Amara’s fingers dug into the armrest of her seat until her knuckles turned white, the polished wood biting against her palm as if to anchor her to reality. Yet reality itself seemed to blur before her eyes. The clash in the arena was far from a duel, it was a calamity in a given form.

It looked like it was enough to topple entire armies. Red flares burst like molten stars, white curves split the air with bright light, and crooked shadows were drawn across the ground as explosions rippled from sky to earth. The entire world in front of her looked like it was closer to destruction.

That made her think of a time when she had taken a trip with her mother to the edge of the kingdom. Veridia had only recently claimed the title of Tower Master then. She shouldn’t have been that powerful, but she was. She stood proudly in the wilds, creating illusions and flames to bring down a Grade four stone rhino that no Knight dared face. Back then, she had seemed awe-inspiring.

But now? The woman before her was no longer the same. Her power had grown so much through years Amara had not been watching. Her spells felt like heavenly thunder, born to cause destruction and chaos. She was ‘destruction’ incarnate in every way and form.

And yet, even that was not what rooted Amara in her seat. No, what made her chest tighten and heart stammer was the man standing against such chaos.

Count Arzan.

He did not waver.

Each of Veridia’s conjurations was met with a response. Sometimes, the responses were clever, and other times, it was brutal, but they always, always hit true. He shifted his tactics with the fluidity of a river changing course, adapting to her fury as though he had studied her for a lifetime. And when his counterspells landed, the air itself shuddered.

Two strong powers, two wills collided like gods who’d descended to the mortal plane to wage their war.

Amara’s throat felt dry.

If no one stopped them, the city would be nothing but rubble. That wasn’t an exaggeration—Amara could feel it in her bones. She looked at the golden barrier stretched across the arena. The glow simmered faintly, wavering beneath the constant strain of their clash. The thought chilled her. If the barrier failed, if even a single strike slipped through… the spectators would not survive it. None of them would.

Her hands trembled at the thought, though she pressed them harder against the armrest to still them. The entire kingdom was watching the battle unfold, so was she. Not just as a princess, but also as a Mage, as a friend, and as a witness to two forces that could shape the future of the realm. She had once thought the line between safety and ruin was drawn by armies, by treaties, and by strong forces, but now she realised it might rest on the will of two Mages, locked in a storm too vast for mortals to touch.

She knew the arena had been prepared for this. They’d put up wards and enchantments into every stone, layers upon layers of ancient seals. For extra support, Adept Mages stood at each corner, their hands raised, their mana pouring into the bindings like water into an overfull dam.

This place had been designed to withstand calamity.

And yet, with each clash of spell against spell, the foundations trembled.

Amara flinched as Count Arzan raised both arms, dozens—no, hundreds—of flame lances erupting into the air like a fiery storm. They tore through Magus Veridia’s illusions, unraveling her crafted veils as though they were cobwebs before a torch. Most were turned aside, but enough cut through that the walls themselves shook, reverberating like struck drums.

A cluster of the lances hammered into the barrier right in front of her. Heat seared her face, the golden ward flaring so bright she had to shield her eyes. For a heartbeat she thought it had held. Then she heard it—a sharp crack, like ice splitting in winter.

Her stomach dropped. A thin fracture webbed across the shield.

Magus Jasper, standing as their protector, stepped forward immediately. His voice rang out, “Do not fear. I will not let anything happen to you.”

Behind him, a row of Third-Circle Mages mirrored his stance, channeling their strength into the barrier.

But no matter how steady Jasper’s tone, Amara couldn’t believe him. Not fully. Not with that crack still glowing faintly before her eyes. If those lances had done this much damage to wards carved into every stone, wards meant to contain calamity… How long before all of it gave way?

She glanced at the princes seated next to her, searching their faces for reassurance. Instead, she found only confirmation of her dread.

Eldric had gone pale, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. Amara couldn’t tell if it was sheer terror at the duel’s scale, or the sudden realization of his own folly in crossing Count Arzan. Perhaps both.

Aldrin sat unnervingly still, his expression almost composed, but his body betrayed him. His legs trembled under his seat, quivering no matter how firmly he set his feet. Still, in his eyes, there was a glint, perhaps even fascinated.

Thalric, barely a year older than Amara, looked utterly undone. His mouth hung slightly open, eyes wide with disbelief. He had served with the army, had surely witnessed blood and steel, but this? This was no battlefield—this was the wrath of gods. If it wasn’t for the situation, his posture was comical. Hunched shoulders, his posture angled not forward in defiance but back, toward escape, like a man ready to bolt at the first chance.

Amara looked back at the middle of the ground, her heart drumming in her chest. Even among princes, heirs raised in power, not one of them looked certain they would live to see the duel’s end.

When Amara turned her gaze toward the commoners’ stand, her breath caught in her chest. Large fractures were spidering across the wards there too, glowing fissures widening with every impact. The Mages stationed in that section looked exhausted already, their hands trembling as they pushed mana into the cracks. Sweat and even tears covered their faces. Their hand gestures screamed desperation.

Some seats were already abandoned.

She spotted Knight Killian in the chaos. His armor was already scorched and dented as he barked orders, ushering panicked families toward the exits. He did it with the urgent efficiency of a man who knew he was racing against disaster. If those people weren’t cleared in time, the duel’s stray magic would slaughter them like flies.

Every second, another barrage of spells rocked the arena. Amara felt her heart tightening in her chest. They couldn’t stay here. Not on display, not frozen in their seats while titans tore reality apart in front of them. If they stayed, they would not survive.

She turned sharply to her brothers.

“We need to go. Get out of here. Now!”

Eldric’s head snapped toward her. “We have Magus Jasper and the others here. We are perfectly safe.” His eyes were wide but he sounded defensive, too defensive considering the state they were in.

But before she could respond, a colossal orb of magma slammed into the barrier before them. The ward shrieked like shattering glass, and several plates of the barrier cracked open entirely. The smoldering fire hissed as they struck the seating box.

Amara yelped as sparks sprayed past her. She hadn’t seen that coming, not properly, but the end of her brother’s hair curled and blackened in the heat. Before the flames could lick higher, one of the Third-Circle Mages lunged forward. A torrent of water burst from his palm, dousing Eldric in a rush that left him dripping, his cloak sodden, his face flushed with fury and fear.

He opened his mouth, but whatever retort he had died on his tongue.

Prince Aldrin rose abruptly, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Princess Amara is right.” His gaze flicked toward the center of the arena, his eyes narrowing at the storm of fire and lightning. “This battle… has grown far more dangerous and wild than we expected. Those elements are no longer under control.”

He swept his brothers with a look. “If you two wish to gamble with your lives and your crowns, then sit here and wait. But I won’t. I’m leaving.”

Without another word, he turned and strode toward the stairwell, his steps firm despite the tremor in his legs. The others stared at his back, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.

Prince Thalric was the next to rise. He cast one final glance toward the chaos raging in the center of the arena, his jaw set tight, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief. For a moment Amara thought he might steel himself to stay. But then, without a word, he turned on his heel and retreated toward the stairwell, each step quicker than the last. His departure left the box suddenly hollow, and the silence between Amara and Eldric felt suffocating. Their seats no longer seemed like a place of honor, but a golden prison waiting to collapse.

Amara’s hands curled in her lap as she waited and hoped. But Eldric did not move. His posture was rigid, his gaze glued to the battlefield below. Fire twisted with lightning, clashing like colliding worlds, shaking the very air with each impact. He sat there transfixed, as if the sheer force unfolding before him had shackled him more surely than iron chains. Pride held him in place, the refusal to turn his back when flight would look like weakness.

At last, Magus Jasper himself stepped forward, the glow of the wards painting his stern face in gold and crimson. “It’s better to move, Prince Eldric. The battle…” His eyes flicked toward the two figures tearing the arena apart, lingering a heartbeat too long before he forced the words through clenched teeth. “It’s out of our control.”

The admission seemed to slice the air. Jasper was no trembling novice; he was an Adept, seasoned and certain. For him to say such words left little room for argument.

Eldric’s face twisted, caught between fear and stubbornness. His shoulders tightened, and for a long moment Amara thought he might refuse. But slowly, stiffly, he gave a single nod. “Lead the way.” His movements were abrupt as he rose, and in his unease he shoved Amara forward—not cruelly, but as if rushing her would disguise his own reluctance.

She shot him a frown, but bit back the words rising in her throat. There was no time for them. Turning instead, she fixed her gaze on the other Mages. “You should move as well.”

They obeyed, though their hands never dropped. Mana still streamed from their palms into the trembling wards, the golden light flickering with every step they took toward the stairwell. The barrier shook and groaned like glass on the verge of breaking.

And still, Amara could not bring herself to leave without looking back one last time. Her gaze lingered beyond the cracking shield, past the haze of flame and smoke, to the man at the storm’s center. Count Arzan. Fire and wind screamed around him, tearing the air apart, yet wherever his feet touched the ground frost spread outward, freezing stone and soil alike, as though even chaos itself bent to his will.

His expression was carved in iron—fury sharpened into focus, the face of a man who would not yield.

The sight burned into her, refusing to let her go. Amara realized she had been holding her breath, her chest aching, her lips parted. She let the air slip out in a trembling exhale. Please… not just win. Survive this.

That prayer clung to her as she finally tore her gaze away. With Jasper leading and the others shielding what they could, she followed the line down the stairs, the roar of battle echoing above them. Behind her, the arena groaned and shuddered like a dying beast under the weight of two titans. Deep down, Amara knew the truth. When the dust settled, the arena itself might not stand at all.

***

Killian grabbed a man who had stumbled between the rows of seats, hauling him upright by the arm. “Follow the crowd! Get out of here. Don’t even stay close to the arena. Do you understand?” Read full story at novel⦿fire.net

The man’s face was pale, eyes wide with terror.

“Do you understand?” He repeated the same question.

He stammered something wordless before nodding rapidly and hurrying toward the nearest passage out.

All around, it was chaos. Not the controlled destruction roaring in the center of the arena, but the chaos of people—thousands of them—panicking at once. The stands shook beneath their stampede as commoners shoved and clawed their way toward the exits. Children cried, men shouted, women clung onto men, and in the crush, more than one person was knocked to the ground.

Killian’s men and the arena guards tried to hold order, forming lines to guide the flow, but it was like trying to dam a flood with bare hands. People surged against them from every angle, desperate to escape before another stray spell found its mark. The golden barrier cracked and groaned above them, and no reassurance could hold back the instinct to run.

Killian forced his way through, pushing people toward the stairwells, barking orders until his throat burned. He had just shoved another group upward when something below caught his eye.

Shit, was the only thing he could think. Near the bottom rows, a woman had fallen. She clutched her ankle, her face tight with pain, likely sprained. Beside her, a small boy tugged helplessly at her arm, trying to drag her to her feet. The crowd pressed around them, uncaring, threatening to trample them underfoot.

Killian didn’t think. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He vaulted over the benches, boots hammering against wood as he leapt from row to row, closing the distance in heartbeats.

But just as he reached them—

Crack!

A surge of black lightning tore through the fractured barrier right in front of the mother and child. The sound was deafening, like a tree splitting under a storm, and lines of energy raced outward from the wound. The ward gave way with a scream, a hole yawning open as the lightning burst through.

Killian’s instincts screamed. In one fluid motion, he drew his sword, mana igniting along the blade in a sharp flare. He swung up, intercepting the strike with steel and sheer will.

The impact was brutal.

The lightning slammed into him like a mountain crashing down, a jolt so fierce it rattled his bones and sent sparks exploding across his vision. His knees buckled, boots skidding against the stands. For a moment, it felt as though the storm would swallow him whole.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his strength into the blade. Step by step, he pushed back, grounding the wild surge until it finally shattered away in a burst of crackling air. The ward was broken, a gaping hole still hissing with residual sparks, but the boy and his mother remained alive, shielded by his intervention.

Killian staggered, chest heaving, smoke rising faintly from his armor. His arms ached, his grip trembled on the hilt, but he steadied himself. There was no time to falter.

He had held this strike. But if the arena kept bleeding power like this, how many more could he stop?

Killian’s chest still burned from the lightning’s backlash, but he forced himself to move. He bent quickly to the mother, offering his hand.

“Hey, it’s all right. I’m a Knight. I’ll get you out of here.”

She looked up through tears. Her eyes shone with terror, but she nodded, clutching her child close as Killian helped her to her feet. He guided them quickly through the wreckage of the stands until he spotted one of his men near the stairwell, helping to herd survivors. Shoving the pair gently toward him, Killian barked.

“Get them out of here. Don’t stop for anything! Head straight outside!”

The man gave a sharp nod even though his face was pale and looked like he, himself, would need help to get carried from there. But he immediately took the mother and boy under his protection, vanishing into the flow of bodies fleeing toward the exits.

Killian turned back, drawing in a long breath as he surveyed the arena. By now, most of the stands were nearly empty. The tide of commoners had thinned, though scattered cries still echoed through the air. What unsettled him more was the Mages. The men and women who had been tasked to maintain the barrier, had already fled their posts. The golden lattice was collapsing piece by piece, the glowing cracks yawning wider with every second. What little remained clung stubbornly to life, but it would not last.

Then it happened.

A roar of fire burst across the center of the arena—one of Lord Arzan’s spells, massive lances of flame streaking toward Veridia. But at the exact moment he cast, her counterattack surged through, throwing his aim off by a hair. Just enough.

Killian’s heart dropped. The barrage veered into the stands where the nobles had been seated.

Only fragments of the barrier remained there, patches of light barely holding. The first lance struck and split them apart; the next detonated the whole section into a furnace. The noble stands combusted in an instant, fire racing across wood and stone alike, devouring the place where royalty had been sitting not moments ago.

Killian froze for the briefest second, staring at the inferno. The sheer scale of the destruction was staggering. That much power, unleashed in a single misstep. He had fought beasts, bandits, even blood drinkers in his life, but this? This was devastation on a level no knight could hope to measure against.

And yet… a sliver of relief flickered in him. He was thankful, thankful that Lord Arzan had foreseen this possibility, had insisted on plans to evacuate people. Without that foresight, there would have been no avoiding it. The flames would have swallowed them whole, and both Veridia and Arzan would have borne the blame for an unthinkable massacre.

Killian’s grip tightened on his sword hilt. Lord

 Arzan would have carried that guilt himself, he thought grimly. The man’s shoulders already bore more than most could stand. He didn’t deserve to be crushed by a mistake born of Veridia’s chaos.

Still, there was no denying what his eyes saw. The arena was finished. The wards were shattered, the stands consumed, and both Mages fought with such abandon that the city itself now hung in the balance. If they continued unchecked, this district would be nothing but ash by sunrise.

Killian drew in a sharp breath, sweat and smoke stinging his eyes. His heart urged him to hope—hope that Lord Arzan would endure, hope that he would seize victory. But as his gaze fixed on the duel, watching both combatants hurl devastation with barely a mark marring their bodies, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Neither showed signs of slowing. Neither showed weakness.

This was no longer a contest. It was a storm. And no one could say who would still be standing when the storm finally broke.

Killian’s grip on his sword was white-knuckled as he stood there, staring at the storm of spells colliding overhead. He had lost himself for a moment—thoughts spiraling between duty, fear, and the raw spectacle of destruction unfolding before his eyes.

He was… stunned.

A sudden jerk on his shoulder snapped him back.

He spun, blade flashing upward, ready to cut down whoever had dared to touch him, only to halt when he saw Klan, the Archine Tower Mage sworn to Lord Arzan, standing there, his robes scorched and torn. Beside him was Francis, his face drawn and gray, as though ten years had been carved into him in the span of a single hour.

Francis’s voice rasped. “Why are you just standing here? We need to move out. Even you won’t be able to take one of those spells and stay standing. They’re all fourth and fifth circle spells, boy!”

Killian exhaled, forcing down the haze clouding his mind. He nodded slowly, sheathing his sword. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

The three of them pushed their way toward the exits. The ground shuddered with every explosion overhead, heat rolling off the battlefield in blistering waves. By the time they broke through the gates, the air outside felt no safer—only thinner, filled with the stink of smoke and ozone.

But there was still a crowd lingering outside the arena walls. His eyes met with the people who stood rooted in place, their faces turned upward in horrified awe as fragments of fire and lightning streaked across the sky. Others ran wildly through the streets, desperate to put distance between themselves and the arena before it collapsed. The scene was chaotic, but Killian’s eyes were drawn immediately upward.

There they were.

Lord Arzan and Magus Veridia hovered in the air above the crumbling arena, titans in the form of mortals. Lord Arzan’s blade flared with fire and ice, Veridia’s spear burned black with lightning and shadow. They clashed again and again, their weapons ringing like anvils struck by thunder.

Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd. Nobles and commoners alike stood shoulder to shoulder now—princes forced to mingle with farmers, merchants pressed against Knights—every eye fixed on the duel. For a moment, the gulf of station and birth seemed meaningless. All were simply witnesses to a destruction that none of them could stop.

But Killian’s instincts screamed that this was no place to linger. His skin prickled, the hairs on his arms rising. Danger pressed against him like a storm about to break.

And then it did.

A massive wave of heat erupted outward, washing over them like the breath of a dragon. The ground itself seemed to recoil, and arcs of lightning lanced down from the sky, hammering the arena’s remains.

Stone shattered, flames burst, and in the blink of an eye, the great walls began to crumble inward.

Killian’s stomach lurched. His voice tore out of his chest.

“Run!!”

***

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