As Towan walked back to the group, Elliot clapped his shoulder.
“Remind not to spar with you for fun anymore.”
“You assud it was ever fun?”
Sylra smirked. “Well, that raised the bar.”
Alira just blinked. “Wait... what elent does he use?”
Towan just smiled. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
The nas echoed through the arena like sparks before a storm.
“Next match: Sylra Auren vs. Alira Veyne.”
Whispers rippled through the student section.
“Wait, that’s Sylra?”
“She’s ranked first, right? Didn’t she knock out a third-year during a spar?”
“She’s the wind one. The really fast one.”
Alira inhaled slowly and stepped forward, her braid swinging behind her like a cot tail. Her hands tightened at her sides—not out of fear, but focus. Her nerves burned clean. She’d been training for this.
Across the arena, Sylra rolled her shoulders with casual grace.
Storm-gray uniform. Sleeves rolled. Expression unreadable, save for a quiet glint of anticipation.
Towan leaned forward in the balcony. “This’ll be good.”
Kaelin raised her hand.
“Begin.”
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FWOOOM.
Alira moved first.
Fire flared in a tight ring around her, a radiant burst of control—not wild, but disciplined. She narrowed her stance, launching three fla-ford arcs in quick succession. Not blasts—slicing trails, curved like sickles.
Sylra vanished.
A gust of wind swept across the arena as she reappeared a few ters to Alira’s right, her cloak snapping like a whip.
No flare. No warning. Just movent.
Alira pivoted instinctively, launching a focused burst toward Sylra’s position.
The flas missed—barely—as Sylra dipped into a low dash, almost skating across the stone with wind-assisted slides.
Kaelin raised an eyebrow. “That’s... Wind Skim. High-grade technique. She’s using it casually.”
On the sidelines, Elliot winced. “She moves like she’s not touching the floor.”
Jyn, arms crossed and eyes sharp, watched without comnt.
Alira planted her feet and clapped her palms together—flas surged upward in a spiraling do around her.
A defensive stance. A thinking move.
Sylra didn’t hesitate.
She stepped into the spiral.
FWOOSH—CRACK—WHIP.
A flash of silver wind coiled around Sylra’s arm like a ribbon, slicing through Alira’s fla do with surgical force.
Alira threw herself back—narrowly avoiding a clean hit—but landed hard, boots skidding.
Her eyes widened.
Towan whistled. “She cut fire with wind.”
“She’s not just fast,” Len muttered under her breath, folding her arms. “She’s clean.”
Alira raised her hand, and fire erupted in three pronged lines along the floor—like the teeth of a trap closing in. The crowd gasped.
Sylra leapt.
One spin. One gust.
BOOM.
Wind burst beneath her like an inverted explosion—launching her over the trap. Her cloak fluttered like wings as she soared, angled, twisted—
And landed directly in front of Alira.
Before Alira could react—
TAP.
Sylra’s palm touched her shoulder.
“Point.”
Kaelin’s voice cut through the silence. “Match complete. Sylra wins.”
The do of fla sputtered out, leaving only faint scorch marks behind.
Sylra stepped back, nodding respectfully.
“You’ve improved,” she said quietly.
Alira panted, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, but her hands didn’t shake. “I almost had you with the trap.”
“You did,” Sylra admitted. “If I’d flinched.”
From above, murmurs filled the air.
“Alira’s flas were so tight—she’s definitely entrance tier.”
“Did you see how she baited the first strike?”
“Still couldn’t touch Sylra, though…”
Towan leaned over to Elliot. “You can’t beat wind with just fire. You need timing.”
“And maybe a jetpack,” Elliot muttered.
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