The courtyard was quiet, every eye trained on the first pair to step forward. Eryndor's cousin, a broad-shouldered boy with a smug grin, strutted to the center. He looked at Eryndor like a predator sizing up prey.
"You really think you can beat me?" the cousin sneered. "After all the stories, you're still just the pale little brother."
Eryndor only smiled faintly, fingers twitching subtly. The hum of lightning in his veins, the tug of wind at his feet—it was there, waiting.
The signal was given.
His cousin charged first, swinging a heavy fist. Eryndor pivoted smoothly, Eightfold Flow guiding his movement. He ducked, let the wind carry him forward, and vanished briefly with Pulse Step, reappearing behind his cousin. A sharp palm strike with Lightning Thread caught the broad boy off guard, jolting him backward with a crackle of sparks.
Gasps ran through the crowd.
His cousin spun, furious, swinging again. Eryndor flowed with the attack, weaving Gale Feint into his steps. Wind whispered around his body, letting him glide out of harm's way while the faint sparks along his knuckles threatened another strike. Every motion was precise, smooth—the Eightfold Flow had merged with his affinities, turning instinct into weapon.
The cousin lunged, trying to grab him, but Eryndor twisted mid-air, letting Nerve Ignite ripple through a strike to his ribs. The boy stumbled, shaking involuntarily, as lightning flared faintly across Eryndor's hands.
By now, the whispers in the crowd had grown into murmurs of astonishment. The boy who was supposed to be weak wasn't just keeping up—he was dominating.
Eryndor didn't pause. He combined Pulse Step with a forward spinning kick, sending his cousin sprawling. Sparks danced in the courtyard air, and the wind tugged at his coat like it was cheering him on. He landed lightly, stance balanced, eyes calm, despite the adrenaline hammering in his chest.
The match was over in moments, though the boy managed to rise with bruises and soot along his clothes. He glared at Eryndor, but there was no mockery left—only respect tinged with fear.
Eryndor exhaled slowly, letting the wind fade and the lightning hum settle. He turned toward the spectators, including his father, who raised a single eyebrow. His performance had been enough to leave a mark—not just for skill, but for composure under pressure.
He glanced at Lyanna, who had come to watch in secret. Her eyes sparkled with pride, though she kept her expression calm.
"Tomorrow, it gets harder," he whispered to himself, flexing his fingers slightly. Lightning still flickered faintly across them. "But I'll be ready."
The first strike had been made. The trial had begun. And Eryndor, for the first time outside the city, had shown that even a Spark Tier could ignite a storm.