The room blazed white.
Baz moved like a ghost stitched with lightning. Light danced around him, wrapping his limbs in golden heat, blinding with each flick of his wrist. The first real blow came faster than Aemon could register—Baz vanished and reappeared behind him with a flash, light crackling around his fist.
Aemon blinked away on instinct.
Concrete cracked where he'd just been standing.
"You're getting the hang of it," Baz shouted over the roaring hum of his own resonance. "But you still don't own it!"
Aemon reappeared by the far wall, lungs burning, body drenched in sweat. He flung himself forward again, teleporting with nothing but raw will. He landed clumsily behind Baz and tried to strike low, aiming for the backs of his knees.
Baz kicked back, a heel glowing white-hot, and Aemon teleported again mid-motion—barely avoiding the hit, reappearing in the air above them both, twisting with momentum.
His boot connected with Baz's shoulder, driving the gangster into the ground.
Dust erupted.
Baz rolled, laughing.
"You're like a puppy with a rocket strapped to its back!" he coughed, springing to his feet with a pirouette. "Chaotic. Messy. Beautiful."
Aemon said nothing. He blinked behind Baz again and threw a punch aimed for the ribs. Baz spun with a snap of his arm—light arced outward like a whip. It clipped Aemon's shoulder mid-swing, sending a searing bolt of pain down his side.
He grunted, tumbling across the floor.
Baz stood tall, arms raised to his sides. His eyes burned like twin suns.
"Dance with me, jumper!" he howled, throwing his head back. "Don't just run—fight!"
Aemon's breath came ragged as he pushed himself up.
"I am," he growled.
They clashed again—teleportation vs. light-step. The space between them warped and cracked with resonance, their movements so fast that afterimages lingered like smoke.
Baz struck high—Aemon blinked under it.
Aemon struck low—Baz flashed out of reach.
Their rhythm sharpened, faster than thought, like a song only they could hear.
Dance of Destined Mirrors.
That's what Baz called it, mid-strike, breathless with joy.
"We're reflections, kid!" he shouted. "Mirrors fighting mirrors! Space and light—same blood, different heartbeat! You feel it too, don't you?"
Aemon didn't answer, but he did feel it.
The pull. The gravity between them. Not like friendship. Not like hatred. Something older. Something cosmic. As if they were two strands pulled from the same tapestry, now being knotted into something new.
Baz saw it in his eyes.
"That's it," Baz whispered through a grin, ducking a blow. "That's the look. You feel the thread. The one that pulled you here. The one that brought us together."
Aemon reappeared behind him, slammed a foot into Baz's back.
Baz staggered, spun, caught Aemon by the wrist, and flung him against a crumbling wall. The impact knocked the air from Aemon's lungs.
He slumped, coughing, stars swimming across his vision.
Baz didn't press. He stood at the center of the room, light pulsing around him like a second skin, eyes wide with revelation.
"You don't get it yet," Baz said quietly. "But this—you—this fight…"
He spread his arms, the room now glowing from every surface as his power surged.
"It's fate."
Aemon pulled himself up slowly, blood in his mouth. "Fate?"
Baz nodded, more solemn now.
"I've felt nothing for years," he said. "Power, sure. Fear, sometimes. But not this. Not connection. You're the first spark in the dark. The one that doesn't fizzle when I burn too bright."
Aemon's head swam. His legs barely held him.
"You think this is fate?" he asked, coughing. "You don't even know me."
Baz's grin returned, crooked and brilliant.
"Exactly," he said. "And yet we're still here, breaking space and light like dancers in a storm."
He stepped forward. "You can feel it too. I know you can."
Aemon shook his head, voice low. "I feel like I'm dying."
Baz laughed, but it was softer now. Not cruel. Almost… reverent.
He pointed at Aemon's chest. "That hum inside you? That's the world calling your name for the first time."
Light gathered in his palm again.
Aemon tensed.
"But it's not done calling yet," Baz finished.
And lunged.
The next exchange was a blur of brilliance.
Baz's light wove into javelins, spears of brilliance that pierced the air where Aemon had been only milliseconds before. Aemon's teleportation faltered now, coming slower, sloppier. The strain of blinking was starting to show—his feet dragged when he reappeared, his balance broke mid-landing.
Still, he fought.
Still, he moved.
Baz was everywhere—moving on beams of light, rebounding from walls, exploding in arcs that left scorch marks in their wake. Aemon dodged what he could, took hits where he had to, and struck only when the opening screamed for it.
He landed a solid punch to Baz's ribs.
A kick that staggered him sideways.
But each time, Baz just laughed harder. His grin grew wider. His eyes more electric.
"You're perfect," he whispered after one trade of blows. "Broken. Raw. But perfect."
Aemon blinked away, but stumbled as he reappeared—knees buckling.
He barely caught himself.
His breath now came in wheezes. His vision blurred at the edges.
His resonance was still there—but it pulsed unevenly, like a heart out of sync.
I can't… keep this up.
Baz noticed.
He slowed.
Stood upright, letting the light dim a little around him.
"You're tiring."
Aemon didn't respond.
Baz tilted his head. "You want to stop?"
"…No," Aemon rasped.
"Good."
Baz's grin returned.
"But you should know something."
He pointed one glowing finger toward Aemon.
"This fight? This moment? This dance we're in?"
He let out a breath.
"It was always going to happen."
Aemon's hands trembled. "Why?"
"Because people like us… We don't get accidents. We get paths. This is yours."
He lowered his hand.
"And now you're at the end of it."
Aemon blinked again—but the teleportation sputtered. He didn't vanish. Just staggered forward with a gasp.
He was done.
He knew it. Baz knew it.
But Baz didn't strike.
He just watched, quietly, like a painter studying a collapsing sculpture—equal parts admiration and regret.
"You burned bright," Baz said softly. "Let's see what's left of the spark."
Aemon dropped to one knee, lungs heaving, the air thick with the taste of static and ash.
The room flickered, the only sound the drip-drip of water from a cracked pipe overhead.
And somewhere, in the silence that followed, Aemon's eyes flicked up—still fierce.
Still burning.
Baz's expression changed.
Not fear.
Not pity.
Wonder.
"Maybe," Baz murmured, "the dance isn't over yet."