The tether stretched endless above Tomas and Sereth, its stone face pitted and scarred from centuries of wind and war. Solvaris glowed closer now, a golden crown atop the clouds, but the climb was a slog—every step a battle against gravity and exhaustion. Tomas's arms ached, his pickaxe scraping sparks from the rock as he carved their path. Sereth followed, her Spark flickering like a dying candle, her breaths ragged but determined.
The air thinned, cold slicing through Tomas's shirt. He glanced back, noting the sweat beading on Sereth's brow despite the chill. Her wound slowed her, but she didn't complain. Tougher than she looks, he thought, driving his pickaxe into a crevice. The stone held, and he pulled himself up, reaching a narrow ledge.
"Rest here," he said, dropping his pack. "We're halfway, maybe more."
Sereth sank onto the ledge, clutching her satchel. "Halfway's nothing if we don't make it." Her voice was sharp, but her hands trembled, betraying her strength's edge.
Tomas rummaged in his pack, pulling out a waterskin. He took a swig, then handed it to her. "Drink. You're no good to me dead."
She glared but accepted, sipping slow. "You're a stubborn bastard, Kael."
"Gets me through," he said, sitting beside her. The wasteland sprawled below, a black sea swallowing Dustcrag's faint lights. He thought of Lila, her fierce goodbye, and the Etherstone chunk pulsed warm at his belt—a reminder of why he'd started this.
Sereth broke the silence. "Why Solvaris? What's a Dull want up there?"
Tomas chewed his lip, staring at the sky-city. "To prove something. That a man without a Spark can stand with the Gifted. Not because I'm born to it, but because I work for it."
She laughed, dry and brittle. "They'll eat you alive. Hard work's nothing to them—they've got power you can't touch."
"Then I'll make 'em see," he said, voice low. "Hard work beats talent. Always has."
Before she could argue, a crack split the air. The ledge trembled, dust raining from above. Tomas leapt up, pickaxe ready, as figures dropped from the tether's heights—three men, cloaked in black, daggers gleaming. Not scavengers. These moved with purpose, their eyes cold and trained.
"Assassins," Sereth hissed, scrambling to her feet. Her Spark flared, a gout of fire lancing toward the nearest. He dodged, rolling aside, and lunged at her with a blade.
Tomas intercepted, swinging his pickaxe. The assassin parried, steel clashing, but Tomas pressed forward, driving him back with brute force. The second charged, aiming for Sereth's satchel. She blasted him with flame, weaker now, and he stumbled, singed but alive.
The third circled, tossing a dagger. Tomas ducked, the blade grazing his shoulder, drawing blood. He roared, charging the thrower, and tackled him to the ledge's edge. They grappled, fists and elbows flying, until Tomas slammed the man's head against the stone. He went limp, sliding off into the void.
Sereth dispatched her foe with a final burst of fire, collapsing as the last assassin fled up the tether. Tomas rushed to her, blood dripping from his arm. "You okay?"
She nodded, pale and shaking. "They're after the shard. In the satchel—an Etherstone key to Solvaris's defenses."
Tomas frowned, helping her up. "Then we don't stop. They'll be back."
They climbed on, the assassins' threat a shadow overhead, Solvaris's glow a taunt they couldn't yet reach.