The air inside the arena no longer felt like air.
It felt like breath held inside the lungs of a volcano—
thick, burning, vibrating with pressure.
Magma surged and boiled beneath Sylthara's feet, casting molten light that danced like fire spirits across her obsidian skin. The volcanic stones she stood on groaned and shifted, rising and falling in subtle rhythms, as if the entire battlefield were breathing.
The barrier separating spectators glowed red-orange, humming with so much compressed mana that even seasoned mages felt their skin prickle. Reporters stopped cheering—many forgot to breathe. Even dwarves, famed for their love of fire and flame-forged trials, shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
This was not a spectacle.
This was danger.
---
Elder Thrain's Voice Cut Through the Heat Like a Hammer on Iron
