The next match was called.
Two boys stepped forward—Dael, a wiry child with restless eyes, and Haren, broader, calmer, his breath steady.
"Positions," the instructor said.
Dael's hands flared first. Flame snapped to life, coiling in his palms like serpents. He grinned wide, confidence spilling from him. "Try not to get roasted."
Haren didn't reply. Instead, he lifted both arms, and the air bent. A gale stirred across the courtyard, pulling dust and leaves into a spiraling current.
"Begin!"
Dael launched the first fireball. It sizzled through the air, but Haren's wind curved, catching it, twisting it sideways until it burst harmlessly against the dirt.
Another fireball—then another. Each one was caught, bent, redirected. Smoke gathered, cloaking the field.
Dael laughed. "You can't dodge forever!" His flames grew hotter, brighter.
But then, with a single deep breath, Haren clapped his hands together. A sudden gust roared outward, shattering the smoke, snuffing the smaller flames, and knocking Dael off balance.
Before Dael could recover, Haren flicked his fingers, and the wind compressed into a whip. Snap! It struck the ground near Dael's feet, throwing him back on his heels.
The instructor raised his hand. "Winner: Haren."
Dael sat up, cheeks flushed, hair singed. He gave a crooked smile, muttering, "I'll burn through next time."
The other children clapped, some laughing, others watching with hungry eyes. Rivalries sparked like dry tinder.