The fire roared past her, blistering the night where she’d been standing just a heartbeat ago.


    In the shadow-soaked warehouse, Kane’s walking stick looked deceptively plain, its glossy black sheen catching stray glints of streetlight that filtered through splintered window panes high above. But as Kane’s grip tightened, the air around it rippled, bending the light like a heat haze.


    A flicker, then another—the glamour buckled. Paint peeled away from its surface as if burned off, curls of darkness crumbling to reveal polished mahogany, rich and deep red, laced with snaking veins of silver and gold inlay. It wasn’t just a staff; it was a weapon, a promise.


    Flames leapt from the staff’s head, licking hungrily along its length as it transformed, no longer the humble cane it pretended to be but a living inferno forged for battle. Kane’s fingers flexed, and the staff blazed to life, carving arcs of light through the smoky air, each swing a ruthless slash of light. He spun into the thick of it, fast and feral, the heat bending to his will—a dancer cloaked in fire, grinning like death itself.


    Kane wasn’t merely a Caster; he was a Fire Dancer. Before his injury, he could have been one of the best. Even now, each movement was art, woven from flame and fury.


    But Aylin? If he was fire, she was the quiet storm—fluid, elusive, and cold as ice. She flowed around his strikes like water slipping through a clenched fist, a hair’s breadth from his body but untouchable. Kane’s strikes were a spectacle—a carnival of fire and flash, meant to burn, meant to dazzle. Aylin ducked and twisted, her eyes locked on his every motion, catching every cocky flick of his wrist, every flourish that hinted at his arrogance.


    They spun together, a blur of fire and shadow. The Infernal Staff carved arcs of flame through the air, while Aylin was a blur of open hands, strikes that came fast and left nothing but afterimages. The space buzzed with raw, live-wire tension—a charge building with every breath, every movement. She could see the thrill in his eyes, the way he drank in the chaos. But Aylin’s focus never wavered; she was playing the long game, watching, waiting for the right moment.


    “So,” she taunted, slipping in with a feint that he dodged effortlessly. “You’ve got the key. Now what?”


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    He parried her next strike, their movements a deadly dance, each testing the other. “Now? We get the box, and we put this thing to bed. No one should hold the Blood Gems. No one.”


    She scoffed, launching a quick jab that he sidestepped. “So that’s it? Just bury that kind of power, seal it away like some fairy tale?”


    “That’s the plan,” he replied, blocking her follow-up and twisting to avoid her next strike. “Do you even know what kind of fire you’re playing with, darling?”


    She smirked, swinging up her fist, then following through with a stinging backhand that snapped across his face, more insult than injury. “Do you?”


    He recovered, rubbing his jaw with a smirk of his own, his eyes gleaming with a hint of respect. They circled each other, breaths sharp, their fight picking up intensity—sparks from his staff lighting the edges of the room as her movements became faster, sharper, the air thick with tension and flickers of flame.


    Kane swung again, the staff twisting, symbols flaring up in a sickly, unnatural glow. A wave of force shot towards Aylin, but she was faster. She rolled beneath the onslaught, a blur of motion, and closed the distance, her fists striking with precision—a series of blows aimed to end things quick. Kane struggled, each of her hits cracking into him like thunder on brittle wood. Kane, in a desperate move, unleashed a blinding blast of light, while simultaneously propelling himself backward several feet in a dazzling flash.


    He slouched, hands braced on his knees, sucking in deep breaths. Spatial magic took its toll—especially when it was outside his usual wheelhouse. The aether drain hit him hard, leaving his limbs heavy and his vision swimming.


    She took advantage of the lull, wiping the haze from her eyes, a quick blink restoring clarity. They locked eyes, both knowing this was just a momentary truce. And then, they closed the gap, moving in once more—ready to finish what they’d started.


    “Cute tricks,” she sneered, her voice like a blade, sharp with venom. She slipped to the side as his staff swung down, missing her by inches, the air crackling with residual heat. “Not bad for a ‘cripple.’”


    Kane chuckled, unbothered, his grin infuriatingly calm as he twisted the staff back up, flames licking dangerously close to her face. “Funny, I was just thinking the same. You’re not half bad yourself—for a ‘dame.’” He feinted left, then threw a jab with his free hand. “Tell me, where’d you pick up Thousand Hands?” He advanced, forcing her back. “Thought old Master Ki hung up his hat years ago.”


    “Oh, I’d tell you,” she shot back, deflecting his strike with a flick of her wrist, a wicked smile curling on her lips, “but then, I’d have to kill you.” With a swift spin and a teasing flourish, she ducked under a fiery burst, landing on her hands and driving a brutal mule kick into Kane’s gut, sending him staggering back.