Dawn broke over Dustcrag, gray and unforgiving. Tomas was up before the whistle, stretching his stiff limbs beside the tent. Lila still slept, curled under a threadbare blanket, her breaths soft against the morning chill. He grabbed his pickaxe and headed to the quarry, the Etherstone chunk from last night tucked into his belt. It hadn't stopped humming—a low, insistent pulse that kept him awake half the night.
The miners were already at it when he arrived, their tools clanging against rock. Jorin waved him over, grinning through a mouthful of stale bread. "Early bird today, Kael? What's the rush—hoping a Gifted flies down to kiss your boots?"
"Keep dreaming," Tomas said, swinging his pickaxe into the nearest vein. The stone split clean, Etherstone gleaming inside. He worked faster than yesterday, each strike precise, each chunk hauled to the cart with purpose. The others lagged, but Tomas didn't care. He wasn't here to match them—he was here to outlast them.
Midmorning, the air shifted. A shadow flickered overhead, too fast for a cloud. Tomas paused, squinting up. A streak of fire cut the sky, trailing smoke, plummeting toward the wasteland a mile out. The miners froze, murmurs rippling through the quarry.
"Gifted ship," Jorin muttered, spitting into the dust. "Probably drunk on their own Sparks, crashing for fun."
Tomas watched the plume rise where it hit. His gut twisted—not fear, but something sharper. Opportunity. "They don't crash for fun," he said, dropping his pickaxe. "Something's wrong."
Before Jorin could argue, Tomas was moving, jogging toward the crash site. The overseer's shout echoed behind him—"Kael, get back here!"—but he didn't stop. Hard work meant taking chances, not just swinging tools. If a Gifted was down there, alive or dead, he'd see what they were made of.
The wasteland stretched endless and brutal, cracked earth and twisted scrub clawing at his boots. By the time he reached the wreckage, sweat plastered his shirt to his back. The ship—or what was left of it—lay in a smoldering heap, metal warped and glowing faintly with Etherstone residue. A figure slumped beside it, cloaked in singed velvet, blood streaking their pale face.
Tomas approached, cautious but steady. The figure stirred, a woman, her auburn hair spilling from a hood. She raised a hand, and flames flickered at her fingertips—weak, sputtering, but unmistakably a Spark. A Gifted. Her eyes locked on him, sharp despite the pain.
"Stay back, Dull," she rasped, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "This isn't your business."
Tomas didn't flinch. "You're bleeding out in my wasteland. Makes it my business." He knelt, inspecting her wounds—a gash on her side, deep but not fatal yet. "Name's Tomas Kael. You?"
She hesitated, flames fading. "Sereth. Lady Sereth of Solvaris." Her tone carried weight, like she expected him to bow. He didn't.
"Fancy title," he said, tearing a strip from his sleeve. "Hold still." He pressed it to her wound, ignoring her hiss of protest. "What happened up there?"
Sereth glared, but her strength was slipping. "Ambush. Etherfiends—beasts from the border. They hit us mid-flight." She clutched a satchel, knuckles white. "I have to get back. This—" She tapped the bag. "—can't fall into the wrong hands."
Tomas nodded, tying the makeshift bandage tight. Etherfiends were trouble—hulking, claw-riddled things that roamed the wasteland's edges. If they'd taken down a Gifted ship, the border wars were worse than the rumors said. "Solvaris is a long climb. You're not walking anywhere like this."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'll manage. I don't need a Dull's pity."
"Not pity," Tomas said, standing. "A deal. I get you to the sky-tether, you get me into Solvaris. I've got business up there too."
Sereth laughed, sharp and bitter. "A Dull in Solvaris? You'll be laughed out—or gutted."
"Let 'em try," he said, offering a hand. "I don't quit easy."
She studied him, her gaze cutting through the dust between them. Finally, she took his hand, her grip surprisingly firm. "Fine, Kael. But if you slow me down, I leave you behind."
"Won't happen," he said, pulling her up. She swayed, leaning on him despite herself. He felt the weight of her trust, fragile as it was, and the hum of the Etherstone chunk at his belt seemed to pulse louder.
They started back to Dustcrag, the wreckage smoldering behind them. Tomas kept his pace steady, supporting Sereth as her steps faltered. The miners gaped when they arrived, Jorin dropping his bread mid-bite.
"Found a stray," Tomas called, guiding Sereth to his tent. Lila was up now, her eyes widening at the sight.
"Who's this?" she demanded, hands on hips.
"Lady Sereth," Tomas said. "Needs a lift to Solvaris. I'm taking her."
Lila's jaw tightened. "You're leaving? Just like that?"
"Not forever," he said, meeting her gaze. "This is my shot, Lila. To see what's up there. To prove it."
She didn't argue, but the worry in her eyes cut deeper than words. Tomas turned to Sereth, who slumped against the tent pole, clutching her satchel. "Rest up. We move at dusk."
As Lila patched Sereth's wound with what little they had, Tomas stepped outside, staring at the sky-cities' distant glow. Hard work had brought him this far. Now it'd take him higher—or break him trying.