The room in the Seafoam outpost glowed cool and soothing, healing orbs casting a calming light. Larin sat up against a low, woven bench, his arm wrapped tightly bandaged where the blade of fire had gashed through him. His breathing slowed as the pain ebbed away, replaced by the soothing touch of magic coursing through his veins. Myrith Crestfoam knelt beside him, her tentacle-like hair curling softly around her shoulders. Lysara Tidecrest stepped back, eyes sweeping the space to be certain nothing was missed; fingers dancing through precise, intricate patterns to seal deeper hurts.

"You are wild," Myrith said gently, voice flowing as a stream, peaceful yet insistent. "You are no soldier, Larin, not yet. If we had not arrived—

"You would have died," Lysara concluded starkly. Her gills spasmed in annoyance, but beneath the edge of her words there was warmth. "One does not storm a wildfire without first learning to command the flame."

"I thought I could control," Larin breathed, his pride crushed by the truth of his failure. "I thought. I misjudged them."

"And that," Myrith said, a hand on his shoulder, "is a mistake you will not make again."

A small smile passed Lysara's lips. "You have potential. But potential is not armor."

The understanding hung there for just a moment until a subtle rhythm reached their consciousness—steady steps, measured and heavy with both authority and menace. Myrith's tentacles bristled. Lysara narrowed her eyes. Larin's heart quickened.

The door splintered open with a violent crack, enchanted wood scattering like shards of glass. He towered within the broken frame, his broad shoulders and imposing form almost obscured by armor that blazed an inferno of obsidian and molten glyphs-deep red Pyrestone-flamed, it seemed. His eyes smoldered with fire and twisted the air into waves of unbearable heat. No ordinary officer was this: he was a Pyremarch, a general of destruction.

She could not get the word out. Lysara sprang, fantastically swift; his palm spread into a spear of blaze that flashed at her heart. The attack rolled in so scorching that air around it howled to murder. She strode back upon her heels, all her movement instinctive clarity. A twinge of her wrist called up a blade of watery substance to deflect it, sparks and vapor leaping free into the air from the concussion.

Myrith sprang to her feet, weaving hands spelling the incantation faster than thought. She created a shimmering energy dome around Larin, rippling like tidal waves would -[Ripple Barrier]. Her magic sealed him in close protection from the inferno that had erupted all around them. Her jaw set firmer, expression calm, her hair rising as she channeled her power into effect, she turned immediately.

"Back, behind the fence, stay there," she barked, her voice cutting through the racket.

He stood there, entranced and impotent, as the battle raged. His chest heaved with the beating of his heart. He thrust a hand through the wall, touching cool, unyielding material. He could see everything-the subtle, watery filaments of mana running through its composition, the way it could absorb heat and disperse force with absolute efficiency. He was powerless to help.

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The Pyremarch stepped on Lysara, and with each step the floor dissolved caving in before him. He let out a deafening bellow; great ripples of fire streamed forth from his gauntlets and curved into snakes coiling as they lunged forward. She danced between them with every move smooth, fluid, yet every single movement was counted out against the conflagration engulfing everything around her. She's hurled forward with her spear, the point its strength strikes just so, making a hole in one snake as it darts out of its empty space.

Myrith stepped to a different beat—the beat of a symphony rather than a dance. She spread her arms and the air filled with wetness that swirled in tremendous tendrils, coiling like kraken limbs. They slapped at the Pyremarch with oceans' force. One wrapped around his arm and another around his leg, tugging him backward as steam hissed and boiled at contact.

"Your flames burn bright," she said, her voice like the tide. "But stone carves well with patience."

The Pyremarch snarled, his armor flaring brighter. He threw out his arms, and a blast of flame shattered the tendrils of water, sending droplets spinning apart to mist. He lunged at Myrith, fists like hammers of molten rock. She blocked with a shield of pure current, the shock rippling through her frame, but she held unbroken.

"You speak of patience," he growled. "But fire is eternal hunger!"

She came at him from the side, spear a blur of precision. And into the seam of his armor, she struck the point; with a spritz of liquid sparks flying off the wound, he screamed. The pain ripped through him and shook the walls.

"Your hunger blinds you," she spat at him. "You burn without purpose."

The life was pouring out from Pyremarch's dead face; his gauntleted hand clutched her spear. She shook it loose and cast it aside; then she let go a jet of flame that was rolling down upon her like a volcanic eruption. Both her hands went up, and she summoned a flood of water to meet the fire; the room left thick and suffocating steam.

He squinted through the haze. His mind racing, he watched how they moved, how their magic flowed like combat itself. Not brute force, but strategy and adaptability, precision. Each spell a reaction, each movement a response to the shifting tides of battle. He recalled the lessons of Dernporost—deconstruct, combine, adapt—but now he saw them in motion, alive and deadly.

It had cleared enough to let him see that Myrith had lifted her hand. From her palm leapt a pulse of blue energy, coalescing into concentric circles racing outward. The Pyremarch stumbled, as if the magic took him, his movement slowing as he was caught in the tide rising. Lysara followed with a strike of razor-thin water blades spiraling and cutting, every one of them finding weak spots in his armor.

Then he did not slacken his pace. There, foaming at the mouth, he flung out one final fluid spasm of energy, all his shape aglow, a blazing star with fiery core. And flame encountered Ripple Barrier, and Larin's flesh crawled as it scrabbled to minds that could never be shaken loose from the shell protecting him.

Myrith and Lysara moved almost in perfect tandem. Their magic was coming together in a weave, water curling into a great vortex, a cyclone of crushing force that would sweep up the flames and snuff them out. The Pyremarch was caught in the torrent, his fire spitting and gouting as the ocean engulfed him.

Finally. The fire died and he plunged forward, his coats of mail steaming up in fog. He looked at them through eyes that shone like glowing embers, yet he could no more stand upright.

Myrith let her arms fall. She breathed now normally. Lysara took a step forward, the spear of water sharp in her hand. The point drove into his neck.

"You came to burn," she whispered. "But you are extinguished."