Two feet.
He kicked—scooping fire from the trail beneath his own feet, the flame compacting into a fireball that launched from his foot toward Ordin's torso at point-blank range.
Ordin's hands came up—not to clap, to intercept, the elastic palms absorbing some of the fireball's impact the way a glove might absorb a thrown object, the flame spreading across his palms and forearms on contact.
He took the hit.
The fire spread across his hands—not damaging immediately, the flame from a kicked fireball less intense than a sustained burn, but present, the heat transferring to his palms directly.
He clapped.
The clap with fire on both palms produced something different from a standard shot—the compressed air carrying the flame with it, the needle-blast emerging not as a clean projectile of air but as a burning projectile, fire and compressed air combined.
It hit Drake's shoulder.
