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The instant High Lady Erna gave the word, chaos erupted in the arena as everyone seemed to move at once.

The first group of sorcerers, standing behind Ropati and to his left side snapped off a terse chant in rough, strained voices that overlapped with each other so well that they could be mistaken as a single, dark entity speaking from three throats at once.

"Sacred ash of calamity’s throne,

Rise and make this grove our own!"

Three obsidian-tipped staves pointed toward the sky, glowing with a deep red glow that seemed shrouded by smoke and shadow.

With an explosive -CRACK- flames surged from the bases of their staves, incinerating the gently waving grasses at their feet to produce a billowing cloud of ash several times larger than should have been possible.

All around the trio, a rotten, sulfurous wind began to blow with a stench so pungent that anyone seated on the lower levels of the arena immediately covered their mouths and noses in an attempt to block out the horrible smell.

Ash billowed and flowed, carried by the wind in a dirty, dusty cloud that made it difficult for Heila to see the actions of the remaining sorcerers as she dashed to the side, putting as much distance between herself and these men as she could while she sought an opportunity to go on the offensive.

Half a breath after the first trio began chanting, the second trio, standing to Ropati’s right side, pointed their staves at Heila and snapped out an invocation of their own.

"Sacred glass from mountain’s heart,

Rend the air, tear flesh apart!"

A sound like breaking glass filled the air when their staves struck the ground, cracking the recently scorched earth and lifting several shards of wickedly gleaming obsidian from the earth.

In the blink of an eye, those shards of dark volcanic glass shot toward Heila’s fleeing figure like two dozen arrows fired from an archer’s bow.

"Willow’s whips, guardian boughs,

Strike like steel, protect me now!"

Heila’s counter fell from her lips almost before the men could complete their invocation as she dodged behind the trunk of one of the towering willow trees.

Instantly, the tree shook and swayed, it’s branches striking like whips with unerring accuracy that shattered the oncoming storm of obsidian shards.

The third and final group, however, had been waiting for just this moment to unleash a spell of their own. Lurid red energy crawled over their robes like flames burning on oil before flowing through their staves and into the ground.

"By mountain’s rage and volcano’s might,

Split earth’s flesh, let flames ignite!"

A resounding -CRUNCH- filled the air as the earth crumbled in a long, jagged line that stretched from the trio of cultists in front of Ropati all the way to the willow tree with whipping branches that stood as Heila’s guardian.

Dirty, sooty, and sulfurous flames followed an instant later, filling the narrow casm with blistering heat, feeding off the tender grasses of the willow grove and belching even more dark ash into the air, giving the entire grove the feeling that it had been plunged into a fiery abyss.

"Perfect," Ropati said as a twisted smile formed on his burned, scarred lips.

"Run little witch, or perish with your tree!

" Raising his own staff high, he pointed the obsidian-tipped weapon at the flames licking at the willow tree’s roots and letting loose with a darker, crueler invocation than any used so far.

"Through volcano’s breath and burning wrath,

Reduce this tree to naught but ash!"

Intense heat exploded from the base of the tree, blazing with enough intensity that the crowd standing against the railing of the first level took several steps back before they could suffer the same injuries that the people on the highest level had when this dark cultist first unleashed his magic.

"Father, father, what’s happening to her?" A young girl on the first level said. The lurid red-orange glow of the burning willow tree filled her soft hazel eyes and her hands clutched a short chain whip, purchased from one of the street vendors outside the arena after Heila’s third victory.

"Don’t worry, Emmie," her barrel-chested father said as he reached out to stroke his daughter’s half-grown horns.

At barely twelve summers old, she was far too young to follow in her father’s footsteps and dedicate her life to the arena, but seeing the Willow Whip’s performance day after day ignited a passion within the small horned girl the likes of which her father had never seen, even after his own heroic battles.

"Look there," he said, pointing at a flurry of glittering white snowflakes melting rapidly in the ashen heat that had enveloped the arena. "Just like she did against the Tuscans, she’s biding her time, hiding from them and looking for an opening to exploit."

"But why father?" Emmie said, looking away from the crackling, burning tree to meet her father’s steady gaze.

Her eyes brimmed with moisture and her hands brought the delicate whip she clutched to her chest as she sought some kind of explanation for what was happening.

"She’s brave and strong, but why? Why is she running away? "

"She’s brave and strong, yes," her father said, raising his voice as he noticed several nearby merchants straining their ears to overhear a genuine gladiator’s thoughts on the battle.

"But she’s at a disadvantage. She’s spent nine days in the arena, showing all of us the things she’s capable of, but what does she know of her opponent’s sorcery? "

"You mean, she’s at a disadvantage because she doesn’t know how they will fight?" Emmie asked. "But why didn’t she study them? You always study people before you fight them. She should have at least talked to someone who fought them before," she said in a voice thick with frustration.

The Willow Whip was her hero, the first woman of the Horned Clan she’d ever seen fight people outside their clan on the arena floor, but why did it seem like she’d forgotten how to be a champion all of a sudden?

Why hadn’t she whipped at least one of these men into submission yet so they could understand how mighty she was?