Dusk cloaked Solvaris in a heavy purple haze, the barracks a quiet refuge beneath the city's golden spires. Tomas Kael slumped on his cot, the Etherstone chunk in his hands, its glow casting faint blue across the stone walls, flickering with his uneven breaths. His chest stung where the forge beast's claw had torn him, a shallow gash seeping blood through a hasty bandage. His shoulder throbbed, lightning and steel leaving welts and bruises, his ribs aching with every move. The beast was dust—Etherstone core shattered, Toren's execution foiled—but the victory weighed heavy, a toll carved into his flesh. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rolling the chunk between trembling fingers, its hum a steady pulse against the pain, a lifeline through the fog of exhaustion.
Elara slipped in, her footsteps soft, her Spark a gentle breeze stirring the stale air. She carried a waterskin and a cloth, her dark eyes widening as she took him in—blood-soaked shirt, sweat-matted hair, a body battered but unbowed. "Tomas," she breathed, kneeling beside him, her voice thick with worry. "You look half-dead. That thing—it nearly crushed you."
"Didn't," he rasped, taking the skin, drinking slow, the cool water soothing his raw throat. "Hard work beats their toys. Core's dust—Sereth was right." He handed it back, his hand shaking, and she pressed the cloth to his chest, wiping blood with careful hands. He hissed, the sting sharp, but leaned into her touch, a rare surrender.
She frowned, her breeze cooling his sweat. "You won, yeah—but at what cost? You're falling apart, Tomas. Ribs, shoulder, chest—you can't keep this up." Her fingers lingered on the bandage, her eyes searching his, a plea beneath the steel. "I saw you go down—thought that was it. The crowd did too."
"Got back up," he said, grinning faintly, the effort tugging his wounds. "Dustcrag taught me—fourteen hours digging, then running laps 'til I dropped. Lila'd patch me up, call me a fool. Kept us alive." He met her gaze, the chunk's hum loud in his ears. "I don't break, Elara. Bend, maybe. Not break."
She sighed, tying a fresh bandage tight, her breeze swirling with her frustration. "You're not in Dustcrag. This isn't mining—this is Toren trying to kill you, one fight at a time. You're proving something, sure, but you're human, not stone."
"Stone cracks when it quits," he said, leaning back, the cot creaking under his weight. "I don't quit. For me, for you, for whatever's behind their Sparks." He tucked the chunk away, its warmth spreading, a reminder of the carvings—infants dosed, power forged. "Toren's scared. Means I'm close."
"Close to what?" she asked, sitting beside him, her knee brushing his, a steady anchor. "The crowd chants your name—Kael, Kael—but the council's circling. Mara's curious, Sereth's betting, Toren's raging. You're shifting the game, but it's cutting you deep."
"Good," he said, his voice rough but firm. "Let it cut. I'll outlast 'em." He stood, wincing as his ribs protested, and grabbed his pickaxe, the haft rough against his blisters. "Gotta train—next one's coming."
Elara grabbed his arm, her grip fierce. "Rest, Tomas. Please. You're no good to anyone dead."
He paused, meeting her eyes, the weight of her worry sinking in. "Alright," he said, sinking back, a rare concession. "For you. But not long—hard work's what keeps me here."
She smiled, faint but real, squeezing his hand. "Stubborn bastard. I'm with you, always."
Night deepened, the barracks silent but for their breaths. The chunk hummed, its glow fading, but its call stayed—Dustcrag's echo, Solvaris's riddle. He'd pay the cost, break their game, one swing at a time.