Ten meters.
Eight.
Six.
His other hand summoned Brokk's hammer, the familiar weight settling into his grip like an old habit. The tool didn't feel like a weapon in his mind, it felt like a key. A way to force something into place. A way to make reality cooperate when it didn't want to.
Four meters.
The flames beneath the Ifrit pulsed erratically, briefly thinning before swelling again like a heartbeat struggling to find rhythm. The ground beneath it was glowing in places, the asphalt warping and softening. Even through his boots Kael could feel the heat coming up, as if the street was trying to cook his soles from below.
Three meters.
Kael bent his knees slightly, committing to the motion. There wouldn't be time to adjust mid-air. No time to reconsider. No time to do anything but execute.
Two meters.
