Rex did not summon water. He did not call upon the pond or the rain.
Instead, he simply raised his right hand, fingers splayed as if reaching for something unseen in the air, and exhaled a long, steady breath.
From his palm, a sheet of white fire poured forth in a roaring, unrelenting tide.
It was wrong. The color was wrong.
It was not the familiar orange of combustion, not the crackling yellow of a hearth, not even the brilliant blue white of a concentrated forge.
This was a flat, absolute, terrifying white color so pure it seemed to actively consume the light around it, creating a void in the shape of a flame.
When the hurricane of ice shards struck the white tide, there was no dramatic explosion of steam or melting runoff. The ice simply ceased to exist.
One after another, the shards vanished as if they had never been matter at all, erased from reality by the sheer wrongness of the heat.
