Page 163 of Elemental Becoming

“Move back, you dark bastards!” he roars, lifting his shield just in time to block a shadow’s strike.

Beside him, Lyra fights with ruthless efficiency.

She may not channel greater Earth magics, but every strike of her blade is deadly. It flashes once—fast, brutal—slicing clean through a shadow before it can even react.

Determination is carved across her face: sharp, relentless, merciless. She drives her sword deep into one creature’s chest. It shudders. Shrieks. Crumbles to nothing.

A thought skitters across my mind in the midst of the chaos: Where did she get a sword? Where did everyone’s weapons come from?

And then I am back in the middle of the battle.

Lyra doesn’t pause.

Wrenches the blade free. Spins. Cuts another down in one savage, perfect motion.

Garrick didn’t just train her to fight. He made her a weapon.

I glance to my left and see Jarek, sending blinding bolts of light into the shadows, his body a beacon in the darkness. His power pulses, cutting through the fight as he protects the soldiers’ flanks.

And just a few feet beyond him, Rian lashes whips of water, cracking through the air with merciless force.

A sudden boom shakes the hall.

The main chandelier crashes down, sending shards of glass flying in every direction. I barely have time to react before I throw up a shield of earth, the marble rising just in time to block the deadly rain of debris. Several other wielders and channelersthrow up shields of various Elements.

At the far side of the ballroom, Rowena is fighting alongside Jarek and Rian.

But it’s Jarek who draws my eye.

A master of hand-to-hand combat, Jarek moves like a force of nature. His fists and feet are lethal, every strike precise, devastating as the runes activated on his gloves and boots. Flames ignite along his forearms and calves, searing brightly as the inscriptions on his Cinderstrike Gauntlets and Moltenstride Greaves burn with molten light.

Heat rolls off him in waves. The air distorts around his body.

He drives a flaming fist into the nearest Fellborn. It detonates on contact, exploding into embers before it can even scream. He spins, twisting into a brutal kick. The second shadow is hurled backward, a trail of fire left in its wake.

A third comes at him—too fast, too close.

Jarek slams both fists together, his rune-marked gloves flashing blindingly bright, and releases a violent burst of fire. A shockwave of heat erupts outward, blasting the creature apart in a fiery detonation.

His boots scorch the floor as he steps forward, each move leaving molten imprints in the marble.

Another shadow lunges.

Jarek dodges, then stomps down hard, activating the seismic rune in his boots. A fiery shockwave rips through the ground, knocking enemies off balance.

One tries to claw at him from the side. A mistake. Jarek catches its twisted wrist, flames flaring violently beneath his skin, and crushes the creature’s arm before driving his fist straight through its core. The shadow screeches before bursting into ash.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunts, rolling his shoulders as another wave of Fellborn surges toward him.

His runes burn brighter, the flames crawling up his limbs like a living inferno. He grins. Then he dives back into the fight—a walking storm of fire and destruction, his fists and feet turning the battlefield into a blazing graveyard of shadows.

Rian’s longsword cleaves through darkness with fluid efficiency. He moves like the tide itself—quick, adaptable, unstoppable—his blade an extension of the water he commands.

He pauses. His eyes flick toward the dais, where terrified guests crouch, screaming, trapped as a new wave of Fellborn surge toward them. He shifts his stance, gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands.

Water gathers.

It rises from the air, from the very moisture in the room, coalescing along the length of his blade. Not merely flowing, but building into something far more dangerous.