The barracks glowed under Solvaris's noon sun, its golden spires piercing a sky heavy with gathering clouds—a rare storm brewing over the wasteland below. Tomas Kael hauled a sixty-pound stone with his pulley rig, muscles screaming, sweat soaking his shirt, blood seeping through bandages on his chest and shoulder. His ribs ached, a dull fire with every lift, but he pushed harder, the Etherstone chunk at his belt humming loud, its glow a steady pulse tied to the spy's warning—Sparks aren't what you think. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, dropping the stone with a thud, dust billowing around him. The parchment scrap burned in his mind—runes, vials, a truth Toren feared he'd unearth.
Elara approached, her dark hair whipping in a wind not her own, her Spark a faint breeze against the storm's edge. She carried a waterskin, tossing it to him with a frown. "You're killing yourself, Tomas," she said, crossing her arms. "That beast nearly did—now this? Rest, damn it."
He caught the skin, drinking deep, the cool water cutting through the dust in his throat. "Rest's for the dead," he said, wiping his mouth, his grin faint but stubborn. "Spy said it—truth's close. Toren's scared, storm's coming—literal and not. Gotta be ready." He handed it back, his hand brushing hers, a spark of warmth in the growing chill.
She sighed, her breeze swirling tighter. "The crowd's wild—Kael, Kael—but the council's tense. Gavric's smirking again, Sereth's quiet, and that spy… they're circling. This—" she tapped the parchment in her pocket—"it's big. Vials, dosing—means Sparks are made, not born."
"Means they're liars," he said, slinging his pack tighter, the chunk's hum a drumbeat in his gut. "Dustcrag bled for their Etherstone—Dulls died while they played gods. I'll break their lie, Elara. Hard work beats it all."
She nodded, her eyes sharp. "Together. But you're fraying—look at you."
He shrugged, wincing as his ribs flared. "Fraying's fine—breaking's not." He grabbed his pickaxe, swinging at a dummy, wood splintering, each strike a defiance—against Toren, Gavric, the storm. The sky darkened, clouds rolling in, a low rumble shaking the yard. Trainees scattered, their chatter dying, but he kept going, sweat mixing with the first drops of rain.
Sereth emerged from the barracks, her council badge glinting, her green eyes cutting through the gloom. "Kael," she called, striding over, her tunic damp as the rain thickened. "Council's calling you—now. Storm's a sign, they say."
"Sign of what?" he asked, planting the pickaxe, rain streaking his face.
Her smirk flickered, mask cracking. "Trouble. Toren's pushing—next fight's soon, worse than the beast. Mara's watching, I'm betting—you're stirring a storm they can't control."
"Good," he said, rolling his shoulders, the chunk's hum loud against the thunder. "Let it crash. I'll outwork it."
She nodded, rain plastering her hair. "Don't die yet, Kael. I'd hate to lose." She turned, vanishing into the downpour, leaving a thread of trust he didn't expect.
Elara grabbed his arm, her breeze fighting the wind. "Worse than the beast? Tomas—"
"Doesn't matter," he cut in, squeezing her hand, rain soaking them both. "We've got the truth—vials, Sparks, lies. I'll break their storm, one swing at a time." He swung again, wood flying, the chunk's hum a roar in the chaos—hard work his blade, the gathering storm his forge.