-Elara's POV
As I stand across from Lysandra, V's friend, I can't help but notice the air of nonchalance she exudes. She's leaning back, that same smirk playing on her lips. "Come on, Blueberry, let's make this fun, at least," she calls out, and the crowd chuckles. They're expecting a spectacle, and I can't shake the feeling that Lysandra is putting on a show.
The professor's hand falls, signaling the start of our duel, and I brace myself. I can sense the eyes of the class on us, the weight of the midterm's importance heavy in the air. I release a controlled stream of water, weaving it into defensive patterns, knowing full well the strength of fire magic that Lysandra holds at her fingertips. I saw it once when she attacked V.
She's moving now, circling me with a predator's grace, and I can hear her voice cut through the space between us. "You're gonna have to do better than that, Blueberry." It's a taunt, meant to rile me up, but I don't let it. I focus, conjuring magic circles, the familiar thrum of power racing under my skin.
'I don't want to hurt you, Lysandra,' I think to myself. 'I want us to be friends, even if you're bluffing about your strength, acting like you're more powerful.' My heart races as I consider the possibility of her words being just bravado. Still, I can't underestimate her, not if I want to pass this midterm.
As the duel progresses, I can see her control, the way she's holding back. She's not using her full strength, and neither am I. I'm not sure why though, she seems like the type to use her full strength.
With every spell I cast, every water barrier I raise, I wonder about the person behind the flames. 'Does she feel the pressure too? Is she also trying to find a balance between showing strength and keeping control?' The professor seems really stressed out today.
The fight escalates, and I start to push the boundaries of my water magic. I can't help but apologize out loud, "I'm sorry for looking down at you." It's my nature, to be kind, even in the heat of battle. I start to weave more aggressive spells, the water speeding around me in a dangerous dance, forming sharp shards that whir like deadly buzzsaws.
I send them flying towards Lysandra, and for a moment, I hold my breath. 'Please, just dodge them,' I plead silently, not wanting to actually hurt her. She does, with a finesse that surprises me, and part of me is relieved. Another part, the competitor in me, is impressed.
With every shard I send, every jet of water I manipulate, I feel the strain of maintaining the balance between a display of power and the preservation of safety. 'Be strong, but be kind,' I remind myself, my every move reflecting that mantra.
The steam from my melted water shards fills the air, creating a misty curtain around the arena. I can't help but admire Lysandra's ability to adapt so quickly, turning my attacks into a mere spectacle of fog and light. 'She really is as strong as she pretends to be,' I muse, my smile broadening despite her continuous jests. Her teasing is just part of who she is, the same way she is around V, and it's hard not to find her bravado somewhat endearing.
I twirl, the hem of my robe fluttering as I conjure another set of magic circles. They glow a vibrant blue, mirroring the color of my hair, and with a flourish, I summon a battalion of water orbs, each one shimmering with contained energy. The orbs hover for a split second before they shoot towards Lysandra, swift as shooting stars.
Lysandra is a blur, her movements a testament to her agility. She bends backward, a water orb passing just inches from her nose, and she spins away from another, her laughter echoing around the arena. It's a laugh filled with the thrill of the challenge, and it's infectious. 'She's enjoying this as much as I am,' I realize, and that thought alone fuels my next spell.
I raise my arms, calling upon the higher echelons of my water magic. The orbs that miss Lysandra loop back, controlled by my will, and begin to orbit her. I'm not aiming to hit her with them; instead, they serve as a distraction, part of the intricate web I'm weaving.
As I watch her effortlessly dodge each orb, I can't help but be impressed. 'Lysandra, you're like water yourself, aren't you? Always adapting, always flowing,' I think, the corners of my mouth lifting in genuine admiration.
I give the orbs one final command, and they explode into a cascade of harmless sparkles, a display that draws 'oohs' and 'ahhs' from the audience. I clap my hands together, and the moisture from the sparkles collects into a glistening wave, rolling towards Lysandra. It's a feint, though. I'm not aiming for a direct hit but rather for what comes next.
As Lysandra leaps over the wave with an acrobatic flip, I weave my fingers through an intricate pattern, and the droplets from the wave crystallize into a flurry of icicles, glittering and precise. They fan out, covering a wide berth to counter Lysandra's impressive evasive skills.
Lysandra, seemingly unimpressed with the latest display, lets out a languid yawn, stretching her arms above her head. But as her jaws close, her eyes snap open with renewed fervor. Flames lick the edges of her silhouette, a fiery corona that heralds her untapped speed. She moves, and the world blurs around her. Ehhh!?
In an instant, she is not where she was, and I barely catch the trail of embers she leaves in her wake. 'Faster,' I note, my pulse quickening. 'She's getting faster.' My mind races to keep up with the shifting battlefield. Water magic requires focus, control, and an understanding of fluidity. I draw upon it, casting water binds to ensnare her, but they sizzle and evaporate into steam as she darts through them, her flame magic a perfect counter.
I conjure a volley of water arrows, sharp and fast, aiming for where she will be rather than where she is. Oh, there she is!... But she is no longer there; she is a step ahead, always a step ahead. The frustration begins to simmer within me. 'Concentrate, Elara,' I command myself, but the voice in my head is spinning like a top.
The air grows humid with the heat of her fire and the chill of my water, a meteorological chaos that reflects my internal tumult. My head feels fuzzy, my thoughts chasing each other in fruitless circles. I grind my teeth, a part of me—the part that desperately wants to win—beginning to roil with the effort of matching her pace.
Another barrage of water shards, and they fly, true and sharp, but Lysandra, she's a dance of flames, a comet against the night sky. The shards pass through where she was just a breath ago, harmless. She's not just evading; she's predicting, and it's like she's reading my very thoughts. Am I going insane?
'How can she be so fast?' My mind is a whirlpool, each thought sucked into the next, the constant movement leaving me dizzy. I cast a wide arc of water in a desperate attempt to corner her, to slow her down, to do anything to break her relentless momentum. But it's like trying to catch smoke, like trying to pin down a shadow.
The crowd's cheers are a distant roar in my ears. I can almost hear their anticipation, their expectation of a spectacle. And Lysandra, she's performing, each flicker of her flame a taunt, each burst of speed a challenge.
My next spell is almost frantic, a cascade of water tendrils, seeking, searching for anything to latch onto. But the tendrils writhe in the air, aimless, as if confused by their own purpose. 'This is like trying to grasp at the wind,' I think, a part of me wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
She's a blur, a streak of fire that writes itself across my vision, and for a moment, everything else fades—the crowd, the midterm, the very ground beneath my feet. There's only Lysandra's laughter, the heat of her magic, and the spiraling of my thoughts as I try, and try, and try again, to match the unmatchable.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
The clash of water against fire fills the arena with steam and hisses, a tangible tension building in the air. Lysandra and Elara are locked in a fierce battle, each showcasing their mastery over their elements. My eyes dart back and forth between them, the anticipation like a coiled serpent in my gut.
A thud jolts my attention away from the spectacle. Isabella has slapped down a potion on the table before me. Its contents shimmer with a promise, the allure of the liquid almost hypnotic. It's a Potion of Beauty, and I know without looking, it's designed to be tempting.
I gulp deeply, my fist clenches, and without intending, my force sends cracks running through the desk. A rage, hot and wild, bursts within me. How dare she!
[Potion of Beauty]
[A rare potion crafted by the partnership of Lilith and Rosalind. Enhanced with embedded mana. It can increase Charisma by 20 points.]
My heart hammers against my ribcage. Five more points than last time... This sly bitch thinks she can toy with me? Not a chance!
I can't suppress the cold laugh that bubbles up. "Hmph," I fix her with a stare that could freeze hell over. "Do you really think that's going to work on me?"
Isabella's grin is a slice of malice. "Yes, I do," she purrs, confidence oozing from her every pore.
I sigh, the sound heavy with disdain. But then, horror grips me. My hand twitches, reaching of its own volition, drawn to the damned potion like a moth to flame. A pen, an accursed tool of commitment, beckons. No, no, no, this can't be happening.
My other hand snaps up, seizing the rogue limb before it can sign away my pride. It's a battle of wills, my own body rebelling against my command. "I know I'm ugly," I whisper to myself, a bitter acknowledgment of the potion's cruel temptation. "But don't you dare do it!"
Isabella watches, her smirk growing as I struggle. "Why are you holding back?" she taunts. "Just do it already. You know you want it."
Teeth gritted so hard I fear they might crack, I manage to snap the pen in half, a minor victory against my own weakness. "I won't fall for this—"
But Isabella is relentless. With a flick of her wrist, she produces another pen, laying it down before me with a clatter that echoes like a taunt.
I grab my rogue arm, my muscles bulging with the effort to restrain it. Isabella's grin widens, delighting in my struggle. "You truly are an odd barbarian," she teases, her voice a melody of scorn.
She traces her finger around the edge of the magic contract, a wicked gleam in her eye. "Sign it and that disgusting look will change, making you look like a noble—not that you'll ever be one."
I can feel the bile rise in my throat. Shit. Damn it. I'm not listening, I'm not listening, I chant inwardly, trying to block her out. But her voice is a snake, insidious and winding its way into my ears.
She taps the contract insistently. "I've already made it so we duel against each other. You either sign it here and get the potion or sign it when you lose—with no potion." Her smile is all malice, a predator sure of its prey.
What will it be? Her challenge hangs in the air, a noose waiting to tighten around my neck.
My thoughts are a whirlwind, bold and italicized, almost as if they're trying to escape my mind and make the decision on their own. Don't you dare give in, I tell myself, the internal scream so loud it drowns out the roar of the crowd. You are more than your face—more than this farce of a potion.
But as I stand there, arm quivering under my grasp, a part of me wonders—with a traitorous whisper—what if?