As he strode toward the arena, Elliot didn’t miss the way his brother’s steps slowed near Rheon’s domain—the faint tremor in his fists, the too-quick breath. Pride, he knew, was a fragile shield.

  The air near Professor Rheon’s training ring crackled with residual energy, the ground beneath Towan’s boots still scarred by scorch marks and frostbite—testaments to elemental fury. Rheon stood at the center, arms folded, his presence a tectonic force. Sunlight glinted off the sweat-slicked muscles of his bare arms, each scar a story of battles fought without blades.

  Zehn

  The professor’s thumb pressed hard against Zehn’s sternum, where his heart node pulsed erratically.

  Zehn’s hands trembled, sparks dancing between his fingers as if protesting his shame. He stared at the phoenix tattoo on his wrist—a faded relic of his village’s fire cult.

  Mar

  he said, voice low and deliberate.

  Mar’s cheeks flushed, but her hands rose instinctively, summoning a cyclone of air that shredded a nearby training dummy—a defiant rebuttal. Rheon’s smirk was approval enough.

  Towan lingered at the ring’s edge, his own Essentia prickling under his skin like static. This wasn’t sparring; it was survival stripped to bone and breath.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Towan’s voice cut through the tension. Rheon turned, and the weight of his gaze felt like a boulder on Towan’s chest.

  The silence thickened. Zehn and Mar exchanged glances—this fool was volunteering for a burial.

  Rheon’s laugh was a landslide. His eyes dropped to Towan’s subtly favored leg, the legacy of yesterday’s ice-glazed strikes.

  Towan rolled his shoulders, Essentia flaring golden around his fists.

  Rheon shot back. Behind him, the setting sun cast the arena’s archway into sharp relief. The academy’s crest—a phoenix mid-flight—warped in the shadows, its wings twisting into serpentine coils.

  Rheon growled, as he got up on the fighting platform, sinking into a stance. The earth beneath him groaned, fissures spiderwebbing outward as his Essentia surged—not elemental, but raw, .

  Towan’s boots dug into the arena’s sand-strewn floor, his breath steady but his pulse erratic. Professor Rheon stood like a statue, his posture relaxed yet unyielding—a paradox that gnawed at Towan’s focus.

  “Are you doubting already?”

  Towan forced a grin, teeth gritted. “Not yet.”

  He exploded forward, Essentia surging through his legs as he launched into his master’s signaturerehearsed. Not just practiced, but .

  Towan landed, pivoted, and drove a fist toward Rheon’s solar plexus. The professor deflected it with a palm strike so minimal it bordered on dismissive. Before Towan could react, Rheon’s hand pressed lightly against his chest.

  A tremor, not a blast.

  Towan’s vision blurred as the air around him. He flew backward, skidding across the arena until his spine met the stone wall. The impact rattled his teeth, but the force was precise—controlled to bruise, not break.

  Towan coughed, clutching his sternum. The Essentia had felt… , yet eerily familiar—like a distorted echo of his master’s warmth.