The sound of drums echoed like thunder. A ring of fire circled the blood-red arena, its sands already scorched by countless test duels and mad rehearsals. Above them, Obsidian Castle loomed, watching like a silent witness to the chaos below.
"Get back!!" Nara's voice rang like a whip crack.
She lunged forward, one palm outstretched. A ripple of heat burst from her hand—flames unfurled in a wall, roaring forward like a beast let loose.
Garrick, standing far too close to the arena's edge, yelped as the heat rushed toward him. "She really is flashy!" he gasped, turning on his heel and sprinting for the outer rings of the camp.
From behind the line of war drums, a hand reached out and pulled him aside just as the wave of fire passed. Garrick stumbled into someone tall, silver-haired, and wearing leathers lined with scales.
"Jhaeros?" Garrick blinked.
The Illvar gave him a half-smile, brushing cinders from his shoulder. "You look like a singed squirrel."
"You're here too?" Garrick asked, catching his breath.
"Me and Lyra," Jhaeros nodded, gesturing behind to where Lyra was tending a strange contraption of fans and cooling pipes near the medical tent. "We heard Kalem was walking into fire again. Figured we'd better come watch."
"You could've sent a letter," Garrick muttered.
"Where's the fun in that?" Jhaeros grinned.
On the field, where ash clouded the air and the sound of clashing metal roared like a song, Kalem stood firm.
He had summoned Sol, the golden spear of ancient make and terrible hunger. As Nara's fire raced toward him, Kalem spun the weapon in a precise arc and thrust it forward. The tip of the spear drank in the fire—not resisted, consumed. Flames folded into the gold like threads into a loom.
And then, as if tasting more than it could handle, the spear began to melt.
Kalem's eyes narrowed. "Well," he muttered, tossing the half-warped weapon aside, "this is concerning."
Nara, bounding through the fire with a wild grin, landed before him. Her arms were wreathed in flame, fists tight with focused fury. She moved like a storm wrapped in muscle and madness.
Kalem raised a shield—steel layered, runeless, forged by his own hand—but the moment Nara struck it, the shield cracked. The ground beneath his feet buckled. He skidded backward across the scorched sand, boots leaving two clean trails behind him.
"Forging takes time, you know," Kalem said, flinging the broken shield away and flexing his hand.
Nara twirled, flames coiling around her like loyal serpents. "Says the one posing like some warrior of darkness. What's with the dark armor?"
Kalem blinked. "Is that really what's on your mind right now?"
"No," she said, eyes gleaming. "Hundred-Arm Strike!!"
She blurred.
Kalem barely had time to shift stance before Nara came at him, fists burning, arms moving faster than most could track—left, right, elbow, knee, palm, strike after strike after strike. The air pulsed with each blow.
But Kalem, with a flick of his hand, summoned Warhawk, the long blade of blackened iron and strange ridged teeth.
The first strike was parried. The second deflected. The third he ducked. Then he moved—not retreating, but weaving between Nara's blows like a craftsman moving through a crowded forge.
Then he swung.
Warhawk roared through the air, carving the flaming strikes into ribbons of heat, splitting flame from flame. Sparks burst in every direction. Nara halted mid-strike, leaping back and wiping ash from her brow.
"Hah!" she laughed. "Now we're getting somewhere!"
Kalem tilted his head. "If this is Wagar, it is little more than chaos painted festive."
"Exactly!" Nara bellowed, dancing around the edge of the arena. "This is what I built! A place to fight without chains, without titles or treaties. Just fists, steel, and the thrill of it all!"
"Sounds exhausting," Kalem said.
"You used to understand!" she snapped.
"I did," he admitted. "But now I think... maybe I was just angry."
A pause.
Nara's expression softened slightly. "You think I'm not?"
Kalem didn't answer. Instead, he walked forward, slowly, dragging Warhawk behind him, its teeth scraping across the stone floor.
"Then let's finish this," he said.
Nara grinned again—wide and wicked—and leapt forward once more.
Back in the tents, Garrick sat near the edge of the crowd beside Lyra, who was calmly sipping broth while directing a cooling funnel toward Kalem's tent.
"This is madness," Garrick muttered, watching the duel unfold. "They're going to break each other's bones."
"They're not trying to kill each other," Lyra said.
"Could've fooled me."
Lyra turned slightly. "It's not about death, Garrick. It's about pressure. They've both carried too much, and this place... this place lets them throw it all out into the fire."
He looked at her. "Is that what this is to you? Therapy by way of war?"
She smiled. "I've seen worse methods."
As the fight carried on, Kalem's armor was cracked at the shoulder, his gauntlets seared. Nara's flames had dimmed, her breathing ragged. They moved slower now, not because they lacked strength—but because they began to understand each other again.
Each strike was a word. Each parry, a memory shared.
Finally, they stood still, mere paces apart, surrounded by a storm of smoke and cheering madfolk.
Kalem let Warhawk rest on his shoulder. "That the best you've got?"
Nara grinned, hair soaked in sweat. "You haven't seen the fireworks yet."