Ifrit stands back, as much as possible in these cramped confines of a tiny train room. She watches as everybody else works. Drawing, talking, glows and flashes of light... so different from the Arts she knows. It dawns on her now, perhaps for the first time, that everybody here really DOES come from a place different than home. Or perhaps not 'dawns on her,' but... this is where it really sinks in.

You could still burn it, a voice tells her. They're not stronger than your fire. You can burn it. You can burn them.

A grimace crosses Ifrit's face. "Shut up" she whispers to herself. She doesn't have time for this right now.

She focuses on that towel. Waiting for the word to go. She'll burn it, yeah, but she's not going to pour all her power into it. She's not trying to conquer their spells, she's just trying to test if it'll work. And only once they're ready.