It was not a duel by sword.
Not one by politics or public declaration.
It began in silence.
With two queens standing beneath a moonless sky, and the stars holding their breath.
Nyxara did not challenge Seraphina to death.
She challenged her to truth.
"I do not want your throne," Nyxara said.
They stood in the Black Garden, where only fire-touched beings could tread. The obsidian flowers curled open at their feet, drinking in the heat of their presence.
"I want your belief," she continued. "That your version of fire—of power—is right."
"I don't need to prove anything to you," Seraphina said.
"No," Nyxara replied. "But you need to prove it to yourself."
She conjured a sphere of white flame between her palms. "You and I. Fire to fire. No weapons. No shields. Just will."
Seraphina nodded.
Lucien, watching from the balcony above, clenched his fists—but said nothing.
She stepped forward. "I accept."
Velis and Mirell stood as silent witnesses. They knew better than to interfere.
The duel was not meant to destroy.
It was meant to reveal.
Both queens stood ten paces apart. Barefoot. Bare-skinned to the waist. Flame was sacred—it touched only flesh.
Each raised her right hand.
Fire ignited in their palms—Nyxara's white-hot and ancient, Seraphina's golden and wild.
The duel began.
Nyxara struck first.
Her fire moved like a whip, snaking through the air and lashing toward Seraphina's throat. Seraphina turned, flame flaring at her shoulder, and countered with a spiral of gold that seared the ground between them.
They danced.
Heat shimmered around them like desert mirages. The air cracked and screamed. Birds fell from the sky.
But neither stopped.
Nyxara was ruthless. Precise. Every burst of flame was a lesson in fury.
Seraphina was instinct. Heart. Her fire bent in impossible shapes, reacting not with strategy—but emotion.
"You burn like a child," Nyxara hissed mid-clash. "You let your pain shape your flame."
"I shape my pain," Seraphina shouted, striking back with a shockwave of molten light that flung Nyxara ten feet through the air.
The elder queen rolled, landed, and smiled.
"Good," she whispered. "Show me more."
Their bodies glowed with heat, skin blistering and healing in rapid waves.
Seraphina faltered once—when Nyxara mimicked Lucien's voice, her flame curling with illusion.
"Help me," he cried.
Seraphina turned—hesitated.
Nyxara struck.
Flame hit her ribs and sent her flying into a burning wall of ivy.
Pain screamed through her.
But even as she fell—
She remembered.
Lucien's real voice.
His warmth. His hands. His kiss.
"Don't look away."
And she didn't.
She rose.
Flame poured from her like a living sun.
"I don't burn for power," Seraphina said, walking toward Nyxara as fire circled her like dragons. "I burn for choice. For freedom. For him."
She raised both hands.
A vortex of golden fire erupted between them.
Nyxara raised hers to block it—
But Seraphina's flame didn't strike her.
It wrapped around her. Coiled. Contained. Cradled.
Nyxara gasped.
"What is this?"
"I don't fight to destroy," Seraphina whispered. "I fight to protect."
And with that, her fire collapsed inward, disappearing into her chest in a single pulse of gold.
She stood there, smoke rising from her skin, eyes glowing bright.
Nyxara dropped to one knee.
Not in defeat.
In recognition.
When it was over, the court was silent.
No one cheered.
No one moved.
Seraphina approached Nyxara and offered a hand.
The first queen looked at it.
Then took it.
"You are not me," she said quietly.
"No," Seraphina answered. "I'm better."
Nyxara smiled for the first time.
And it wasn't cruel.
Later, in the solitude of her chambers, Seraphina lay beside Lucien, bruised and half-healed.
"You won," he whispered.
"No," she said, resting her head on his chest. "I changed the game."
He kissed her temple.
And together, they fell asleep, wrapped not in fire, but in silence.
In the frost-buried temple of the Circle, a messenger knelt.
"She did not kill Nyxara."
Silence.
"Then she is more dangerous than we thought," the High Mask said. "She is no longer a weapon."
A pause.
"She is a symbol."
The chamber trembled with ancient fury.
"Begin the third act," the High Mask ordered.
"What shall we call it?" a lower mask asked.
The answer came cold as stone.
"The Heart-Split War."