The explosion of silver flame had not ended with light.It ended with silence.
The Arena, moments ago a storm of roars and fire, was suddenly still—so still that even the chains above seemed to hang suspended, unmoving in the haze of heat.
Elira stood at the center, sword lowered, chest heaving. Her hair clung to her damp skin, her veins burning with silver embers that hadn't yet faded. Every nerve screamed, her body begging her to collapse, but she refused.
The world before her was unrecognizable.
Stone had melted into rivers of molten rock that hissed and smoked. Walls that once stood tall had collapsed into jagged fragments. The runes etched into the ground flickered weakly, barely containing the devastation.
And within that wasteland, a lone figure still burned.
The golden-haired boy.
His body was battered—his pristine armor cracked, his cheek scarred by her fire, blood trailing down his jaw. But his golden blaze clung stubbornly to him, defying the silver that had nearly swallowed him whole. His eyes glowed with fury as he staggered forward, each step striking the ground with a sharp crack.
"You," he hissed, voice hoarse. "You dared touch me with that flame."
The silence shattered. From the stands came a swell of voices—shocked, awed, terrified.
"That was no human fire…""Her flame… it rivaled the gold!""Impossible. She should not exist."
Above them, in the shadowed balcony where nobles and instructors watched, the air was taut with unease. One lord leaned forward, eyes sharp. "If such a power is not bound, it will consume this city."
Another, older and grayer, whispered instead, "No… it will consume the world."
Only the presiding instructor, cloaked in black, seemed calm. His voice was soft, yet carried across the chamber. "A silver flame… Sovereign-born."
Elira's knees buckled, and she dropped to one hand, her chest aflame with heat that wasn't hers.
More, the ember within whispered. Burn him. Burn everything. Leave nothing.
Her nails dug into the scorched stone. Her mind trembled at the thought of letting it out again, of losing herself to that hunger.
"Elira!"
Marcell's voice cut through the chaos. He stumbled toward her, his arm wrapped in bloodied cloth, his grin gone, replaced by raw desperation. He dropped beside her, grasping her shoulder.
"Stay with me. Don't fall now."
Before she could answer, Serenya's voice rang out, clear and sharp.
"He's coming again!"
Elira lifted her gaze just as the golden-haired boy roared, golden fire exploding around him. He leapt forward, his blade raised high, a storm of gold trailing him.
Serenya was already moving, her crimson sword clashing with his in a shockwave of sparks. Marcell surged up beside her, flames bursting from his battered blade. From the other side, Vaelith's shadow spilled outward, serpents of darkness lashing at the boy's legs.
Together, they threw themselves in his path.
But his golden blaze was merciless.
He swept Serenya aside with a burst of heat, forced Marcell to one knee with a single strike, burned through Vaelith's shadows until the dark itself seemed to scream.
And still, his eyes never left Elira.
"You cannot hide behind them," he spat, his voice cracking with rage. "Your flame dares rival mine. That insolence will be burned away."
He raised his sword again, golden fire gathering, bright enough to blind.
Elira's vision blurred. The silver flame in her chest surged violently, demanding release.
She pressed her hand against her heart, gasping.
"No… not yet…"
But the ember only roared louder.
Burn. Burn until nothing remains.
The nobles above argued louder now.
"End this before she consumes us all!""No! Let it play out—the truth of her power must be revealed!""She is no aspirant, she is a threat!"
The instructor's hand twitched at his side, as though he might intervene. Yet his gaze stayed fixed on Elira, watching, waiting.
The Arena itself seemed to hold its breath.
The golden-haired boy's strike came down like a sun falling from the heavens.
And Elira—half-broken, trembling, drowning in silver—had only a heartbeat to decide.
To burn.Or to fall.