As they exited the academy, Damian glanced at the back of his hand. The tracking spell etched into his skin glowed faintly yellow, pulsing like a heartbeat. Outside, the city was alive with wonder. Glowing lanterns of various shapes and sizes floated above the bustling streets. Vendors hawked their enchanted wares while children darted through the crowd, their laughter echoing down alleyways. The air buzzed with life, magic, and a sense of boundless possibility.
They wandered aimlessly at first, marveling at the sights. Street performers conjured dancing flames that twisted into intricate patterns, while vendors peddled self-writing quills, glowing potions, and even unregistered steles—artifacts whispered to be obtainable only by those with the right connections. Damian lingered by a stall displaying shimmering cloaks that promised invisibility, though he doubted their authenticity.
After satisfying their curiosity, Cole led the group into a shadowy alley lit only by flickering blue runes carved into the walls. The transition from the vibrant street to this dim passage felt like stepping into another world. At the alley's end stood a heavily scarred guard in front of an iron door. His gaze swept over them with suspicion. Without a word, Cole handed him a small pouch of coins. The guard weighed it briefly in his hand before cracking the door open.
A narrow staircase descended into darkness, and the group followed it into a sprawling underground cavern. Luminescent crystals embedded in the walls bathed the space in an eerie glow. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, blood, and the electric buzz of anticipation.
The crowd—a mix of students, locals, and cloaked figures—erupted into cheers as a booming voice announced the start of the night's illegal tournament.
Cole turned to his companions with a sly grin. "Gentlemen, welcome to the Pit. No explanations needed—just enjoy."
At the center of the cavern, a massive stone platform served as the battlefield. Enchanted to repair itself after each match, it gleamed faintly in the crystal light. Spectators leaned over the balconies, shouting and jeering, while glowing boards along the walls displayed ever-shifting betting odds.
The announcer's voice rang out, silencing the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves! In one corner, the unstoppable force of nature—The Storm!" A towering figure stepped onto the platform, bronze skin etched with lightning-shaped scars. Sparks danced along his armor, and his double-ended glaive crackled with energy, leaving a faint scent of ozone in his wake. The crowd roared as he raised his weapon.
"And in the other corner, the maestro of arcane artistry—Veyra the Spellweaver!" The audience erupted again as a tall, graceful figure stepped forward. Draped in flowing robes adorned with shifting, glowing glyphs, she wielded a staff crowned with a prismatic orb that pulsed faintly with light.
The gong sounded.
Veyra spun her staff, weaving glowing glyphs into a shimmering net of protective wards. The Storm charged, his glaive spinning, sending a wave of crackling electricity across the arena. The attack shattered one of her wards but left her unharmed. With a flick of her staff, she retaliated, unleashing a volley of arcane missiles that exploded around The Storm in bursts of prismatic light.
Undeterred, The Storm hurled bolts of lightning in response, but Veyra's barrage overwhelmed him, striking from all sides. The platform shook as one of her spells hit with a deafening boom. When the smoke cleared, The Storm stood in the center, his forearms scorched from deflecting the brunt of the attack. His eyes burned with determination as he summoned larger, more powerful bolts.
Pathetic, Veyra thought, easily dodging the first. But the second bolt changed course midair, slamming into her hastily conjured ward and sending her flying. She landed hard, coughing as she scrambled to her feet.
Those bolts—they're homing in on me! she realized. She quickly analyzed the battlefield, sensing that the bolts were drawn to sources of mitra, the magical energy that permeated all things. The only significant source nearby was The Storm himself. If someone else in the crowd possessed powerful mitra, they were concealing it well.
She launched a new wave of attacks, conjuring glyphs mid-air and hurling fireballs and chains of ice. The Storm deflected her strikes with brute force, closing the distance between them. He feinted, then slammed his glaive into the ground, creating a shockwave that disrupted her glyphs and sent her stumbling back.
Summoning her strength, Veyra spun her staff and unleashed a torrent of spectral blades that swirled around The Storm, forcing him onto the defensive. The crowd gasped as sparks flew with every strike and parry. Veyra seized the moment, combining three glyphs into a massive, radiant symbol. She drove her staff into the platform, and the arena was consumed in blinding light.
When the glow faded, The Storm found himself trapped in a shimmering maze of walls that flickered with every step. Veyra's laughter echoed as she struck from unexpected angles, her attacks hitting his exposed sides. Enraged, The Storm unleashed a burst of lightning, collapsing the maze in a cascade of sparks. Veyra was forced into the open, her wards flickering weakly.
Exhausted but unyielding, Veyra cast her final spell: a massive glyph that pulsed with unstable energy. She hurled it like a meteor, the air crackling as it descended toward The Storm.
He planted his glaive and spun it, forming a shield of pure lightning. The glyph collided with it, resulting in a deafening explosion that shook the cavern.
When the dust settled, both fighters knelt, struggling to rise. The Storm stood first, leaning heavily on his glaive. Veyra attempted to get up but collapsed, her energy spent.
"The winner—The Storm!" the announcer bellowed.
The crowd erupted, some cheering wildly, others groaning over lost bets. Despite her defeat, Veyra smiled faintly as she was helped off the platform, her gaze meeting The Storm's in a moment of mutual respect.