Lucien stalks forward.
Every step presses a deep print into the sand, shoulders rolling with a weight that wasn't there a minute ago, eyes burning gold beneath the shadow of his own mane. The crowd's noise has dropped to something uneasy, half-formed cheers dying in throats that don't quite know what they're cheering for anymore.
Braska steels his jaw, forcing the tremor out of it by sheer will. "A fluke," he spits, backing a half-step and hating himself for it. "A party trick. You don't even know how to hold that power, boy. It'll burn you out before it saves you."
He howls.
Magic floods through his shadow-flame fur, bulking him wider, taller, muscle stacking on muscle until he's bigger than he was a moment ago. He blasts forward, closing the gap in a single, violent burst of speed.
Lucien drops into a stance on instinct, blades low, fangs bared, and braces.
