"Alright, let's end this," Nara said, her arms loose at her sides, shoulders gleaming with heat, flame flickering along her braid like a burning rope.
Isolde looked sideways at her, sheathing her sword half-way before drawing it again with a sharp metallic hiss. "Didn't we already?"
Nara grinned, "There's a crowd here, Ice-Crown. We can't end it without a blast."
Indeed, far beyond the molten sands and shattered dunes, a small sea of soldiers, wanderers, traders, and cutthroats—locals and outsiders both—stood watching from the ridge lines and shattered towers of obsidian. The Ash Desert had not seen spectacle like this in a hundred years, and likely would not again.
Kalem stood still, dust clinging to the cracks in his armor. His eyes moved slowly from Nara to Isolde and then to the horizon. "Alright," he said at last, rolling his shoulders, letting the scorched cloak fall behind him like a torn banner. "Take position."
And they did.
Three corners of a broken triangle—each one now etched into the battlefield like the sigils of old.
Kalem knelt down, placing Bloodgouge into the earth. The sand hissed, drank in its fury, and around him a thousand black mana-spears floated into the air. Each spear—glimmering with crimson veins—began to dissolve, thread by thread, weaving into his aura like a storm of shadow drawn to its master. His armor began to pulse—not like light, but like thunder ready to be born.
On another side, Nara lifted her hands.
Flame rushed forth—not from her palms alone but from her back, her chest, her eyes. Her entire form became the heart of a wildfire. The sand beneath her feet turned to glass. The flame twisted behind her, forming not just a tide, but a cresting inferno, a fire-dragon's tongue made from fury and joy.
"Come on," she muttered to herself. "Let it see me. Let it roar."
On the final point stood Isolde.
She raised Frost Mourn, its edge now shining with deep blue, the light of the north caught in its curve. As she lifted it, the sky dimmed slightly—just enough that those nearby pulled their cloaks tighter. A wave of frost burst forward in a single breath, layering the sands in white. Every rock, every shard of obsidian, froze and cracked.
The sword hummed, a low mournful sound. And behind her, great crystalline spires of ice bloomed like flowers in winter.
From the ridge, Jhaeros sat beside Garrick, who furiously etched runes into his totem.
"You're not actually trying to record this magic in real-time, are you?" Jhaeros asked.
Garrick didn't look up. "If I die mid-sentence, tell the scribes I loved them."
Lyra, standing near them, raised an eyebrow. "Do you always risk your life to chase legends?"
"Only when they're my friends," Garrick said with a faint smile.
Back in the field, Kalem's voice rang out.
"This will hurt."
"Good," Nara said, rolling her neck.
Isolde gave no words—only breath, drawn and steady.
Then it began.
Kalem moved first. His body vanished in a blink, only the burst of sand behind marking where he once stood. He reappeared at the center of the triangle, a vortex of black energy whipping around him. The aura of a thousand spears spiraled upward and crashed downward like a god's hammer.
At that same moment, Nara let her fire loose.
The tide surged forward, leaping toward Kalem's position—not to strike, but to meet. To collide. The flame twisted into shapes—serpents, fists, wings of wrath. The very air turned orange, and lightning sparked where the heat tore the sky.
Isolde stepped forward once.
That was all.
The moment her foot touched the ground, her blade sang, and the wave of frost howled forward to meet them both.
It came like a wall—clear as glass, sharp as grief, cold enough to crack stone and bone alike.
And at the center of it all stood Kalem, still unmoving, arms spread, absorbing the storm of fire, the wave of ice, and his own tempest of mana.
The collision was not an explosion.
It was silence.
A stillness so deep the world held its breath.
Then—
BOOM.
A blinding dome of power erupted, the colors mixing—red, black, and white—folding over one another like ancient banners in war. The sands of the Ash Desert were lifted skyward, whipped into a ring around the crater. The Obsidian Castle's gates groaned. The watchers on the cliffs ducked behind what cover they could find.
And then—
Silence again.
Slowly, the dust cleared.
At the center stood Kalem, kneeling, spear stabbed into the earth. His armor smoked, the surface flaked and cracked. Yet he smiled.
To his left, Nara sat cross-legged, hands on her knees, face smeared with soot.
To his right, Isolde leaned on her sword, hair now half-white, half-black, chest heaving with each breath.
They had not struck one another.
They had struck together.
Jhaeros blinked. "Was that... friendly?"
"No," Lyra said. "It was respectful."
Garrick fell back on the stone, sighing. "If they ever do fight seriously, gods help the continent."
Kalem stood at last.
"Well," he said, brushing ash from his shoulder, "I think that counts as a proper ending."
Nara looked up. "No speeches?"
Isolde added, "No lessons or gifts for the common folk?"
Kalem chuckled. "Not today. Today, I just wanted to make sure you still remembered how to fight."
"We never forgot," Nara said, standing.
Isolde sheathed her sword. "We just waited for you to remember."
Kalem looked between them.
Then turned to the horizon.
"It's not over yet," he said.
"No," said Nara. "But now you're not walking alone."