The Flame's Vow

Lucien Roenthal expected fear.

He always did.

It was a currency he'd grown rich on—fear. From the moment he first scorched the training yard with a flick of his hand, to the day he burned through half a bandit camp at the age of thirteen. People learned to flinch. To shrink. To look away when he stepped into a room.

So when the crowd parted and Elarion Valtor turned toward him, Lucien braced for it—that flicker in the eye, that subtle lean back, that pulse of uncertainty.

But it never came.

Instead, Elarion walked forward.

Slow. Unbothered.

Like a man taking a stroll through fog.

Lucien's smirk twitched, but he didn’t let it drop. So that’s how he plays it.

Elarion stopped just short of him. Not a single word yet. Just those unnerving eyes—too sharp for someone their age. He tilted his head slightly, as if assessing a stain on his boot.

Then finally, the boy spoke. Voice calm. Low.

“What business do you have with me?”

The words weren’t a challenge. Not quite.

They were worse.

They were disinterest dressed in courtesy. Dismissal cloaked as patience.

Lucien let out a short laugh, loud enough for the watching crowd. “You think you're something special because you danced with the royals and lived?” His eyes gleamed. “Let me educate you, Valtor. You’re standing in front of someone stronger than them.”

That should’ve landed. Should’ve rattled him. But Elarion just raised an eyebrow—and reached back to scratch the side of his head, his voice laced with dry sarcasm.

“You sure you’re not still stuck inside the Trial of Reflection?”

A ripple passed through the gathered students—half laughter, half disbelief.

Lucien’s jaw tightened.

His pulse thundered in his ears—not from fear, but fury.

Then, the shift began.

It started small: a flicker of heat brushing the hem of his cloak. The air thickened, like the room had exhaled and forgotten how to breathe.

A spark crackled at his fingertips—not summoned, but born.

Mana stirred beneath his skin, old and violent, licking up the length of his forearm like a fuse catching fire. The space around him shimmered, as if reality itself were warping to make room for the inferno trying to claw its way out.

His boots creaked against the marble as the floor beneath them darkened, thin veins of scorched stone spiderwebbing outward in slow, ominous lines.

The glow grew—first a smolder, then a pulse.

His hands ignited.

But it wasn’t clean, controlled flame.

It danced chaotically—orange and crimson, edged in white, like something barely held back by will alone. Each breath he took fanned the embers. His aura expanded, pressing outward. Claustrophobic. Suffocating.

Gasps whispered through the crowd as the light played against their faces, painting them in tones of fire and fear.

“Who,” Lucien growled, voice low and guttural, “do you think you are?”

The hallway seemed to lean in—waiting for a spark to turn the moment into an inferno.

“Lucien…” one of his goons said quietly, voice strained. “We’re in the hallway.”

The other stepped in fast, eyes darting to the crystal sconces above. “There are scrying wards. If you cast here—”

Lucien snapped.

His head turned, slow and sharp, eyes burning hotter than the fire at his fists.

“You fucking peasants dare to stop me?!”

His voice cracked through the corridor like a whip, echoing off stone and enchantment alike. The mana flared violently, flames licking higher around his arms, casting his face in wild, shifting light.

The crowd recoiled—not from the heat, but the raw fury behind his words.

The two boys froze.

One looked down immediately. The other took a cautious half-step back, his face pale.

Lucien stood between them, fire-maddened, pride splintering through every breath. His focus snapped back to Elarion—eyes gleaming, lips twisted with something dark and wounded.

And still, Elarion hadn’t moved.

Not an inch.

Instead—

He lifted a hand to his mouth.

And yawned.

Slow. Unhurried. Complete with a stretch and a subtle crack of the neck.

The sound was soft, but in the tense stillness of the hallway, it rang louder than any spell.

Lucien’s flames flickered.

Someone in the crowd choked on a laugh—quickly stifled. Others just stared, wide-eyed, unsure if they were watching the beginning of a duel… or the public execution of a reputation.

Elarion finally spoke, voice dry, flat, and devastatingly unimpressed. 

“…Are you done?”

Lucien’s breath caught—then twisted into a snarl.

Mana surged.

His arms snapped upward, and the air roared as a torrent of fire exploded into life above his head. It churned into a massive sphere of molten flame—a blazing sun born in the corridor, swirling with streaks of gold and crimson, crackling with unstable heat.

The crystal sconces overhead dimmed under its light, shadows dancing wildly across the stone walls.

Gasps echoed through the crowd. Some students stepped back instinctively, shielding their faces from the sudden heatwave that rolled off the inferno.

Lucien’s voice rang out—sharp, furious, and triumphant.

“This will show you whether I’m done, Valtor!”

The fireball pulsed, growing denser, more volatile.

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a promise.

The kind that ends in ash.

Then—

Flick!

It was just a snap.

Sharp. Precise. Almost playful.

But the moment it sounded—

The fireball unraveled.

Not burst. Not extinguished.

It simply ceased to exist.

One heartbeat, there was a roaring sphere of flame threatening to devour the corridor.

The next—it was gone.

No embers. No smoke. Not even heat.

The ambient magic sucked inward, like the flame had been yanked into a vacuum between heartbeats. The sudden absence cracked through the hall louder than any explosion.

Even the walls seemed to flinch.

Lucien staggered half a step, his hands still raised—but empty.

Everyone froze. 

A figure stood at the edge of the crowd, one hand still raised mid-snap.

He wore a bright pink coat that swirled with embroidered moons and stars, mismatched buttons glittering down the front. A tall, violet hat, wide-brimmed and crooked, sat atop his wild mess of silver-streaked curls. His boots were soft leather, dyed lavender, and one of them had a bell tied to the ankle. It jingled when he moved.

He grinned—a crooked, lazy thing—and wagged a finger at Lucien.

“Oh no no no, fire boy,” he said, voice sing-songy and light. “You really shouldn’t do that in the hall. Makes such a mess.”

A few students blinked. Others stared, dumbfounded.

“Who—” 

“Is he a staff?” 

“He snapped that spell out of existence.” 

“What kind of magic was that…?”

Lucien’s fists clenched.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t lash out.

The man turned to him with a grin—one that looked silly but didn’t feel that way anymore. Then he stepped in close. Too close. Hands behind his back, leaning in with an air of casual inspection.

The playful glint in his eye dimmed.

And then…

His eyes lit up.

Violet. Bright. Unnatural.

Like two dying stars caught in a void.

Lucien didn’t flinch.

But his jaw tightened.

His shoulders tensed.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

He simply bowed his head down. 

The professor clapped once. “Splendid!”

The quirky professor spun with a flourish, his violet coat flaring like a stage curtain. He now faced the boy standing calmly in the back—Elarion.

“Now, now, now... Tower boy,” he said, tilting his head, a teasing lilt curling every word. “Would you mind disabling those delightful little explosion spells you planted on the three? Unless, of course, murdering someone is part of your morning ritual.”

Gasps rippled through the students.

Elarion didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

He simply clicked his tongue.

“Tsk.”

And then—the air cracked.

Not with sound, but with the distinct snap of shattered enchantments.

Three magic circles, invisible till now, glowed faintly over the chests of Lucien and the students holding him back... then shattered like glass.

Silvery fragments of arcane symbols drifted down like ash before vanishing.

Silence.

Wide eyes.

One of the girls gasped, clutching her chest. Another stumbled backward, pale.

“Wait—when did he—?” 

“I didn’t even see him chant anything!” 

“He set those up while we were watching Lucien?!” 

“That’s terrifying...”

The professor let out a low whistle. “Ohoho! Sneaky boy. Very Tower. Damien would be so proud.”

He leaned on his cane—a golden rod with a crook shaped like a duck’s head—and looked delighted.

“You two are going to be so much trouble. I adore it already.” 

“Anyway..” 

The professor tapped the brim of his violet hat with a theatrical bow.

“Professor Viorell, at your wide-eyed service~” he chimed, spinning on his heel.

“I teach Magic Theory and—oh!—a dash of Ethics.” 

He wagged a finger. “Which you clearly skipped, fire boy.”.

“See you in class, you two.”  The professor winked.

He clapped once. 

Puff!

A swirl of violet smoke spiraled outward like confetti—and he was gone.

No footstep. No fade.

Just... absence. 

Silence held.

Then—

Elarion looked at Lucien.

No smirk. No word.

Just a glance.

He turned and walked away, calm, steady, as if Lucien was no more than dust on the floor.

Lucien didn’t move.

Only when Elarion disappeared around the corridor did Lucien finally bite his lip and tightened his fist. 

Murmurs swelled around Lucien like rising smoke.

“What would’ve happened if he didn’t cancel the spell?”

“Did Elarion… actually beat him?”

“I didn’t even see him cast anything…”

Their voices were hushed—but not out of respect. It was disbelief.

But as the crowd murmured and the smoke faded…

He made a silent vow underneath his breath.

“Elarion di Valtor…”

“I’ll incinerate you…”