"carco raumo (Raven’s Cry)."

A brief chant rippled across the fifty-meter ring, and a gale rose like a startled sea; the air itself answered the call.

Leaves heaved like green waves, all pointing toward the center, where Neprah stood like an iron stake in storm.

For safety, the rules allowed only low-power spells with chants under three words, a leash on lightning.

For a mage with Extreme Affinity, that leash was silk on a tiger.

A flush bloomed on Neprah’s cheeks as mana thrummed; his usual rakish grin fell away like a mask in rain.

Pale-cyan power streamed from his gauntlets, sketching a giant raven from invisible wind, its wings inked by air.

It all happened in a blink, a knife of light across still water.

Before most could react to the sky of conjured shapes, he kicked off like a spring and charged with the wind-born raven.

"ruinë latsë (Flame Field)."

Almost the instant his boots left the floor, his opponent’s fire bloomed outward like a sudden sunrise.

Where it met the raven, it exploded like thunder on a cliff, then unraveled into mana motes, fireflies fading on the breeze.

Their mana was close, and both spells were two-word quickcasts, twin blades thrust at once.

Neprah had read the stalemate like weather, so he began the next chant with his first step.

"súru sana-sanda (Wind Shield)!"

True to his headlong style, he chanted while bulling through the blast’s turbulence, a swimmer cutting riptides.

He swept a kick at the firewall’s heart, a scythe through ripe wheat.

His pant leg turned to ash the instant it kissed flame, gray snow on the wind.

Only when fire reached for skin did the Wind Shield click into place, cerulean filaments weaving his leg like reeds.

The timing was needle-precise, a blade edge on a hair.

But when he split the flames, the center was empty, a hollow in smoke.

"tildë—"

A woman’s voice floated from the far side of the blaze, a bell behind fog, and Neprah reacted on instinct.

It was too late to fold that wide-open motion back, like an arrow already loosed.

A pure-silver short blade shot from the fire, a moonbeam aimed at his shoulder.

—ding.

A crisp ring of metal on metal, and a badge spun in the air like a falling leaf.

Then the crowd boiled over, a pot kicked to rolling.

The flames thinned like mist at dawn, and Skela stepped out, gasping, hands still in a caster’s seal.

She looked rough, a storm-tossed pilgrim; her robe was pocked with holes, and smoke curled from singed hair tips.

That was the price of hiding inside her own fire, a refuge made of embers.

On the surface, she seemed more battered than Neprah, whose pants had burned down to underwear length, a cliff sheared by flame.

But her badge still clung to her chest, a small moon unfallen.

"The badge hit the ground. The semifinal winner is—Skela!"

At the call, Skela let out a long breath, like a bow unstrung, and tension drained from her limbs.

The plan worked, but it was a knife-edge win, a bridge of ice.

She knew it. After steadying her breath, she offered her hand to Neprah, palm like a white lotus.

"Under the gaze of the gods, allow me to show my respect," she said, touching her chest in reverence, serious but not smug.

"Your Highness Neprah, you’re truly strong."

Though defeated, Neprah didn’t sour; he didn’t even brush off the ash, a lion shaking off rain.

He gripped her hand hard, a thunderclap between palms.

"You too. It’s been ages since I fought this hard."

He cut his gaze to the other ring like a drawn knife.

"I wanted to throw down with her myself. But a loss is a loss, and wind doesn’t blow backward."

He patted Skela’s slim shoulder twice, sharp as hail, and she winced at the sting.

"I’m leaving that troublemaker to you. Don’t let our commoner camp lose face!"

Don’t you remember you’re the Second Prince? Adelaide rolled her eyes in the stands, a wave breaking behind a smile; she wasn’t the only one.

Beside her, Samir clenched his fists, veins rising behind gold-rimmed glasses like roots under glass.

(How long does he plan to strut onstage like that?)

Neprah’s white pants now stopped at underwear length, and his bare, carved thighs stood like sunlit pillars.

Several girls in the crowd fainted with nosebleeds, cherry stains on snow.

Watching Samir grind his teeth for his brother-in-arms, Adelaide felt a pang of sympathy, a leaf stirred by wind.

Well, her own little sister wasn’t exactly easy either, a cat with its own claws.

With that thought, Adelaide turned to the other ring, her gaze a lantern in dusk.

Mira stood with her sword on her back, a calm mountain, and behind her knelt Laya, badge shattered like ice on stone.

The outcome was set, yet unlike the boiling cheers for Skela and Neprah, that side was hushed, a lake under moonlight.

The reason was simple: the match was too one-sided, a hammer to glass.

Unlike Neprah and Skela’s back-and-forth, this bout lasted less than a fifth as long, a spark to a blaze.

Laya was also a wind mage with Extreme Affinity, a hawk with keen wings, yet she never mounted a proper counter.

She only defended, a leaf in a gale, until she tired, slipped, and Mira shattered her badge.

It wasn’t that Laya was far weaker than Neprah; as Adelaide’s senior by a year, she was top tier at Holywell Academy, a bright star.

Yet Mira’s face held not a trace of post-battle flush, a pond unruffled after rain.

In fact, not just this fight—she hadn’t released her Time Domain even once.

She bulldozed to the semifinals on pure technique, a blade that didn’t need its sheath-lights.

Even for me, with a Sacrifice Domain, if she got in close, it’d be trouble, Adelaide thought, wry at her unruly heart, a drum striking itself.

She looked toward Skela on the ring, a prayer in her eyes.

If even she had come to that conclusion, the pressure on Skela was heavier, a mountain on young shoulders.

When Neprah dumped the task of teaching Mira a lesson on her, Skela glanced at the opposite ring, and doubt flickered like a candle.

A wager hung on her like a red string, and in a hot-headed moment she’d sworn by the gods.

Afterward, she trained in earnest for a long stretch, rain or shine.

Objectively, she was a genius: a convent girl who, in just over a month at school, defeated Neprah, a flower blooming out of season.

Even so, against Mira, her odds were slim, a lone boat on rough surf.

Adelaide, however, looked relaxed, a fox at noon.

"Don’t tense up. Stick to the plan, and it’ll be fine," she said before the final, voice like warm tea.

At the end she squeezed Skela’s hand and added a spark.

"I believe in you, Skela."

It was the first time the admired Adelaide had called her by name, and Skela’s eyes lit like dawn on snow.

"I’ll do my best!"

Watching Skela stride onto the final ring with fighting spirit flying like a banner, Adelaide shrugged inwardly, a feather in wind.

Her optimism wasn’t about Skela’s power. It was about the script.

After all, she’s the heroine.