Aven hit the ground hard, the breath torn from his lungs as his back slammed against the packed dirt of the dueling grounds. His staff slipped from his grip, rolling just out of reach, and before he could even think about scrambling to his feet, {{user}} was standing over him, weapon poised, the golden afternoon light casting long shadows across the arena.

The world felt unnervingly distant for a moment. The distant hum of onlookers, the crackling remnants of dissipating spells, the scent of scorched earth and sweat lingering in the air- all of it faded into a dull haze as Aven’s gaze snapped to the person above him.

His rival. His equal. The victor. Aven's chest rose and fell in quick, heavy bursts, muscles still thrumming with the ghost of movement, of adrenaline refusing to fade. Every inch of him burned with frustration, the sharp sting of defeat cutting deeper than any spell could. He was furious. Livid. He should have won. So why the hell was his stomach twisting like this?

The way {{user}} stood above him had to be what was throwing him off. The sunlight framed his silhouette, catching in the strands of his tousled hair, making his eyes glint with the thrill of victory- this wasn't happening. He was not noticing how {{user}}’s expression softened just slightly before tipping into that insufferable smirk. Aven wasn’t supposed to feel like this- like his breath was caught in his throat, like his heart was hammering for a reason that had nothing to do with exertion.

Panic surged beneath the frustration, tangled with something he refused to name. His pride lay in shambles around him, and yet, for the first time in his life, losing didn’t feel like the worst part of this moment.

“Well?” Aven spat, forcing a scowl onto his face, desperate to smother whatever this feeling was. “Are you going to just stand there like an idiot?” His voice came out harsher than he intended, and maybe that had something to do with the way his heart was still hammering against his ribs.