The arena's roar hit Tomas like a fist, a wall of sound from thousands of Gifted packed into Solvaris's coliseum. He stood at the pit's edge, sand crunching under his boots, pickaxe gripped tight. The sun blazed overhead, glinting off the spiked walls that ringed the sunken battlefield—ten feet high, jagged steel glistening with old blood. Councilor Mara had upped the stakes: two Etherfiends this time, not one. A test, she'd called it. Prove your bold words, boy. He'd prove more than that.
Elara watched from the trainees' bench, her dark eyes steady. Gavric lounged nearby, shadow Spark flicking like a bored cat's tail, a smirk on his lips. The council loomed above, Mara's storm-cloud gaze locked on Tomas, her throne flanked by six others, their Sparks a quiet hum of power. He didn't bow, didn't flinch. Hard work beats talent. Time to show 'em.
The gate rumbled open, iron screeching, and the crowd hushed. Two Etherfiends charged—smaller than the wasteland's brutes, but faster, their hides glinting like cracked Etherstone, claws long as daggers. They split, circling him, a synchronized hunt. Tomas tightened his stance, sand shifting underfoot, and waited. The first lunged, jaws snapping. He rolled left, the beast's claw raking the air, and swung his pickaxe into its flank. Metal sank deep, blood spraying, but it didn't fall. The second pounced, aiming for his back.
Tomas dove, sand stinging his eyes, and slammed his pickaxe into the pit's wall. He yanked, using the spike as a pivot, and swung around, planting his boots on the beast's skull. It staggered, roaring, and he leapt off, luring it toward the spikes. The crowd gasped as it charged, blind with rage, and impaled itself, thrashing until it stilled. One down.
The first Etherfiend circled back, smarter now, its tail lashing. Tomas panted, blood dripping from a shallow claw mark on his arm. He scooped a handful of sand, hurling it into the beast's eyeless face—a miner's trick from Dustcrag duststorms. It reared, confused, and he darted forward, swinging low. The pickaxe hooked its leg, pulling it off-balance, and he drove it into the sand, pinning it. A second strike cracked its skull, silencing its howls.
The crowd erupted—cheers clashing with jeers, a storm of noise. Tomas stood, chest heaving, blood and sand caking his skin. He whispered to the corpses, "Work beats claws," too quiet for anyone but himself. Elara clapped, her smile faint but real. Gavric's smirk faltered, his shadows coiling tighter. Mara leaned forward, her nod so slight he might've missed it.
He trudged from the pit, pickaxe dragging a furrow in the sand, and collapsed in his cell. The stone walls were cool against his back, his breath ragged. He'd won—again—but the cost piled up. His arm throbbed, his body begged for rest. No time. He stood, splashing water from a basin over his face, when something caught his eye—a scratch in the wall, fresh and deliberate: They're watching.
Tomas froze, tracing the letters. Bandits last night, now this. The council? Gavric? Someone tied them together, and he was the knot. He grabbed his pack, the Etherstone chunk pulsing warm, and headed to the yard. Dummies waited, splintered from yesterday, but he didn't care. He swung, harder, faster, each strike a promise—to Lila, to Dustcrag, to himself. The crowd's chant echoed through the barracks—"Kael! Kael!"—a rhythm to his blows.
Night fell, the chant fading, but the message lingered. They're watching. Let 'em. He'd give 'em something to see.