Rain lashed Solvaris, a relentless gray curtain pounding the barracks yard, turning the sand into a churned, muddy slog. Thunder rumbled overhead, a deep growl that shook the stone walls, the golden spires above swallowed by roiling clouds that had swept up from the wasteland below—a rare storm, fierce and unyielding, mirroring the tension coiling in Tomas Kael's gut. He stood beneath the downpour, his borrowed pickaxe gripped tight in calloused hands, its rough haft slick with water, the blade biting into a dummy as wood splintered and flew, carried off by the wind. His shirt clung to him, soaked through, blood seeping from the gash on his chest and the burn on his shoulder, mixing with the rain in faint pink trails that pooled at his feet. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed loud, its glow a pulsing blue beneath the sodden leather, a heartbeat syncing with the storm's fury, tying him to the forge beast's defeat, to the spy's whispered warning—Sparks aren't what you think. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, swinging again, the crack of wood lost in a thunderclap, his ribs aching with every breath, a fire that fueled rather than slowed him.
Elara emerged from the barracks' overhang, her dark hair plastered to her face, her Spark a faint breeze struggling against the gale, barely stirring the sheets of rain that battered her slight frame. She carried a waterskin, its leather dark with wet, and trudged through the mud, her boots sinking with each step, her eyes narrowed against the storm. "Tomas!" she shouted, her voice nearly lost in the wind, reaching him as he drove the pickaxe deeper into the dummy, splitting it clean in half. "You're insane—get inside! This storm's tearing everything apart, and you're out here bleeding!"
He paused, panting, rain streaking his face, dripping from his jaw as he turned to her, the pickaxe planted in the mud, its haft trembling from the force of his last swing. "Can't stop," he said, his voice rough, cutting through the roar of the rain. "Sereth said it—council's calling, next fight's soon, worse than the beast. Storm's a sign, she said. Gotta be ready." He wiped his eyes with a sodden sleeve, the water doing little to clear the blur, and grinned—a faint, stubborn curve that defied the pain lancing his side. "Hard work beats their signs, Elara. Beats everything."
She stepped closer, her breeze flaring briefly, pushing back the rain in a fleeting bubble around them, her face a mix of exasperation and awe. "You beat the forge beast—ten feet of steel and Etherstone, claws like scythes—and you're still swinging? Your chest's torn, your shoulder's fried, your ribs—I can hear 'em creaking from here." She thrust the waterskin at him, her hand trembling slightly, not from cold but from the weight of watching him fray. "You're not a machine, Tomas. You're human—rest, or you'll be no good to anyone."
He took the skin, drinking slow, the cool water a sharp relief against the heat of his wounds, the rain washing it down his chin as he handed it back, his fingers brushing hers, slick and warm despite the chill. "Rest's for the dead," he said, meeting her gaze, the chunk's hum loud in his ears, a steady pulse that drowned out the storm's howl. "Dustcrag didn't let me rest—fourteen hours digging, then running laps with sacks heavier than this pick, rain or dust or dark. Lila'd patch me up, curse me stupid, but it kept us breathing. I don't quit, Elara. Not for Toren, not for storms, not for anything." He squeezed her hand, letting it linger, a tether in the chaos.
She sighed, her breeze faltering, rain breaking through to drench them again, her dark eyes searching his, worry warring with trust. "This isn't Dustcrag," she said, her voice softer now, barely audible over the wind. "Toren's not some rock to chip away—he's a blade, and he's sharpening it. That spy's parchment—vials, runes, dosing—it's real, Tomas. Sparks are made, not born, and you're getting too close. This storm—it's their panic, not just weather."
"Panic's good," he said, slinging his pack tighter, the chunk's hum a drumbeat in his gut, its glow seeping through the leather, a faint blue against the gray. "Means I'm winning. Hard work beats their lies—always will." He grabbed the pickaxe, pulling it free from the mud with a wet suck, and swung at a fresh dummy, wood splintering, rain carrying the shards away. The sky flashed, lightning splitting the clouds, illuminating the yard in stark white, thunder crashing a heartbeat later, shaking the ground beneath his boots.
Sereth appeared through the downpour, her council badge glinting despite the wet, her green eyes sharp as she strode forward, her tunic soaked but her posture unyielding, a figure carved from the storm itself. Rain plastered her auburn hair to her skull, streams running down her face, but she didn't flinch, stopping a few paces from Tomas, her gaze flicking to the ruined dummy, then to him. "Kael," she said, her voice cutting through the wind, smooth as steel despite the chaos. "Council's waiting—hall, now. Storm's no excuse. They've got your next fight ready, and it's a bastard."
He planted the pickaxe again, rain streaking his face, his grin widening, a feral edge to it now. "Worse than the beast, you said. What is it?"
Her smirk flickered, a crack in her mask, water dripping from her chin as she stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "Two fronts—Gifted and construct, paired again, but bigger. Toren's doubling down, Mara's letting him. They're calling it the Storm's Teeth—fitting, with this mess." She gestured at the sky, rain lashing her arm, then back to him. "You're a thorn they can't pull, Kael. Every win twists it deeper—crowd's chanting, Mara's curious, Toren's choking. This is his bite back."
"Let him bite," Tomas said, rolling his shoulders, the ache a dull fire he welcomed, the chunk's hum spiking with the thunder. "I'll break his teeth. Hard work beats their bastards—Gifted, constructs, storms, all of it." He swung the pickaxe once more, wood flying, the dummy's base cracking under the force, mud splashing up his legs.
Sereth studied him, her mask slipping further—a flicker of respect, maybe doubt, her green eyes glinting in the lightning's flash. "You're a lunatic," she said, her smirk widening, a rare warmth beneath the steel. "Still betting on you—don't make me lose, Kael. Tip—watch the Gifted's Spark. It's the key." She turned, rain swallowing her as she strode back to the barracks, her footsteps lost in the storm's roar.
Elara grabbed his arm, her breeze fighting the wind, her grip fierce through the wet. "Two fronts? Tomas, this is madness—you're half-broken already!"
"Half's enough," he said, squeezing her hand, rain soaking them both, his voice steady despite the tremor in his limbs. "We've got the truth—vials, Sparks, lies. I'll break their storm, Elara. One swing at a time." He swung again, wood shattering, the chunk's hum a roar in the chaos, a call tied to Dustcrag, to the carvings, to the fight ahead.
The storm raged on, lightning splitting the sky, thunder shaking the yard, rain pounding the mud into a mire. Trainees huddled inside, their silhouettes faint through the barracks' slits, but Tomas stayed, swinging, lifting, pushing—sixty pounds, then seventy, the pulley creaking under the strain, his muscles screaming, his wounds bleeding fresh. Elara stayed too, her breeze a stubborn shield, her presence a fire against the cold. The council hall waited, the Storm's Teeth loomed, but he'd face them—hard work his blade, the storm his forge, the truth his prize.