Marcus snapped his fingers. A faint pop echoed, followed by a flicker of orange—a small flame dancing at his fingertip like a living creature drawn from the depths of hell.
"What are you…" Cecil started, but didn't finish.
A sudden, sharp burst of pain jolted through his hand. The flame may have been no bigger than a candle's flicker, but its heat was scorching, unnatural—like the concentrated rage of a wildfire compressed into a single point.
"You…!" Cecil shouted, eyes wide with disbelief as Marcus calmly pressed the flame against the center of his palm, the searing heat causing the skin to bubble and darken with a sickening hiss.
Marcus stared, unblinking.
"Think I didn't get my fair share of fire magic back in the day?" Cecil growled, voice low. "This is nothing—"
Cecil didn't get to finish.
Marcus cut him off, this time not with words, but with laughter.
It wasn't the boisterous, warm kind that filled a room.
It was sharp.
Deliberate.
