The platform bore fresh scars from yesterday's violence, stone chips and dried blood marking where bodies had struck hard surfaces. Ryelle traced one of the deeper gouges with her fingertip, feeling how the rock had cracked under impact. Her impact.

The memory sat strange in her chest—pride tangled with revulsion, satisfaction wrapped around guilt like thorns around a rose stem.

"Admiring your handiwork?" Liselotte's voice carried amusement that felt sharper than yesterday's mockery.

Three new harpies waited at the platform's edge. These moved differently than the young warriors she'd fought before—older, scarred, with the kind of patient stillness that spoke of creatures who'd killed and lived to grow cautious about it.

"More volunteers?" Ryelle asked, though her nose already told her the answer. These smelled of old violence and fresh confidence, predators who'd come to test themselves against whatever had bloodied their juniors.

"Hunters," Liselotte corrected. "Real ones. Young warriors play at fighting. These have eaten enemies."

One of the waiting harpies spread its wings—not a threat display, but a casual stretch that revealed old wounds along the wing membranes. Parallel scars that could only have come from another harpy's claws, healed but permanent. Battle trophies or survival marks, depending on who'd won that particular exchange.

Ryelle stepped onto the platform's center, her bare feet finding purchase on stone still rough from yesterday's cratering. The texture felt familiar now, as if her soles had developed a taste for surfaces meant for violence.

"Same rules?" she asked.

"No rules," Liselotte said. "They hunt. You survive, or you don't."

The first harpy launched without preamble, but its approach carried none of yesterday's reckless speed. It came in low and angled, wings adjusting constantly to read air currents Ryelle couldn't see. When she moved to intercept, it banked away at the last instant, talons scoring shallow cuts along her shoulder before climbing beyond her reach.

Testing. Learning her timing, her reach, her blind spots.

The second harpy struck while she was still tracking the first, coming from directly overhead in a dive that ended with claws raking across her scalp. Blood ran warm down her temple, but the real damage was tactical—now they knew she couldn't watch two directions at once.

She spun to face the third attacker, but it had already repositioned, hovering just outside striking distance while its companions circled for new approaches. Patient. Coordinated. Professional.

This wasn't going to be like yesterday.

The next exchange drove her to her knees, three sets of claws finding flesh while she managed to land no return strikes at all. They fought like a pack, each individual covering the others' approaches while denying her any opportunity to ground them.

She grabbed for the nearest harpy as it passed, her fingers finding purchase on feathered ankle. The warrior twisted in her grip, using its momentum to wrench free while raking claws across her forearm. Blood welled immediately, bright droplets spattering the platform's stones.

The other two circled back for another pass before she could capitalize on her momentary advantage. They'd learned from watching yesterday's combat, understood that grounding meant defeat. Instead, they stayed airborne, forcing her to react to their choices rather than imposing her own will.

Frustration clawed at her throat like swallowed thorns.

"Problem?" Liselotte called from her perch, amusement coloring her voice. "Dragon cannot catch flying prey?"

The next coordinated assault drove Ryelle to her knees, multiple sets of talons scoring hits across her shoulders and ribs. She managed to clip one attacker with a wild swing, sending the harpy tumbling through the air, but the victory felt hollow when weighed against the mounting damage.

Blood from a dozen shallow cuts painted her torn cheongsam in spreading crimson stains. The wounds weren't serious individually, but their accumulation spoke of a battle sliding inexorably toward defeat. Her opponents possessed every advantage—speed, mobility, the luxury of engaging only when conditions favored them.

She needed to change the rules.

Ryelle wiped blood from her brow and scrambled upright in time to sidestep another attack. Heat surged beneath her skin, dragonfire waiting for release.

Inhaling slowly, she held the breath for several heartbeats. The dance of three aerial opponents forced her focus tighter with each movement. She followed one darting feint with her eyes, then another. Each beat of a wing created subtle currents, shifting shadows that teased her instinct for openings.

She waited. Watched. Counted wingbeats, watched for subtle adjustments in those membranous sails. Waited for a tell that would offer her an opportunity against foes that danced through the air like so much dust in the light.

Her lips parted, releasing her breath, silver fire catching the nearest harpy mid-dive, its scream sharp enough to elicit sympathetic twitches from the others. The harpy shrieked and tumbled, crashing into the platform's edge with enough force to crack stone. But the victory felt hollow—two others remained airborne, and now they knew to avoid her breath's limited arc.

They pressed their advantage immediately. While one harpy distracted her with feinting attacks, the other swept in from her blind side, talons finding the back of her neck. The strike carried enough force to drive her face-first into the stone, stars exploding across her vision.

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Dragonfire erupted from her throat, geysering skyward but failing to find a target.

She cursed, spitting blood as she rolled upright to block another pair of slashes.

Adaptation. Harpies excelled at it—the ability to learn an enemy's capability and change their approach accordingly. They'd already learned to avoid her fire, to treat her strikes like another set of talons to dodge, to herd her away from areas of the platform that offered cover or opportunity for counterattack.

The pattern repeated until her throat burned raw and her divine energy reserves began to flag. Three opponents demanded more fire than she could sustain, especially when each flame-burst bought her only moments of reprieve rather than a decisive advantage.

One harpy dove toward her back while she tracked another's approach from the front. Ryelle spun to meet the new threat, her hand rising instinctively to ward off descending talons.

Silver fire erupted from her palm.

Not breath—pure flame conjured from flesh and bone and will, a coruscating blaze of heat and force that answered her summons.

The fireball caught the diving harpy center mass, explosive force sending the warrior tumbling across the platform in a tangle of singed feathers and startled yelps.

Ryelle stared at her hand, fingers still tingling with residual heat. Dragonfire, manifested outside her body and hurled like a weapon. When had she learned to do that?

"Oh," she breathed, wonder and understanding colliding in her voice.

The remaining veterans pressed their advantage while she puzzled over this new development, forcing her to dodge and weave rather than experiment. But now that she'd felt the fire respond to her will, she couldn't unknow the sensation.

Her next attempt came during a lull between attacks. She focused on her left hand, trying to recreate the feeling of flames flowing outward from some internal source. Heat gathered in her palm, visible distortion rising like summer air above hot stone.

Then fire burst into existence around her fingers, silver-white and hungry.

This time she held it, studying the way the flames danced without consuming her flesh. The fire felt warm rather than burning, like holding sunlight made tangible. When she willed it to compress, it obeyed. When she shaped it into a sphere, it maintained that form.

The veterans seemed less enthusiastic about her expanding capabilities. They circled at greater distance now, their attacks coming in swift darts rather than sustained assaults. But their caution gave her time to experiment.

She discovered she could manifest fire around either hand, or both simultaneously. The flames could be shaped into spheres for throwing, or maintained as a continuous burn that made her strikes devastating at close range. Each manifestation drew on the same internal source as her breath weapon, but the energy cost felt more manageable.

During the next exchange, she caught one veteran with a fireball that sent it crashing into the platform's edge. The remaining two attacked from opposite directions, forcing her to split her attention.

Her left hand caught one with dragon fire. Her right hand...

The flames that erupted around her right palm carried more force than expected. Instead of a controlled burn, fire exploded outward with enough violence to knock her backward several steps. The targeted harpy shrieked as the blast caught it fully, feathers igniting like torch-soaked cloth.

But it was the recoil that captured her attention. The explosive force had pushed against her as much as her target, creating a reaction that...

What if she aimed downward?

The next experimental burst came from both hands, flames directed toward the stone beneath her feet. The resulting explosion launched her upward with enough force to reach the platform's elevated edge, though her landing lacked any semblance of grace.

Liselotte's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Flying without wings. Dragon finds new way to claim sky."

Ryelle picked herself up, joints protesting the impact but mind racing with possibilities. If she could control the force and direction of the explosive fire...

Her next attempt was more deliberate. She focused on her feet, willing fire to manifest beneath them in short, controlled bursts. The first explosion nearly sent her tumbling, but the second achieved something closer to controlled propulsion.

By the third try, she managed to launch herself high enough to engage one of the circling veterans in mid-air.

The harpy's surprise lasted only an instant, but that was enough for Ryelle to close the distance. Her fist connected with feathered abdomen, sending the warrior spinning toward the platform below.

But maintaining altitude required continuous fire generation, and the energy cost mounted quickly. She managed perhaps three seconds of aerial combat before her internal reserves forced her back to ground level.

The remaining veteran attacked during her descent, thinking to catch her while she was vulnerable. Instead, Ryelle met its approach with an explosive wave of silver fire, hurling the battered warrior toward the distant trees.

When the smoke cleared, Ryelle stood alone at the platform's center. Three defeated harpies lay sprawled around the periphery, each nursing wounds far more serious than yesterday's challengers had dealt.

Her cheongsam hung in tatters, burnt fabric revealing skin that bore countless angry red lines from talon strikes. Her divine power reserves felt nearly empty after hurling so much fire. But she'd won.

Triumph swelled within her—part satisfaction, part fierce, uncoiling pride at having overcome opponents who'd forced her to evolve. She'd conjured silver fire and used it to fight and fly.

The dragon essence had awakened new instincts. She'd learned to command flames beyond her breath, to answer strength with fire.

The spectating harpies broke into raucous cheers. She couldn't discern individual words through the din, but the tone carried approval mixed with surprise.

"Still more gentle than needed, but learning. Improvement." Liselotte nodded approvingly from her perch atop a nearby tree.

"I thought it was supposed to be hunting. Didn't feel like they were holding back." Ryelle glanced at the defeated trio as Gwynelle set about patching them up.

"Hunters push you until you cannot be pushed further. Good sign." Liselotte clapped her wings together, a sharp, dry sound.

"Good lesson," Ryelle allowed. "Could be better with fewer claw marks to show for it."

"Hah!" Liselotte made a derisive noise. "Fewer wounds would not teach you to rely on strength rather than hiding. Wounds show strength. Hunt is about testing limits, finding new paths to victory when old ones fail."

Ryelle sighed, watching the defeated challengers being led away by Gwynelle. "And what happens to the three who lost? I injured them pretty badly at the end there."

"Mm... They learn, too. Next time, bring fireproof feathers."

"Is that even a thing?"

Liselotte shrugged. "Not before today. Perhaps tomorrow."

Ryelle eyed her, then shook her head ruefully. The harpy's logic, if you could call it that, felt circular and self-justifying at times. But she couldn't deny the effectiveness of Liselotte's teaching methods.

"So, more hunting tomorrow?" she asked.

"Less hunting. More flight testing, I hope. You learn to fly with firebursts."

"Yeah..." Ryelle looked at her hands, feeling the residual tingle of power still lingering. "Wait, flight?"

Liselotte chuckled at her puzzled expression. "Always new heights to reach. Tomorrow, dragon claims the sky."

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