Fenric's silver flames wrapped tightly around his arms, their tips curling upward like vigilant guardians, ready to act at a moment's notice. He stepped carefully, one deliberate step at a time, toward the center of the arena. The ground was covered in dust and broken stones, each scar a testament to the monumental battle that had just taken place. The air itself seemed alive, humming with a sense of potential—the raw, untamed energy of creation waiting for someone to guide it, to shape it with purpose.
"Laxin," Fenric spoke, his voice calm, steady, and measured, carrying the natural weight of authority without arrogance, "we are not here to merely create something. We are here to temper it. We are here to forge it. Power that is not disciplined is nothing more than a dangerous curse. Let us craft something that will not just obey us… but will endure through time, through trials, and through any challenge it faces."
