She twirled in the sand where heat waves bent the air, webbed feet silent, fire humming in her chest. Feathers glowed like embers, alive in their flare. Under her wing, the Fire Clan mark burned—scout rank, ruthless by design, built for the test. They never heard her coming, never sensed the track. One flick of her wrist sent the steel wheel screaming back, carving clean arcs through the firelit night. It cut, it vanished, returned with bite—by the time sand turned glass, the end struck right. She ran hot—no leash, no mercy, no chain. A cunning smile, an ash-sweet grin. She read the wind, she smelled the fear, laughed low and slow when the end drew near. Fire answered her call, kissed ground as she spun, a blur of flame and motion—then suddenly gone. If you saw her, it was already late. If you felt the heat, you were sealed by fate. Spin it—steel and flame, attack on attack. Remember the scout who quacked like hell… and never looked back.

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