The Solflare spell hung in the air like a second sun. A sphere of molten brilliance, it radiated waves of flickering heat that warped the very atmosphere.
Its surface writhed with entangled runes—silver veils of wild magic wrapped around coils of dancing flames. Wisps of incandescent energy floated off it, crackling and fizzing in the tension-charged air.
Darius Wycliffe stood opposite Orien Dahl, the harbinger of that infernal creation. Orien was a slight first-year, far from imposing in stature, yet his hand trembled imperceptibly as he held his focus. His eyes shone with pride—but fear ran in hidden lines beneath them.
In that moment, the arena fell dead silent. Even the protective barrier's hum dropped a notch, as if the world itself feared speaking in the presence of that living inferno. Sweating students fanned their chests; professors leaned forward. No one expected a first-year to wield magic this potent.
But here Orien was. And the cost was clear:
