The next morning broke with golden light streaming through the canopy, catching on the dew-beaded leaves and giving the forest a gentle glow. Jack stood just outside camp, waiting. Goldeyes had already risen, alert and pacing a short perimeter, while Monsoon snuffled at roots nearby. The quiet was deceptive; tension still lingered in the air.

  Celia emerged from the trees with calculated poise, her posture straight despite the remnants of discomfort in her joints from sleeping with restraints. Jack nodded at her and gestured for her to follow. She didn’t ask questions—just fell in step beside him.

  They walked in silence until the trees thinned to reveal a mossy glade. Sunlight spilled down in beams, and the soft crunch of grass underfoot was the only sound.

  Jack turned to face her. “You said you wanted to prove yourself. Let’s start with that.”

  Celia narrowed her eyes. “You want me to fight you?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I want to see what you can do. Show me your magic.”

  Her brow lifted. “I have no rod. No focus. No crystal. Only my hands and my words.”

  “Then show me what your hands and words are worth.”

  She regarded him for a long moment, her lips pressed thin. Without her focus she wouldn’t be able to cast as quickly and would need to actually enunciate each spell.

  For a moment she almost considered demanding the return of the rod but then thought better of it. She stepped into the center of the clearing, brushing her braid back over her shoulder. Her fingers rose into the air, weaving slow, deliberate arcs.

  Her voice rang out, sharp and lyrical. Ancient syllables spilled from her mouth like the unfolding of fire itself. The temperature shifted. First a subtle rise, then a sudden heat wave rolled outward from her.

  Around her, glowing embers flickered into existence, spiraling upward like fireflies. They shimmered orange, then white-hot, each one pulsing like a heartbeat. Jack stepped back instinctively as the air shimmered with rising heat.

  Celia’s hands moved with precision, her wrists flicking outward as if slicing the air. The embers answered—converging, merging—until a torrent of flame shot forward from her outstretched hands. It wasn’t a simple stream of fire but a roiling inferno, twisting like a serpent made of light and hunger. It surged across the glade, consuming a dead tree in its path. The flames writhed before dissipating into rising smoke.

  Jack didn’t speak.

  Celia’s eyes were bright now, but she wasn’t finished. She stepped in a slow circle, her hands lowered this time, fingers curling inward. The Elvish words she spoke were different now—smoother, deeper. The earth seemed to respond, the air thickening.

  Around her, a spiraling vortex of fire erupted. Not wild, not uncontrolled—but structured, spinning around her in a protective cyclone. The flames curved upward like a burning shell, warding off any would-be attack. Leaves on the edge of the glade curled and blackened from the radiant heat.

  She stood inside the inferno’s core, untouched. Her eyes met Jack’s through the wavering curtain of heat. Then, with a final gesture and a breathless phrase, the vortex collapsed into itself, vanishing with a rush of hot air.

  Jack took a few steps back, keeping a careful eye on her. “That was impressive,” he admitted. “Show me more. I need to know the full extent of what you can do—without a focus.”

  Celia’s smirk deepened. “Of course. You said you wanted me to prove myself. Consider this a preview.”

  She drew a breath and raised her arm, palm forward as she spoke a new sequence of arcane words. Her fingers tensed as if plucking invisible strings from the air. A sharp flick of her wrist, and then—crack—a burst of flame shot from her hand. It split mid-air, fragmenting into three distinct bolts of fire that curved slightly before slamming into distant tree trunks with sharp, echoing impacts. The bark hissed and steamed, smoke curling skyward.

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  “That’s Cinder Lance,” she said coolly. “It targets warmth. Armor, flesh, even mana signatures if they’re careless.”

  Jack gave a short nod, saying nothing. She could tell he was cataloguing every detail.

  Celia turned slightly, facing a patch of trampled earth. She exhaled through her nose, then thrust her hand downward. Her voice lilted into a sharp, precise chant. A crack appeared in the soil, and from it burst a column of liquid fire, molten and angry. It spouted upward like a geyser, then collapsed in on itself with a hiss of evaporated moisture.

  “Flamewell. Good for flushing out cover or catching a formation mid-charge.”

  Still no comment from Jack. Just that wary, searching gaze.

  Celia rolled her shoulders, letting the sweat sheen her brow. “One more, then.”

  This time she held her hands in front of her chest, palms nearly touching as though cradling something invisible. She whispered a few short syllables, and a pinpoint of light sparked between them. It pulsed, trembled—then swelled rapidly into a roiling orb of fire the size of a melon. The flames swirled inside it like a miniature sun, casting rippling shadows and searing heat outward.

  “Fireheart. It grows if I feed it. I can throw it, hold it, or detonate it with a command.”

  She let the orb hang in the air a moment longer, then clenched her fist. The sphere compressed with a whoomp, imploding into a plume of heat and sparks before fading.

  Jack blinked slowly. “You’re strong.”

  “I told you I was,” she replied. “Do you believe me now?”

  “I believe you can kill someone,” Jack said, not unkindly. “The question is whether you can help.”

  He gave her a long look, then added, “You’re not getting the crystal yet. But if you keep cooperating—and if you use that fire to help us—I’ll consider it.”

  Celia met his gaze squarely. “Then give me the chance.”

  The man looked back at Celia and after a moment of hesitation nodded. “This won’t be a real fight,” he said. “But don’t hold back too much. I need to understand how your magic moves. How you think in a fight.”

  Celia raised a brow. “And I suppose I’m meant to learn the same about you?”

  “If you want to live through what’s coming, yeah.”

  She cracked her knuckles and rolled her shoulders, the scarlet threads of her magic already curling faintly at her fingertips. “Then try to keep up.”

  Jack slid into the Coiled Vine stance, knees bent, spear held low and close. He didn’t activate any soul-based techniques yet—he wanted to conserve energy and see how far he could get without needing to.

  Celia raised one hand, fingers curling with effort. Her lips moved in a low, rapid chant. The air shimmered faintly as embers began to gather—but they came slower than they had during their first battle. Jack had seen her use this spell in battle, and it had taken seconds then. Now, it dragged, the magic sluggish without her rod to anchor and amplify it.

  He moved to close the distance while she cast, testing her reaction.

  She snapped her hand forward—Cinder Lance. A lance of fire erupted from her palm and shot toward him, but the angle was slightly off, the spell delayed by a heartbeat. Jack twisted aside and let it pass, feeling the heat as it scorched the air past his cheek.

  “Slower than before,” he observed.

  She scowled. “You try weaving complex spell constructs without a focus. It’s like threading a needle during an earthquake.”

  “Still hit hard,” he said, circling her now.

  Celia didn’t respond—just stepped back and began another chant. This one was longer, more intricate. The air around her shimmered with heat as she built the spell. Her hands moved with deliberate precision. A soft glow pulsed between her palms.

  Jack recognized the pattern just in time—Fireheart. He rolled forward beneath the crackling orb as she flung it with a grunt of exertion. The fireball struck the earth behind him and detonated, spraying dirt and flame.

  When he rose, she was already backing away, winded from the effort.

  He didn’t press. Instead, he launched a probing strike—his spear a blur as it jabbed for her side. She twisted away, trying to summon her protective vortex—but without her focus, the spell sputtered. Her hands moved correctly, her voice rang with clarity, but the flame didn’t surge to life fast enough.

  Jack stopped the thrust just short of her ribs.

  Celia’s breathing was shallow, frustrated. “This is pointless.”

  “No,” Jack said. “This is necessary.”

  He planted the butt of his spear into the ground, catching his breath as the last embers of Celia’s spell faded. “You’re good,” he said, “but here’s the thing—you won’t always have your focus. Not in a real fight.”

  Celia scowled. “I crafted that rod myself. It’s an extension of my will.”

  “I get that. But tools get broken. Dropped. Stolen. You think the Ramkin are going to wait while you fumble for it on a battlefield?” He stepped closer, voice steady. “If you can’t cast without it, then your magic is a crutch, not a strength. I want you dangerous even with nothing in your hands. Because there will come a moment when you have nothing but your magic—and that has to be enough.”