He's watching her.
And she's about to remind everyone why fire doesn't just burn.
It learns.
---
The arena hadn't recovered from the shadows when the flames arrived.
She stepped into the dueling space like she owned the place.
Not with arrogance.
But with certainty.
Like gravity had no choice but to cooperate with her stride.
"And here comes the prodigy princess," Lioren thought, resting his chin in his palm from the upper gallery.
"Let's see what she sets on fire this time."
He wasn't sure why his chest felt tight.
---
"Seraphina Ravenshade, step forward"
Her uniform looked untouched.
Hair tied neatly.
Eyes sharper than any blade in the building.
The instructor opposite her bowed politely. Probably terrified.
Seraphina didn't bow. She just tilted her head like she was already working through thirty different scenarios at once.
"Whenever you're ready, Lady Ravenshade," the instructor offered, voice careful.
She didn't answer.
She just moved.
*****
No flaring hands. No dramatic chants. Just—motion.
Her fingers twitched. Heat pulsed from the air in sharp, controlled waves.
A ring of flame burst out like a heartbeat and vanished—like it was testing the room.
Then she stepped forward, dodged the instructor's blade with a smooth, fluid spin, and left behind a perfect mirror-trail of fire that tracked the man's path.
"She's mapping the battle in real time," Lioren murmured.
The student beside him leaned in. "What?"
"Nothing," he muttered.
"She's eleven. That shouldn't be possible."
****
The instructor tried an aerial strike.
Seraphina didn't blink.
She breathed—and flame spiraled from her heel, pushing her into a perfect backflip that landed her behind the instructor.
He turned.
Too slow.
A blade of heat kissed his shoulder without burning.
He flinched.
But it didn't hurt.
She was showing off.
---
"She's not just casting fire," Lioren realized.
"She's programming it. Directing it midair. It's… choreographed. Like she's dancing and the fire is following her lead."
His eyes narrowed.
"Or maybe it's the other way around."
---
The instructor retreated, trying to reframe his defense.
She dropped low, spun, and the ground beneath him cracked—heated just enough to destabilize his footing without leaving a mark.
"She studied him before they even began."
"She adjusted her spell based on air humidity. She predicted his movement style from his grip alone. That's… that's war general thinking. At eleven?"
Lioren leaned back in his seat, jaw tight.
"She's not fighting to win. She's fighting to understand."
The flames flared around her again—an elegant cage of radiant tendrils—but they didn't burn the instructor. They just closed in, gently.
He dropped his blade.
The crowd lost it.
---
"She's dangerous."
He should've meant that in a bad way.
But the pit in his stomach felt a little too much like awe.
"Everyone sees the fire. I see the pattern."
"She calculates. Adjusts. Controls. She didn't overpower him. She predicted him out of the fight."
"And the scariest part?"
"She's not even trying to impress anyone."
---
She walked back to her side of the arena, expression unreadable, heat still shimmering around her skin like an aura.
And for the first time in years—
Lioren forgot how to breathe properly .