Again. Again.
The others' magic is kicking up, now; he can see it in the swirling, sharp storm of glass that flares into being on the battlefield. (and, hey, isn't that cat a little familiar?
It's a split-second decision, made on a heady, heavy adrenaline rush. The raptor is being flung towards the drone with the arm-blade. If he sets one ablaze, the other will soon follow.
Again, he tugs at his magic. It's like trying to lift a boulder with force of will, but Astéri tries anyway: tries to will the fire out of nothing, pours all his protective instinct and the horror he feels at the thought of this cave of crystals ending up just like the one of bones, the thought of them all becoming drones to have their heads cut off at a thought, to be used as tools—
—no, he won't let that happen. He'd rather have the caves burn to the ground than for them to become puppets.
The magic catches, burns, grows; only a little spark, only a bit of flame, but the heat of it is so heavy his gem is uncomfortably warm against his chest as he locks eyes onto the hive-thing he's targeting and murmurs in his mind:
A little spark is all it takes. He knows from experience.
@Halcyon