The morning sun filtered through the training yard's high windows, casting dappled golden rays across the tiled floor. Seraphina's breath came steady as she pushed herself through a new flame channeling routine—barefoot, palms open, crimson threads of heat dancing at her fingertips. Sweat clung to her brow, but her eyes gleamed.
"Intensity. Focus. Control," she murmured under her breath, echoing her instructor's mantra.
From the shade of a stone archway, a boy watched.
"Your stance is off," came a voice like smooth obsidian—cool, cutting, and a touch amused.
Seraphina halted mid-motion, blinking away the flare at her palm. "Excuse me?"
The boy stepped forward, arms crossed, dressed in a dark diplomatic tunic with silver embroidery and that annoying aura of calm superiority. His hair was raven-black, tousled just enough to look unbothered, and his eyes were silver-gray, quiet but unyielding.
"You're leaning too far forward," he added, unfazed by the flare of magic still trailing from her hands. "You'll overbalance in a fight. Rookie mistake."
Seraphina narrowed her eyes. "And you're an expert in fire magic now?"
"No," he said simply. "I'm an expert in winning."
She smirked. "Big words from a boy lurking in shadows. You got a name, or should I just call you stalker "
He gave the tiniest bow, more mock than polite. "Lioren. Diplomatic ward. Visiting on behalf of my guardian."
"Oh, diplomatic ward. Fancy." She crossed her arms. "You come to critique or challenge?"
"Depends," he said, meeting her gaze. "Would you cry if I beat you?"
A slow grin crept onto Seraphina's face. Her flames hissed softly at her fingertips. "Is that a dare?"
"It's a question."
"Then here's my answer." She stepped back, the ground beneath her warming. "Spar me. Right here. Right now. Unless the diplomatic ward is scared of a girl who's 'leaning too far forward.'"
Lioren raised an eyebrow. "You're not very diplomatic, are you?"
"Didn't apply for that ward."
Silence stretched between them, charged and daring. Then he dropped his satchel and rolled his shoulders.
"Alright, Firefly," he said. "Show me what you've got."
From the manor's second-story balcony, Caelum and Isolde watched the interaction with vague amusement and a fair amount of concern.
"Do you think we should stop them" Isolde muttered.
"He's diplomatic," Caelum said. "He'll talk his way out of it."
Below, flames and shadows danced, and two prodigies collided.
And somewhere in that clash, the first sparks of something far more complicated began to stir.