyss.
For a heartbeat, their faces were inches apart. His eyes, golden and merciless. Hers, silver and unyielding.
Neither looked away.
The whispers returned.
Burn. Consume. Devour.
They echoed inside her skull, louder than the roar of the crowd, louder than the clash of steel. The ember in her chest pulsed like a living heart, silver fire searing her veins.
The battlefield blurred. The golden-haired boy's flame no longer seemed separate, but part of the same endless hunger. Her vision swam with ash and fire, the shadows of her dream pressing in.
She staggered, her breath catching.
The boy's blade slashed across her guard, driving her back. His golden fire flared brighter, pressing against her silver flame.
"You're breaking," he said, his tone edged with triumph. "You don't control it. It controls you."
His words were a knife, but she refused to let them cut. Her jaw clenched, her silver flame roared back, and she stepped forward once more.
But inside, the ember whispered louder.
Devour him. Devour all. Only then will you be free.
Marcell's laughter echoed across the battlefield, but even he faltered as he saw Elira stumble. His grin vanished, his eyes narrowing as he fought back two attackers with wild sweeps of his sword.
"Elira!" he shouted, his voice carrying above the roar.
Serenya's gaze flicked toward her, even as her opponent pressed her back with relentless strikes. Her crimson blade burned brighter, cutting down her foe with a vicious slash, but she was still too far.
Vaelith alone moved closer, his shadows slithering across the ground like serpents. He emerged behind Elira, his dagger flashing as he cut down a survivor who had thought to strike her while she faltered. His eyes met hers, silver flame reflected in his calm gaze.
"Hold," he whispered. "Do not let it consume you."
But the whispers in her chest drowned him out.
Consume. Consume. Consume.
Her flame surged uncontrollably, silver fire spilling outward in a wave that seared stone and swallowed the air itself. The battlefield trembled, survivors shielding themselves from the blast. Even the golden-haired boy staggered, his eyes narrowing as he pushed back with his gold.
The crowd screamed. Some in awe. Some in terror.
And Elira stood in the heart of the storm, her flame devouring everything, her eyes glowing brighter than the sun.
The duel escalated beyond words.
Gold and silver clashed again and again, each strike tearing the battlefield apart. Platforms shattered beneath their feet, lava hissed upward, chains snapped and fell like burning serpents.
Survivors scattered to the edges, unwilling to be caught in the storm.
Marcell, Serenya, and Vaelith fought tooth and nail just to hold back those desperate enough to take advantage of the chaos. Each of them bled, each of them burned, but none yielded.
Because all of them knew—if Elira fell, so would they.
The golden-haired boy's flame flared brighter, pushing her back step by step. His voice rose above the roar, steady and commanding.
"This is where you end, silver flame. This is where your fire dies!"
Elira's knees trembled, her arms heavy. The ember inside her burned hotter, hungrier, tearing at her from within.
She screamed—not in fear, but in defiance—and her silver fire exploded outward, consuming his golden blaze, swallowing the battlefield in a blinding storm.
The crowd fell silent, their screams cut off as if the air itself had vanished.
For a heartbeat, the Arena knew only silver.
And in that silver blaze, Elira stood, trembling, her chest burning, her eyes wide.
The ember whispered once more.
This is only the beginning.