The barracks yard buzzed with morning chatter, trainees patching wounds and trading tales of the raid. Tomas swung his pickaxe at the dummy, wood splintering under each blow, his breath steady despite the ache in his arms. The Etherstone chunk pulsed at his belt, its hum a quiet nag he couldn't shake. He'd survived the night, proved his grit again, but Elara's words lingered—someone saw him as a threat. Fine by him. Let 'em come.
A shadow fell across the sand, sharp and deliberate. Tomas turned, pickaxe mid-swing, and froze. Lady Sereth stood there, her auburn hair pulled tight, her cloak swapped for a sleek tunic pinned with a silver council badge. No satchel, no blood—her wound was gone, her posture regal again. She'd climbed the tether with him, leaned on him, but now she was every inch a Gifted elite, her green eyes cold.
"Kael," she said, voice smooth as polished stone. "You're still breathing. Good."
He lowered the pickaxe, wiping sweat from his brow. "Took more than bandits to stop me. You look… fixed."
"Gifted healers," she said, brushing her side where the gash had been. "Better than your sister's rags." A flicker of something—guilt?—crossed her face, then vanished. "I came to check on my investment."
"Investment?" Tomas snorted, planting the pickaxe in the sand. "Thought I was your burden."
"You were," she said, stepping closer. "Now you're useful. That shard I carried—it's an Etherstone key. Locks Solvaris's shield against Etherfiend swarms. Without it, we'd be dust by now. You got me here, kept it safe. Council's pleased."
He studied her, the badge glinting in the sun. "So why the visit? Checking I don't embarrass you?"
She smirked, faint but real. "Making sure you survive the next trial. They're not done testing you."
Footsteps crunched behind him—Elara, her dark hair loose, her Spark a faint shimmer. She stopped short, eyeing Sereth warily. "Lady Sereth," she said, voice tight. "Didn't expect you back so soon."
Sereth's gaze flicked to her, then back to Tomas. "Didn't expect a Dull to make friends so fast. Careful, Kael. Allies up here shift like sand."
"Sounds familiar," Tomas said, crossing his arms. "Why'd you vouch for me, Sereth? Really?"
She paused, her smirk fading. "You're useful," she repeated, slower this time. "That's all you need to know." She turned to leave, then stopped. "Don't get soft up here. Solvaris doesn't reward it."
Elara waited until Sereth's footsteps faded, then stepped closer. "She's hiding something," she said, voice low. "That shard—why's it so important she'd risk a Dull?"
"Dunno," Tomas said, staring after Sereth. "But she's not the type to owe favors. Means I've got leverage—or a target on me."
A laugh cut through the yard—Gavric, leaning against a pillar, his shadow Spark coiling lazily. "Trusting Gifted now, Dull?" he called, sauntering over. "They'll ditch you when the shine wears off."
Tomas tightened his grip on the pickaxe. "Keep talking, Gavric. Gives me something to aim at."
Gavric grinned, shadows flickering. "You're a toy to them. Play smart, or you're scrap." He strolled off, leaving tension in his wake.
Elara frowned. "He's not wrong about her. Watch yourself."
Tomas nodded, slinging his pack over his shoulder. "Always do." He headed to the training ground's edge, rigging a pulley with rope and stones from the raid's debris. He hauled them up, muscles straining, then dropped them, swinging his pickaxe at a fresh dummy. Each strike echoed Dustcrag—fourteen-hour days, Lila's stew, the grind that built him. Hard work beats talent. Sereth's words gnawed at him—useful, not trusted. Fine. He'd use her too.
The Etherstone chunk hummed louder, warm against his hip. He paused, rolling it in his hands, its glow faint but steady. It wasn't just a rock—he felt it, deep in his gut. Something tied it to Solvaris, to the Gifted, to him. He tucked it back, resuming his swings, the dummy splintering under his fury. Whatever Sereth hid, he'd dig it out. One strike at a time.