The training courtyard of Tan'thalon rang with the sound of steel on steel. Paladins drilled in formation, their voices rising in sharp cadence, the gleam of Lazulli-tipped banners catching the artificial sunstones above. The stone paved yard, flanked by pillars depicting images of Kaelor, revealed that it was used primarily by Paladins.
Talia had chosen this place to regain some control, to ground herself after the Diviner's unnerving words in council. Sweat already slicked her brow as she drove her practice blade against a dummy, each strike faster, harder. But no matter how disciplined her rhythm, she felt… restless. Ever since that diviner had called her out she felt… sloppy. Like she needed to whip herself back into shape.
Her focus was disrupted when a ripple of whispers stirred among the paladins.
Talia stilled. She didn't need to turn to know who had arrived.
The Diviner's staff tapped gently against the stone floor as she crossed the courtyard, swaying it in front of her to detect obstacles. Blind, but unerring, her steps carried her toward the sparring ring without hesitation. Her hood was pushed back now, sightless eyes pale as glass with a milky green hue, her expression unreadable. Talia had seen her in action in the alley. She knew her staff was more of an act than anything else.
"Still trying to tame the storm?" the Diviner asked softly, stopping just outside the ring.
Talia's jaw clenched. "I'm training. Something you wouldn't understand."
The faintest smile touched the Diviner's lips, curling towards the left.
"Wouldn't I?" She tilted her head. "Test me, then."
Before Talia could reply, the Diviner stepped into the circle. The paladins around them hushed, curiosity bright in their eyes. A duel between a paladin and the famed elementalist was not something to miss. Elementalists were rare to begin with. To see one duel a paladin was something they couldn't resist.
"You're blind," Talia said, narrowing her eyes to a squint. "This isn't fair."
"Then you should win easily," the Diviner replied, lifting her staff in a fluid motion.
A shimmer of light coursed along its polished length, alive and watchful. Heat prickled at Talia's neck. Her pride refused to back down. She had always been a little hot tempered and that wasn't going to change any time soon.
"Fine." she said as she raised her blade.
The first exchange was sharp and fast. Talia lunged forward, exactly like she was taught to, but the Diviner turned just so, staff intercepting with effortless precision. No glance, no flinch. It was as if she already knew the strike's path before it happened.
Again and again, Talia pressed, her strikes fueled by increasing frustration. Each time, the Diviner blocked or stepped aside at the last possible moment, her movements a breath too close, the brush of her sleeve against Talia's arm, the whisper of her breath when she leaned near. To the spectators it almost looked like the Diviner was dancing.
"Your anger speaks louder than your sword," she murmured after catching a thrust and sliding it harmlessly aside. Her lips almost brushed Talia's ear.
"It's why I can read you so easily."
Talia flushed, biting back a retort as she spun away, blade sweeping. Their weapons clashed, sparks leaping. She hated being toyed with, feeling embarrassed in public.
"Don't—" she growled, striking again, "—think you're—" another strike, blocked effortlessly, "—better than me!"
The Diviner's smile widened as she let the staff glide along Talia's blade, twisting their weapons until the two of them were locked close, face to face. Despite being a bit smaller than Talia, the Diviner seemed to know exactly how to move against taller and stronger opponents.
"I don't think," she whispered, her voice low, intimate. "I know."
Talia's breath caught. Heat pooled in her chest, a confusing, maddening mix of fury and something else entirely. With a sharp cry, she shoved the Diviner back and lowered her blade, panting. The courtyard rang with silence, the watching paladins holding their breath. Her face and chest were red with fury and frustration.
The Diviner only dipped her head slightly, serene as ever.
"You'll fight better when you learn which fire drives you… and which one consumes you."
She turned, walking away without another word, staff tapping softly against the stone. Talia stood frozen, blade trembling in her grip. Her heart hammered—not from exhaustion, but from the infuriating truth of it.
At dusk, the sparring courtyard had long emptied. The clatter of blades, the chatter of soldiers—all of it faded until only the echo of Talia's own breathing remained. Only the faint hum of the Lazulli lanterns above broke the silence. Having spent the day basking in sunlight, they slowly released their gathered charge, illuminating the city at night. She sat on a stone bench in the corner, her practice blade resting limply across her knees. Finally alone with her thoughts. Her hands were still trembling, though not from the exertion of practice. She stared down at her palms, raw from gripping the hilt too tightly, but all she could see was the memory of that staff sliding against her sword, the way the Diviner's face had been so close, unflinching, unreadable. And that voice.
I don't think. I know.
The words replayed again and again, threading under her skin. She clenched her fists. "Arrogant," she muttered, though the word felt hollow. Her chest tightened with something hotter than anger, more dangerous. Every time she replayed the fight in her head, she didn't just recall the humiliation—she remembered the subtle brush of the Diviner's sleeve, the warmth of her presence, the faint curve of her smile. Talia pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, groaning. "What is wrong with me?"
She was a paladin. Disciplined. Noble-born. Trained to uphold order, duty, the will of her House. And yet—one duel with a blind elementalist had left her shaken, restless, wanting… something she couldn't even name. All her life she had been raised in noble circles. Everyone she interacted with was of noble blood. Though she never had a true friend. Could this be what was blooming here? Or was it more. She was supposed to continue her bloodline. She couldn't be attracted to women, could she?
The courtyard stones were cool beneath her boots, grounding her. She tried to breathe, to call on her training. But every breath drew back the memory of how effortlessly the Diviner had moved, as though she had seen more in her blindness than Talia could in all her sight.
"Wildfire," she whispered bitterly, remembering the first time the Diviner had named her so.
But sitting there in silence, the word didn't sound like an insult anymore. It sounded like a truth she wasn't ready to face.
Her pulse was finally slowing, but her mind refused to still. She had always been a thinker. Every detail replayed itself in ruthless clarity: the Diviner's staff catching her strikes, the impossible precision of her movements, the brush of her breath at Talia's ear, the way her smile lingered in the spaces between words. She exhaled sharply, squeezing her eyes shut.
"It was just a spar. Nothing more."
But the memory wouldn't stay quiet. The closeness, the heat of the clash, the way the Diviner's sightless gaze seemed to see her more deeply than anyone ever had. Talia's stomach tightened at the thought and she tried to block it out.
"She's infuriating," Talia hissed under her breath.
Her hands curled into fists over the blade.
"Arrogant. Smug. She thinks she knows everything."
The words came easily, but conviction didn't. Even if it was somewhat true.
Her lips parted as another thought rose—unbidden, unwanted. Maybe it wasn't only fury that had her shaking. That maybe what had burned in her chest when the Diviner locked her weapon against hers hadn't been anger at all. That maybe—
"No," she cut herself off, slamming the blade flat against the stone bench. The sharp crack echoed through the courtyard.
She stood abruptly, pacing in the dim glow of the lanterns. Her boots scraped against the stone, restless, unsteady.
"I won't give her that. Not her. Not after—" She bit down on the words, unable to finish.
She stopped, staring up at the night sky beyond the courtyard walls, where the faint shimmer of the Arc Wall caught the stars. Her breath came slow, heavy.
"She's just a blind elementalist," Talia whispered, almost pleading with herself. "That's all she is."
But the echo of the Diviner's voice returned, soft and unshakable.
I don't think. I know.
Talia shivered, and hated how much she wanted to hear it again.
Talia's breath was still uneven, the sting of her own thoughts sharper than her blade. She stood alone in the courtyard now, staring up at the Arc Wall's faint shimmer against the night sky.
"You breathe like a cornered animal."
The voice came soft and steady—close enough to make Talia whip around, hand instinctively going to her sword. The Diviner stood only a few paces away, staff balanced lightly against one shoulder, her head tilted as if listening to the rhythm of Talia's heartbeat. Her blind eyes did not search, but somehow they found.
"You—" Talia bristled, heat rising in her face. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that."
"I didn't sneak," the Diviner replied calmly. "You were simply too lost in your storm to notice me." She tapped her staff once against the stone. "It rattles the air, your unrest. Hard not to hear it."
Talia clenched her jaw, looking away. "I don't need your pity."
"Good," the Diviner said, the faintest curve of a lopsided smile touching her lips. "I wasn't offering any."
That stung more than pity might have. Talia straightened her shoulders, trying to summon her usual defiance.
"If you're here to gloat, don't bother. I've already had enough of your smugness for one day."
But the Diviner didn't gloat. Instead, she stepped closer, slow and measured. When she stopped, she was close enough that Talia could see the faint shimmer of blue dust caught in her braids, and could feel the calm radiating off her in stark contrast to her own turmoil.
"You fight like wildfire," the Diviner said softly. "Bright, furious, consuming. But even wildfire can burn itself out if it doesn't learn when to breathe."
Talia's throat tightened, words catching. She wanted to snap back, to throw the insult back at her. But the tone wasn't mocking—it was gentle, almost protective. That rattled her more than anything.
"Why do you care?" Talia managed, though her voice was rougher than she intended.
For a long moment, the Diviner was silent, tilting her head as if weighing the truth of the question.
"Because you carry a weight heavier than you admit. And because…" she paused, lips curving just slightly, "you're louder than anyone else in the room. Impossible to ignore, even when I try."
Talia's breath caught. Her heart hammered loud enough that she was certain the Diviner could hear it. Before she could muster a reply, the Diviner turned, already stepping away into the shadows.
"Rest, wildfire. Tomorrow will demand more of you than today."
And then she was gone, leaving Talia alone again—though now her unrest burned brighter, sharper, tangled with something she didn't dare name.
The next day the training yard of Tan'thalon's keep was alive with the clang of steel and the barked calls of instructors. Sunlight streamed down in golden shafts, glinting off polished armor and gleaming blades.
Talia had been here since dawn, hammering away at the practice dummies with a ferocity that left even the veteran trainers wary of approaching. Her strikes were too sharp, her movements too quick, as though she could carve away the storm in her head if only she swung hard enough.
"Someone's angry at the world again."
Eldarion's voice carried across the yard before his shadow did. He sauntered closer in gleaming half-plate, every buckle polished, every motion rehearsed for effect. A pair of junior paladins trailed behind him, eager to bask in his shine.
Talia drove her practice blade through the dummy's chest with a sharp crack before answering.
"Not the world. Just people who don't know when to keep quiet."
Eldarion laughed, mistaking the barb for banter.
"Ah, so you mean me." He tapped his chest with mock gravity. "Admit it—you'd be lost without my voice to scold you."
Talia rolled her eyes, yanking her blade free.
"I'd be at peace, actually."
But Eldarion wasn't deterred. He leaned on the rail of the sparring ring, tilting his head in that way he thought was charming.
"So, what's got you brooding like a crow at sunrise? Don't tell me it's about that fight last night."
Talia froze, grip tightening on the hilt. "How do you—"
"Word travels fast." He smirked. "Half the guard is talking about how some mysterious mage swept in to save our 'fiery little Suri-Farah', only to beat her in a duel after." His smirk widened. "You should thank me, by the way. If I hadn't shown up when I did—"
"You didn't save me." The words came sharp, too sharp, before she could soften them.
Eldarion blinked, confused. "I didn't say—"
"I said she saved me." Talia's tone cracked, sharper still.
The air between them bristled. Tension rising so high Talia could cut it with her sword. The junior paladins exchanged awkward glances before making excuses to drift away. Eldarion, however, squared his shoulders, pride wounded.
"She," he echoed, bitterness creeping in. "You mean that elementalist. The one who thinks a few sparks make her untouchable."
Talia's mouth opened, ready to retort, but the words died on her tongue. Sparks. Untouchable. She had been untouchable—the way she moved, the way her blind eyes found every strike before it came. The way she had found Talia without looking.
The memory burned hot under Talia's skin, and she hated that Eldarion's dismissiveness only made her want to defend the Diviner. She turned back to the dummy, lifting her blade again if only to have something to strike.
"Forget it, Eldarion."
He frowned, unused to being dismissed.
"I'm just saying, Talia—you'd do well not to get caught up with people like her. You're a paladin of Surifarah blood. She's just a—"
The next strike split the dummy's wooden neck clean through, cutting his words short.
Talia didn't look at him as she said, low and steady, "I'll decide who she is."
Eldarion opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He left with a shake of his head, muttering something about stubbornness.
When he was gone, Talia let the blade rest against the ruined dummy. Her breath came slow, ragged. The Diviner's words whispered back to her, calm and relentless:
Wildfire.
Talia closed her eyes, fighting the heat in her chest. She hated how much she wanted to burn.
The yard had emptied by dusk, training blades stacked, armor stored, sweat still clinging to the air. Talia stayed behind, perched on the edge of the sparring ring, shoulders hunched, her practice blade lying abandoned beside her.
She told herself she was cooling down. That she just needed a moment before heading back inside. But in truth, she was hiding—from Eldarion's smugness, from her own restless thoughts, from the memory of a blind woman who saw too much.
"You strike harder when you're angry," a voice said.
Talia jolted, hand snapping to her sword before she realized who it was. The Diviner stood in the half-light of the courtyard, staff in hand, her expression unreadable.
"You—" Talia's voice caught. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you," the Diviner said easily, stepping closer. Her blind gaze tilted upward, unerring, settling directly on Talia. "Yet here we are."
Talia shifted on the bench, crossing her arms as though she could shield herself.
"If you've come to lecture me again—"
"I don't lecture," the Diviner interrupted. "I listen. And you… make a lot of noise."
Talia scowled. "Noise?"
"Every strike, every word, every breath. You flare, like a beacon. I don't even need eyes to see it."
The words dug deep, sharper than Talia wanted to admit. Her chest tightened, both defensive and drawn in all at once.
"So what? You think you've got me figured out just because you're… special?"
"Not special," the Diviner said softly. "Attuned. There's a difference."
She leaned lightly on her staff, her voice calm as flowing water.
"But you—" she tilted her head, studying Talia as if hearing her pulse, "you're louder than you know. Too loud to ignore."
Talia's breath caught. The words were neither accusation nor compliment—they simply were. And somehow, that disarmed her more than any blade.
She turned away, staring at the cracked training dummy.
"You're infuriating."
The Diviner's lips curved faintly, almost a smile.
"So they tell me."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with everything Talia wanted to demand, deny, or defend. But she couldn't summon words, not with the Diviner standing so close, steady and unreadable.
Finally, Talia muttered, "Why keep following me?"
The Diviner stepped closer, until the faint scent of ozone and desert rain seemed to linger around her.
"Because wildfire," she said, her voice low, steady, intimate, "left untended… always consumes itself."
Her staff clicked once against the stones as she turned, stepping back into shadow.
Talia sat frozen, staring after her, heart pounding hard enough to shake her chest. She hated the way her cheeks flushed, hated the heat that wasn't anger this time.
She also hated how much she wanted to follow.