"Fír-thin-hur, gather and scorch—burn the foe!"
Rus chanted a string of incomprehensible syllables, his voice firm and rhythmic. Both hands pushed upward as the mana within him followed a precise circuit, converging in his palms. His mental energy surged into overdrive, turning his eyes silvery-bright with concentration.
Heat bloomed in his palms, and the very air around them shimmered with distortion.
But in the next moment, the distortion snapped—and Rus's mana suddenly spiraled into chaos. A burst of searing white flame exploded from his hands.
His face drained of color as he struggled to suppress the unruly magic. Only after pouring all his willpower into stabilizing it did the fire begin to weaken and finally fizzle out.
When it was over, the skin of his palms had been scorched into a yellowish-brown crust.
