The arena falls silent as two forces of nature take their places – a dragon queen and the son of the number two hero, each carrying their own weight of destiny. The afternoon sun catches on your scales and his bi-colored hair, turning you both into creatures of light and shadow. The air itself seems to hold its breath, waiting.

Present Mic's voice booms across the stadium, but it feels distant, meaningless – a mortal's commentary on an immortal dance about to unfold. Your golden eyes lock with Shoto's mismatched ones, reading the steel beneath the ice, the fire he refuses to unleash.

The match begins like an avalanche.

Shoto's opening gambit comes with all the fury of winter itself – a crystalline wave of ice that spirals toward you with deadly grace, threatening to encase you in its pristine prison. But you move like liquid moonlight, your body flowing around the attack with ancient elegance that makes the dodge look more like a courtly dance than an evasion.

Your wing extends – a banner of night unfurling against the sky – and heat shimmers from your scales like a desert mirage. The ice nearest to you doesn't just melt; it shatters, breaking apart with the sound of a thousand crystal glasses falling. The fragments catch the light, creating a momentary rainbow that crowns you both in ephemeral glory.

Shoto's eyes widen, heterochromatic irises reflecting surprise that cracks his usually stoic mask. He had witnessed your battle with Bakugo, had seen the raw power you commanded, but this... this is different. This is watching a force of nature at play, a being who treats his strongest attack like a gentle morning frost.

Then comes your counterattack.

The flames you summon aren't the crude, explosive bursts of modern combat. No, these are ancient fires, the kind that burned before humanity learned to harness them. They roll forward in a great wave of crimson and gold, more like liquid light than mere fire. The heat distorts the air, making reality itself seem to ripple and dance.

Shoto's response is instinctive – another ice wall, bigger this time, more desperate. But your flames don't fight the ice so much as ignore its existence entirely. They flow around it, through it, reducing his defense to steam and memory in their inexorable advance. The fire moves with purpose, with intelligence, herding him like a shepherd guides their flock.

For a crucial moment, pride wars with survival in Shoto's eyes. You can see it – the moment he realizes that ice alone won't be enough, that the power he's sworn never to use might be his only salvation. But the decision is made for him as your flames press closer, forcing him to leap aside in a graceful arc that barely keeps him within bounds.

Steam rises from the arena floor where ice and fire have clashed, creating a swirling mist that transforms the battlefield into something from a fairy tale. Through it all, you stand tall, your wings partially extended like a monarch's cape, your tail drawing lazy patterns in the air behind you. You're not just fighting – you're making a statement, showing all these mortals what it means to face a dragon queen in her prime.

And this is only the beginning.

Through the steam-wreathed arena, your voice carries like distant thunder, a mix of challenge and ancient wisdom. The smirk that plays across your scaled features holds centuries of knowing. "Are you scared to use your fire?" Each word drips with royal condescension, a queen addressing a stubborn prince. "I thought you'd moved past that—you used it with Izuku."

Your golden eyes ignite from within, dancing with flames that speak of powers older than quirks, older than human memory. "It's time you use it with me, Icyhot." The nickname, borrowed from Bakugo, somehow sounds both playful and imperial coming from your draconic mouth.

Shoto's response is as cold as his reputation—a cloud of crystalline breath that hangs in the air before him like a winter morning's fog. Another ice attack follows, barreling toward you with all the fury of a glacier's advance. But there's something desperate in its formation, something that speaks of denial rather than strategy.

A sigh escapes you, smoke curling from your nostrils in disappointed wisps. You shake your head with all the weary patience of an ancient being watching mortals repeat their mistakes. That boy never learns, the thought crosses your mind as you summon your response.

The wall of fire you conjure isn't just a barrier—it's a demonstration of what he refuses to embrace. Flames dance and weave together like living tapestry threads, creating a curtain of heat and light that puts even Endeavor's infernos to shame. But it's what you do next that truly captures the audience's attention.

You begin to walk, not with the urgency of combat but with the measured pace of royalty taking an evening stroll. Your talons, deadly weapons in their own right, are clasped casually behind your back like a teacher about to deliver a crucial lesson. Your tail traces lazy arabesques through the air, each movement a study in controlled power. Your wings bunch forward, creating a frame of membrane and muscle that only emphasizes your otherworldly nature. Your snout, more prominent now, gives your words an extra layer of ancient authority as you close the distance between you and your opponent.

Your eyes, though—your eyes are the real weapon here. They fix on Shoto with the weight of centuries, cutting through his defenses more surely than any quirk could manage. "You need to harness this power as your own, Shoto." The words resonate with truth, each syllable carrying the weight of draconic wisdom. "Don't let your hatred for your father blind you."

The stadium holds its breath, watching this dance between a dragon queen and a prince of flames and frost, wondering which fire will ultimately prove stronger—the one that burns in hatred, or the one that burns for freedom.

The distance between you shrinks to mere meters, yet it feels like the space between stars – vast with meaning. You stand before him not as an opponent but as something more complex: a queen, yes, but also something gentler. Your posture speaks of ancient nobility, but your eyes hold warmth that could melt glaciers.

"Please, for me," you whisper, and those three words carry more power than any battle cry.

The moment hangs suspended, like a dewdrop about to fall. Then – there – along his left arm, rebellion blooms into revelation. Fire sparks to life, not the angry inferno of his father, but something new, something uniquely Shoto. His eyes flash with the realization, and the wave of flame that comes for you feels like an embrace rather than an attack.

You don't flinch. Dragons don't fear fire; they welcome it like an old friend. A smile graces your scaled features as you breathe out two words heavy with pride: "Well done."

Then, with all the inevitability of fate itself, you simply... push. The movement is almost gentle, like a mother nudging a fledgling from the nest. Shoto's eyes widen as he finds himself crossing that crucial line, defeat coming not in a blaze of glory but in a moment of growth.

The stadium holds its breath. Shoto stares at the ground as if reading prophecies in the scattered ice and ash. Then the crowd erupts, their cheers rolling like thunder across the arena, but you barely hear them. Victory sits heavy on your shoulders, not like a crown but like responsibility.

Your movements are pure grace as you approach him again. Taking his hand – the left one, still warm from his flames – you press it against your heart. Your scales shimmer beneath his fingers as your heartbeat tells its own story of pride and affection. The kiss you place on his forehead is both blessing and benediction, ancient ritual and simple tenderness combined.

"An honorable fight, little snowflake," you murmur, the nickname falling from your lips like a gift. As you release him, Shoto's smile blooms – small and precious as the first flower after winter. He bows to you, the gesture full of genuine respect rather than mere protocol.

Your return bow is equally sincere, one royal acknowledging another's worth. Together, you leave the arena not as victor and vanquished, but as two souls who have shared something profound. The mingled steam from ice and fire trails behind you like a bridal train, marking the path where a dragon queen taught a young prince that some victories don't require winning.