The Wagering's Final Duel

It’s the final duel; my heart races as I stare down my opponent. The king mage stands across the dusty courtyard from me, sweat brims his forehead. Bronte is his name, and he has gone undefeated for the last five centuries. To say Bronte was not loved is an understatement; he has ruled with an iron fist for far too long. Every hundred years wizards, sorcerers, and witches come together for "The Wagering." What is the wager? Your magic. Wagering your powers, you battle through game after game, either winning your opponent's magic or losing yours. The final magic duel is to the death: the winner walks away with the opponent's magic and the crown. As the winner, we are given the task to use our powers to maintain order and protect all those in the magic community.

I’ve made it this far; I take a deep breath and center myself, finding the warmth of my magic swirling inside of me, ready to be called upon.

“Come on witch!" Bronte spits out, his rotted teeth barred at me. I feel grateful to be so far away; I would hate to have to smell his breath.

I close my eyes, drowning out the sounds of the watching crowd. Magic tingles start to tug at me; I recognize them from a few of the mages I have won against this year. As the magic speaks to me, tiny sparks here, little tugs there, fire tendrils fill my vision, urging me to use it. Magic knows best, so I let it completely fill me, my soul soaking up as much as it can. I feel the warmth start at my chest and enjoy the heat as it flows down into my fingertips.

I open my eyes.

Bronte stops pacing, now frozen in place staring in horror at me. I smile, knowing he sees the fire in my eyes. Slowly I lift my hands up above my head, turn my palms to the sky, and let the fire unleash itself from my body. The stream of fire is thick and steady. Red as the sun, and just as hot. I slowly bring my hands down, palms now turned outwards, towards the current king.

Still frozen in place, I watch the flames swallow Bronte.

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t scream, he just disintegrates. Hesitantly I pull the fire back, bringing it into me. Where Bronte once stood, a pile of ash now rests on the ground. Cheers erupt from the crowds. Witches and warlocks, sorcerers, and mages all on their feet, all raising their hands in triumph. I glance back to the ash pile and smile. Beautiful mists of magic rise up from the ash, colors I never knew existed. Bronte had won many games and a lot of magic, magic that now begins to float towards me. I lift my hands out to my sides, raise my face towards heaven, close my eyes, and wait for the mists of magic to join me.