Darius stood barefoot on the mist-soft cloud platform, morning light filtering through the haze and illuminating the air in warm golds and grays. The scent of damp sky and fresh ozone filled his lungs. He drew in a deep breath—filling his chest with the same energy that hummed under his skin.
Across from him, Professor Ignatius watched with an unreadable calm. "Why wind, Wycliffe?" he asked, his voice even and gentle, yet carrying the weight of serious intent.
Darius glanced downward, focusing on the subtle rise and fall of the cloud beneath his feet. "Because it… feels right," he began slowly. "I tried fire and water, and they had moments." He looked up. "Wind just… fits better. It moves with me."
Ignatius nodded, stepping closer, his robe trailing like living mist. "Versatile," he murmured. "Light. Responsive." He paused. "Do you want to specialize?"
