The battlefield was a blistering cauldron of collapsing stone, molten trenches, and roaring flame. The once-proud mansion, now warped by heat and time, hissed with burning echoes. At the heart of it stood Veyra—barefoot upon scorched stone, blood trailing from her fingertips in slow, graceful arcs.
Opposite her, the Flame Duke Osiris loomed like a volcano incarnate. Fire flared with each breath he took, and the very ground warped beneath his feet. His molten cloak hissed as it dragged behind him, fusing stone and air into glass.
His temper matched his domain—furious, seething.
"You dare wield ice and blood in my dominion?"
Veyra didn't answer. Her blood pooled around her feet, then rose—solidifying into twisting thorned vines, frosted at the tips. They shimmered with a faint silver-white sheen now, traces of the Moon Bloom forming frost-etched petals along each strand.
Osiris roared and thrust his spear, sending a lance of solar heat toward her.
She moved.
