Dusk settled over Solvaris, the storm retreating to a steady drizzle, leaving the barracks yard a sodden mire of mud and splintered dummies. Tomas Kael slumped on his cot, the Etherstone chunk in his hands, its glow casting faint blue across the stone walls, flickering with his ragged breaths. His leg burned where Dorn's fire had seared him, a red welt blistering beneath a hasty bandage, his chest stung from the construct's graze, his shoulder throbbed with old and new wounds—lightning, steel, fire piling up. Blood soaked his shirt, mud caked his skin, his ribs ached with every shallow breath—the Storm's Teeth defeated, Toren's latest blade dulled, but the cost carved deep, a weight pressing him toward breaking. 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 haze of exhaustion, tying him to the spy's parchment—vials, runes, a truth Toren feared.
Elara slipped in, her footsteps soft through the damp, her Spark a gentle breeze stirring the stale air, her dark hair dripping from the rain. She carried a waterskin and a cloth, her eyes widening as she took him in—blood-streaked, mud-smeared, a body battered beyond reason, yet unbowed. "Tomas," she breathed, kneeling beside him, her voice thick with worry, her hands trembling as she pressed the cloth to his leg, wiping blood and mud with careful strokes. "You're a wreck—fire, steel, mud—that fight was hell. You shouldn't be breathing, let alone sitting up."
"Did anyway," he rasped, taking the skin, drinking slow, the cool water soothing his raw throat, rain still dripping from his hair as he handed it back, his hand shaking, fingers brushing hers through the wet. "Hard work beats their teeth—Gifted, constructs, storms. Dorn's fire was the key, like Sereth said—tied to the core. Broke 'em both." He hissed as she pressed harder, the sting sharp, but leaned into her touch, a rare surrender to the care she forced on him.
She frowned, her breeze cooling his sweat, tying a fresh bandage tight around his leg, her fingers lingering on the blistering skin. "You won, yeah—but look at you. Leg's burned, chest's torn, shoulder's a mess—your ribs sound like they're cracking every time you breathe. You're pushing past human, Tomas, and it's tearing you apart." Her eyes searched his, a plea beneath the steel, her voice breaking slightly. "I saw you go down—mud, fire, that thing's fist—I thought that was it. The crowd did too, 'til you climbed out."
"Got back up," he said, grinning faintly, the effort tugging his wounds, blood seeping through the chest bandage as he shifted. "Dustcrag taught me—fourteen hours digging, then running laps 'til I dropped, rain or dust or dark. Lila'd patch me, call me a fool, but it kept us fed. I don't break, Elara—I bend, maybe, but I don't break." He met her gaze, the chunk's hum loud in his ears, a steady pulse that drowned out the drizzle's patter on the roof.
She sighed, her breeze swirling with frustration, sitting beside him, her knee brushing his, a steady anchor through the ache. "This isn't Dustcrag—this is Toren grinding you down, one fight at a time. That spy's warning—Sparks made, not born—it's real, and you're too close. They're scared, Tomas, but you're paying the price." Her hand rested on his arm, warm against the cold seeping through his wet shirt. "Crowd's chanting—Kael, Kael—but the council's circling. Mara's curious, Sereth's betting, Toren's raging—you're breaking their edge, but it's breaking you too."
"Good," he said, his voice rough but firm, leaning back, the cot creaking under his weight, mud flaking off his boots onto the floor. "Let it break. I'll outlast 'em—hard work's my edge, not theirs." He stood, wincing as his ribs flared, his leg buckling slightly under the burn, and grabbed his pickaxe, the haft slick with rain and blood. "Gotta train—next one's coming, storm or not."
Elara grabbed his arm, her grip fierce, her breeze sharp against the drizzle seeping through the slits. "Rest, Tomas—please. You're no good to me dead, or to that truth you're chasing. You've got grit, more than anyone, but even you've got limits."
He paused, meeting her eyes, the weight of her worry sinking in, rain dripping from his hair onto her hand. "Alright," he said, sinking back, a rare concession, his voice softening. "For you—few hours. But not long—hard work's what keeps me here, Elara. Keeps us close to their lies." He squeezed her hand, the chunk's hum steadying him, a call tied to Dustcrag, to the carvings—infants dosed, power forged.
She smiled, faint but real, tying another bandage around his chest, her fingers careful over the torn skin. "Stubborn bastard. I'm with you—always. But you're fraying, and I'm not losing you to their games."
Night deepened, the drizzle a steady drum on the roof, the barracks silent but for their breaths and the creak of the cot. Footsteps echoed—Sereth, her council badge glinting through the damp, her green eyes sharp as she stepped in, her tunic soaked but her posture unyielding. "Kael," she said, voice smooth despite the wet, stopping at the cell's edge, her gaze flicking to his wounds, then to Elara. "Still breathing—good. Council's impressed, Toren's livid. You broke his teeth, but he's sharpening new ones."
"Bring 'em," Tomas said, sitting up, wincing as his ribs protested, the chunk's hum spiking with his pulse. "Hard work beats their sharpening. What's next?"
Her smirk flickered, a crack in her mask, water dripping from her chin as she crossed her arms. "Rest up—won't say when, but it's soon. Bigger, nastier—Gavric's whispering to Toren, and the spy's back. You're stirring a mess they can't clean." She paused, her eyes narrowing, a flicker of something—respect, maybe doubt. "Don't die yet, Kael—I'm still betting."
She left, her footsteps fading into the drizzle, leaving tension thick in the air. Elara frowned, her breeze swirling. "She's worried—hiding it bad. You're getting to her."
"Maybe," Tomas said, lying back, the cot creaking, the chunk's glow fading but its hum steady—a call to fight on. "Doesn't change the edge. I'll break their next one—hard work's my blade, and I'm not dull yet."