Dawn painted Solvaris in gold, its spires gleaming through the barracks' slits. Tomas woke to the Etherstone chunk's hum, its glow steady against his hip. He'd slept light, Gavric's whispered threat—a surprise, bigger than beasts—coiling in his gut. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, splashing water from a basin onto his face. Today, he'd face the council's next move.
The yard buzzed with trainees, their chatter tense. Elara met him at the dummies, her Spark swirling a breeze. "Heard anything?" she asked, voice low.
"Just Gavric's yap," he said, swinging his pickaxe. "Toren's got something cooking. We'll see."
A horn blared, sharp and commanding. Trainees froze, eyes darting to the arena. Sereth emerged from the barracks, her council badge glinting, her green eyes cold. "Kael," she called, beckoning. "Council wants you. Now."
He followed, pickaxe in hand, Elara trailing a step behind. The council hall loomed—domed, marble, its doors carved with Gifted triumphs. Inside, the seven sat in their crescent of thrones, Sparks humming. Mara leaned forward, storm-cloud eyes piercing. Toren sat rigid, his glare a blade. Sereth took her place among them, her face unreadable.
"Two Etherfiends," Mara said, voice cutting. "Impressive, Kael. Bold words backed by blood. But Toren questions your place."
Toren stood, his voice ice. "A Dull rises too fast. It's chaos—unearned. I propose a test: three Gifted, tomorrow. Prove your claim, or leave in pieces."
Murmurs rippled. Tomas tightened his grip. "Three?" he said, stepping forward. "Fine. I'll outwork 'em all. Hard work beats talent—yours included."
Toren sneered. "Bold for a worm. We'll see."
Mara raised a hand, silencing him. "Agreed. Three Gifted—veterans, not trainees. Survive, and you stay. Fail, and Toren's right—you're dust."
Sereth's eyes flicked to Tomas, a flicker of something—worry?—gone fast. He nodded, meeting Mara's gaze. "Deal."
The hall emptied, trainees whispering as he left. Elara grabbed his arm outside. "Three veterans? They're trying to kill you."
"Maybe," he said, grinning faintly. "Won't work. I've faced worse."
She sighed, her breeze cooling his sweat. "You're crazy."
"Got me here," he said, heading to the yard. He rigged his pulley—fifty pounds now, stones scraping as he hauled. His arms burned, his back ached, but he pushed harder, the chunk's hum a drumbeat. Three Gifted—veterans, Toren's picks. Fine. He'd break their Sparks, one swing at a time.
Gavric watched from the barracks, shadows coiling, his smirk a taunt. Tomas ignored him, focusing on the rhythm—lift, swing, drop. The council's game was clear: crush him or crown him. He'd choose the crown.