It was late in the afternoon.
A faint orange hue stretched across the sky, the sun beginning its slow descent beyond the horizon.
I sat at the top of the usual tree in the back gardens of Killian Hall—its wide branches had always served as a quiet perch, a place where I could observe without being seen.
The breeze was calm, carrying with it the fading scent of winter.
FOOOOSHHH—!
A sudden surge of flames erupted in the distance.
My eyes drifted toward the open clearing near the training field—our usual spot.
Flames roared to life at its center before swiftly compressing into a controlled pillar, shrinking down and molding into a single figure bathed in reddish-orange glow.
Stacia.
She stood alone in the center of the field, her form illuminated by the brilliance of her fire, yet untouched by it.
It was no longer wild, destructive flame.
No—this was something else entirely.
Her mana, once reckless and overwhelming, now flowed with precision.
