The sun had risen higher, casting sharp lines of light across the courtyard. Eryndor's previous victories had earned wary glances from the remaining relatives—stronger, faster, and far more determined than any he had faced before.
His next opponent was a cousin notorious for brute strength paired with clever feints—a dangerous combination. As the match began, the cousin rushed forward with a flurry of unpredictable strikes. Eryndor shifted immediately into the Eightfold Flow, feeling the familiar rhythm in his limbs. But something was different: this cousin didn't attack the same way twice. Every strike forced him to adapt in real time.
Lightning sparked faintly along Eryndor's fingers as he deflected one blow. He twisted, letting the wind tug him sideways, sliding into Pulse Step mid-motion. The cousin barely had time to adjust before Eryndor's palm struck along his ribs, releasing Nerve Ignite to disrupt his balance.
But even that wasn't enough. The cousin regained footing almost instantly, charging again, heavier, stronger, faster. Eryndor's mind raced. Every instinct, every memory of Kael's alley, every lesson from his grandfather whispered through him. Eightfold Flow wasn't just form—it was survival. And now, his affinities had become extensions of that form.
Lightning flashed along his arms, wind tugging at his movement. He let the elements guide him, combining flow and instinct, technique and magic. For the first time, Eryndor stopped thinking of his attacks as single actions. Each strike became part of a greater rhythm: dodge, counter, feint, reposition, strike.
The battle intensified. Sparks flew. The wind whipped dust into the air. Each time his cousin thought he had an opening, Eryndor adapted, flowing around it, learning mid-fight, improvising.
And then it happened.
A moment of clarity.
Eryndor felt the lightning surge not as a separate force, but as part of him. Wind and energy merged seamlessly with his movements. The rhythm of Eightfold Flow, the unpredictability of combat, and the elemental currents inside him synced perfectly.
He struck. Not as a reaction, but as a command. Lightning arced along his limbs, wind carried his momentum, and his cousin found himself overwhelmed before he could even counter. One final step, one fluid motion, and the battle was over.
The courtyard was silent. Eryndor's body trembled from exertion, sweat and bruises covering him, but inside, a quiet hum of power lingered.
He realized it in that moment: he had broken through. The spark inside him had grown into a flame.
Spark Tier… no longer.
Eryndor exhaled slowly, feeling the shift within him. He was now officially Ember Tier—his control over lightning and wind steadier, stronger, and far more precise. Each technique he had mastered, every adaptation he had made in the heat of combat, had led him to this awakening.
He looked at the family watching, some in shock, some in awe. Lyanna, standing to the side, gave a small, proud nod.
Eryndor wiped a trickle of blood from his lip, grinning faintly. "This… this is only the beginning," he whispered to himself.
Lightning hummed softly in his veins, wind tugged at his sleeves, and for the first time, Eryndor felt truly unstoppable.