The courtyard was charged with a breathless silence. Even the wind seemed to still as Seraphina and Lioren took their places, eyes locked, neither blinking.
No instructors. No referees. Just two kids with very old souls and too much to prove.
Seraphina was the first to move, flame flaring at her fingertips as she lunged, feet swift and sure. Her fire wasn't chaotic—it was controlled, trained, a living ribbon of power that bent around her fingers like it knew her.
Lioren's shadow magic didn't explode. It crept. Slithered. Coiled. One moment he was there, the next he flickered to the side, a blur of black mist avoiding her strike with infuriating ease.
He's fast, she thought, frustration tightening in her jaw. And calm. Too calm.
She spun, using the momentum to launch a flame arc toward his feet. Lioren leapt, cloak whipping behind him. A thin blade formed in his hand—not steel, but shadow, humming with elegant menace.
"You're holding back," he said calmly as he landed. "Afraid to singe the diplomatic ward?"
"No," she hissed. "Afraid you'll melt into a puddle before I'm done."
They clashed again. Fire met shadow in sharp, shattering bursts. Heat rippled the air, while darkness warped it.
Lioren lunged low, shadows curling around Seraphina's ankles. She countered by igniting the ground with a ring of fire, forcing him to backflip out of the radius. He was good. Smooth. Irritatingly graceful.
But so was she.
Flames burst from her palm as she swept it upward, aiming for his torso. But he dodged—not because he was faster, but because he'd predicted her. Read her.
She growled under her breath.
He's not just fighting me—he's studying me.
Their magic collided mid-air, casting ripples of heat and shadow across the courtyard like shattered glass and ink. Each move escalated. Each strike tested boundaries.
They weren't fighting to win anymore. They were fighting to understand.
And it was getting dangerous.
From the manor, two sharp voices rang out simultaneously:
"That's enough!"
A gust of wind—a neutralizing barrier—rippled between them, slicing through the tension like a blade through silk. The flames fizzled. The shadows retreated.
Caelum and a stern-looking woman in indigo robes had arrived. Isolde stood at the top of the steps, arms folded, brows lifted.
Seraphina straightened, panting. Lioren did too, his eyes sharp but unreadable.
Neither looked away.
"You could've set the estate on fire," Isolde said evenly.
"He started it," Seraphina muttered.
"I merely offered critique," Lioren said, brushing soot from his sleeve.
Caelum glanced between them, trying to hide the smirk twitching at his lips. "And it nearly escalated into a magical duel worthy of the archives. Impressive restraint, truly."
The diplomatic woman gave Lioren a quiet once-over. "You'll apologize."
He inclined his head, though his tone was dry. "My deepest regrets for correcting your daughter's stance."
Seraphina rolled her eyes. "Spar with me again. When it's allowed."
Lioren gave a half-smile. "I'll win next time."
"You wish."
As they parted, something lingered in the space between them—not rivalry, not quite friendship. Just an understanding.
Two forces—flame and shadow—equal, opposite, and beginning to burn together.