When Alex stepped into Malik's dome of heat, the world seemed to bend.
A visible shimmer rippled outward from where his body crossed the threshold, distorting the space around him like glass warping under pressure. The battlefield pulsed. Stone groaned beneath rising temperature, ambient mana curled into tongues of flame, and the very air thickened into a suffocating, volatile deathtrap.
Everyone watching knew what was supposed to happen next.
They had seen it before.
Vess had taken a single step into that radius, and her downfall had been immediate. Her vines—sharp, fast, relentless—had turned to ash before even brushing Malik's skin. Her bark had split. Her roots had boiled. Her body had collapsed into ruin.
So as Alex approached the range of Malik's dome, the audience braced for combustion.
But it never came.
He didn't stop moving.
Didn't slow down.
His cloak didn't smolder.
His boots didn't melt.
He didn't even spill a drop of sweat.
