The clan's dueling grounds had changed little over the years, an open glade bordered by towering ancestral trees, so tall they seemed to scrape the sky. The grass was neatly trimmed, but carried the scent of ancient blood and magic. Generations had fought here. Now it was Lyrelle's turn.
She stepped into the clearing with steady breaths, wind trailing at her heels like a loyal companion. On the opposite side stood Cailen, her elder brother, and the one most believed would inherit the clan's leadership. The air around him shimmered with subtle humidity. Mist clung to his boots, soft and unassuming, until it wasn't.
They stood in silence until Cailen broke it.
"You clawed your way back for this?" he said, voice devoid of mockery, as though stating a fact. "Still wasting your time with weak roots."
Lyrelle didn't flinch. "Then cut me down."
He didn't respond. He didn't need to. The clan head's signal was wordless, only a gust of energy pulsing from the boundary stones. That was enough.
Cailen moved first. The grass rippled around him and burst upward into coiling vines, wet and heavy. They lunged toward Lyrelle, twisting unnaturally, the tips sharpened like thorns glistening with dew.
Lyrelle sidestepped, letting her wind lift her just beyond their reach. The vines crashed into the earth behind her, sinking into it like snakes. She waved a hand, summoning a blade of air to slash the next wave—but they regrew instantly.
The next attack came faster. Roots exploded upward beneath her feet, trying to snatch her ankles and pull her into the earth. She dodged again, breathless now, keeping low.
Cailen stood calmly in place, not even breaking a sweat. He swept his hand to the side, summoning a cluster of blue flowers that burst open in unison. From their center, thin vines shot out like threads of silk, wrapping around Lyrelle's legs mid-leap.
She twisted, slamming wind downward to boost her up, snapping the bindings just before a water spear fired through the air where she'd been a heartbeat before.
Pain lanced through her side. A graze, but enough to sting.
She landed hard, rolling through wet grass, then spun and released a wide wave of air. The vines pulled back in retreat, severed by the pressure.
Still, she hadn't touched him yet.
Cailen raised his hands this time, whispering something only the plants could hear. The field responded, grass turning white, brittle bark forming spikes, and lilies opening with glowing cores.
She narrowed her eyes.
He had prepared the field for something big.
She clenched her fists and tapped into the roots she had carefully nurtured throughout her training. Even as her wind magic surged, she'd learned not to abandon her connection to nature entirely.
Vines sprouted at her feet, her own vines, twisting up to form a shield. When the next wave of barbed branches surged toward her, they collided with her defenses and shattered like glass.
This was her chance.
She leapt into the air, wind thrumming beneath her, flowers blossoming in her wake. The battlefield changed. Petals stirred, dancing on the wind.
Cailen raised a brow. "So you are done pretending."
She didn't answer. She extended both arms, the wind surrounding her spinning into a funnel, lifting petals from the flowers below.
They shimmered, thousands of them, red, violet, and white, glinting like blades.
"Dancing Flowers."
The petals spun violently, forming a storm. Not chaotic. but precise. She guided them in a spiraling pattern that pressed inward. Cailen braced himself, summoning a wall of bark and vines that twisted into a cocoon.
The petals struck.
The air howled as the storm clashed with the defenses, carving at them relentlessly. The bark began to flake. Vines snapped and wilted. For a moment, it seemed Lyrelle might break through.
But then... Cailen stepped out of the storm. "Not bad."
Water wrapped his arms, a spiral of liquid flowing around them. His expression remained calm, but the weight of his power became obvious. The ground trembled.
He dropped to one knee, planting his palm on the earth.
"Now witness the roots of the world."
From the center of the arena, something stirred. A thick trunk erupted from the ground, twisting and growing at impossible speed. Branches arched over the arena, thick with luminous leaves. The air grew heavy with pressure and mana. It wasn't the real world tree. but it mimicked it frighteningly well.
The miniature Worldroot loomed above them, crackling with raw elemental force.
Its roots lashed out like serpents, each one thicker than a man's leg. Leaves fell—but instead of drifting, they moved with intent, each one glowing faintly with stored magic. The petals were swept aside. Lyrelle's storm faltered.
She dropped to one knee.
Her breath came fast. Her wind magic surged, but it was slipping. And her nature magic, still not as strong.
She closed her eyes.
Wind was never meant to be still. It thrived when in motion. So should she.
The flowers she had bloomed across the battlefield had not been swept away. only their petals used. Their stems still stood, resonating with her. The field was still hers.
She whispered something the wind carried for her.
The petals gathered once more.
She mixed her wind not with brute force this time. but with precision, a sharpness that could weave between roots. She added something new: a pulse from her nature magic. A rhythm. The flowers responded, their petals glowing softly.
She launched herself forward, wind roaring around her, petals spinning beside her like blades.
"VerdantTyphoon."
The storm surged again, but this time with unity. Not petals in chaos, but a single, focused spiral. cutting through the base of Cailen's tree. The branches shook violently. The roots retracted.
Cailen gritted his teeth. He raised his arms for one last spell. but the petals swarmed around him before he could cast.
Sharp winds lifted him from his feet, and a final gust struck his chest, sending him tumbling backward into the dirt.
Silence.
The world tree shriveled. The vines fell limp.
Cailen lay on his back, gasping, blinking up at the falling petals.
Lyrelle stood above him, not triumphant... just breathing.
A voice called out, final and clear:
"Victory... Lyrelle."
She didn't raise her fist. She didn't turn to the crowd. She simply stood there, petals drifting gently around her, as if the forest had accepted her at last.
Even Cailen, as he sat up slowly, gave a small, reluctant nod.
She wasn't a waste of effort.
She was a storm in bloom.