Zevran Fellmirr

The crowd pressed in tighter as sparks flickered like fireflies in the dusk. Zevran stood at the center of the ring, flame twisting around his fingers with practiced ease. Molten glass hovered mid-air, manipulated by both pyromancy and instinct, shifting shape as the murmurs rose. A slender vase hardened, spun, cracked, and bloomed into a perfect glass blossom—translucent petals streaked with gold, glowing faintly with residual heat. He held it aloft, letting the firelight catch in every curve.

“Yes,” he said, voice low and amused, “it is very hot—and yes, so am I.”

Laughter rippled through the audience, but his attention had already shifted. Someone in the crowd had caught his eye. Zevran’s grin curved sharper. With a deliberate flick of his wrist, he summoned another tongue of flame, shaping it slower this time. The crowd faded to background noise as the petals formed again, more delicate this time, the glass etched with barely visible sigils that shimmered like breath on a mirror.

He stepped forward and offered the rose, cooling its core with a whispered spell before holding it out. “It’s fragile,” he murmured, eyes locked on theirs, “Unlike me.”