Liam's burning sword hissed as it pressed deep into the aged wooden door, the heat of the enchanted flame searing through the layers like butter under a red-hot knife. He gritted his teeth and moved his arm slowly but firmly, carving a clear line down the vertical middle of the door. Sparks danced wildly as embers trailed behind the blade's path. Then he pulled the sword sideways to his right, slicing a straight line to form the top of a square. The smell of scorched wood was thick now, biting at his nose. He didn't stop—sweat beading on his forehead—then dragged the sword downward to complete the right edge of the square, finally finishing the bottom edge in one clean sweep.
Once the square was fully cut, Liam stepped back, raised his leg, and slammed his boot against the center of it with a sharp grunt. The thick, blackened wood groaned and then gave way, crashing inward and falling like a slab onto the floor on the other side with a heavy thud.
