The arena had lost all shape.
Brackets, order, protocol — all burned away in the furnace of Aurex Vykrall's arrival. What remained was chaos, raw and boiling. Mana churned across the battlefield like a second atmosphere, too dense to breathe. Lines had blurred. Alliances were made not by crest or rank, but instinct. Fear. Ambition.
This wasn't the Gauntlet anymore.
It was a crucible.
And someone lit the first match.
Ash bloomed across the field like fog touched by flame.
Lysara Selyth moved with ghostlike precision, her eyes flat, unreadable.Her stride cut through the battlefield like truth through silence — slow, steady, and cruel in its confidence — trailing ash in a wide circle around Jorun Velgrath.
The magma-wielder's molten trail hissed as the two elements met, steam rising in tendrils.
Jorun snorted. "Pretty trick."
Even if she was an heir, the difference between two stars and three was absolute.
He stomped once. A ripple of lava burst through the ash.
