Dawn broke over Solvaris, a pale gold piercing the drizzle's remnants, the barracks yard a sodden mess of mud and splintered wood, puddles reflecting the spires' gleam. Tomas Kael woke to the Etherstone chunk's hum, its glow steady against his hip, a heartbeat cutting through the ache of his battered body—leg burned, chest torn, shoulder scarred, ribs groaning with every breath. The Storm's Teeth—Dorn's fire, the construct's steel—lay defeated, another victory carved in blood and mud, but Sereth's warning—bigger, nastier—and the spy's whisper—Sparks made, not born—gnawed at him, a truth he'd dig out no matter the cost. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rolling off his cot, splashing water from a basin onto his face, the cold sharpening his focus, rain still dripping from the slits onto the stone floor.
He stepped into the yard, mud sucking at his boots, pickaxe in hand, swinging at a dummy—wood splintered, each strike a jolt through his ribs, his leg buckling slightly under the burn, but he pushed harder, sweat mixing with the damp, blood seeping through bandages. The chunk's hum sang loud, tied to the parchment—vials, runes, dosing—a secret Toren feared, a lie he'd shatter. Trainees watched from the barracks' edge, their chatter hushed, eyes wide—Kael, the Dull who broke the storm, a name growing heavier with every fight.
Elara joined him, her dark hair damp, her Spark a gentle breeze stirring the puddles, her eyes tracing his wounds with worry she couldn't hide. She carried a waterskin, tossing it to him with a frown that deepened as he caught it, his hand trembling slightly from the strain. "You're up," she said, voice low, stepping through the mud to his side. "Thought you'd rest after yesterday—mud, fire, steel—you're a walking corpse, Tomas."
"Not dead yet," he replied, drinking deep, the cool water soothing his raw throat, handing it back with a faint grin, his fingers brushing hers through the wet. "Hard work beats their corpses—Dorn's Spark was the key, tied to the core. Broke 'em both. Next one's coming—Sereth said it, Gavric's whispering. Gotta push." He swung again, wood flying, mud splashing up his legs, the chunk's hum a steady pulse in his gut.
She sighed, her breeze swirling tighter, cooling his sweat as she crossed her arms. "You're not wrong—Gavric's too smug, and I saw that spy again, cloak and all, slipping through the stands at dawn. But look at you—leg's blistered, chest's bleeding, shoulder's a mess. You're fraying, Tomas, and they're counting on it." Her eyes flicked to the parchment in her pocket, its edges damp from the storm. "This—vials, dosing—it's real. Sparks are made, and you're too close. They're scared, but you're the one bleeding for it."
"Scared's good," he said, planting the pickaxe, mud oozing around its haft, his grin widening, a feral edge to it now. "Means I'm winning. Hard work beats their fear—beats their lies. Dustcrag bled for their Etherstone—Dulls died while they played gods. I'll dig it out, Elara—one swing at a time." He grabbed a sixty-pound stone, hauling it with the pulley, muscles screaming, his leg trembling under the burn, but he lifted higher, rain dripping from his hair onto the mud.
Footsteps crunched—soft, swift. Tomas turned, pickaxe raised, as the spy emerged from the barracks' shadow, hood low, glinting eyes piercing the gloom, a glint of steel at their belt. They stopped a few paces off, hands raised, voice a rasp cutting through the drizzle. "Kael," they said, stepping closer, mud squelching under their boots. "You're too deep—stop now, or it's worse than teeth. Toren's desperate, council's split—truth's a fire you can't douse."
"Worse?" he growled, advancing, the chunk's hum spiking, rain streaking his face. "Broke beasts, Gifted, constructs—tell Toren I'll break his fire too. Hard work beats your whispers." He swung the pickaxe into the mud, a wet thud, his eyes locked on the spy's.
They hesitated, glinting eyes narrowing, rain dripping from their hood. "Not whispers—warnings. Sparks—they're forged, not gifted. Etherstone's the root, and you're tugging it. Keep going, and you'll burn—crowd, council, all of it." They tossed another scrap—parchment, damp, scrawled with more runes, a sketch of a child's hand glowing with Etherstone light—then bolted, vanishing into the stairwell's shadows.
Elara grabbed the scrap, her breeze trembling as she unfolded it, her voice tight. "Tomas—this is it—more proof. Children, dosing, Etherstone—they're scared you'll show the world."
He nodded, the chunk's hum a roar in his skull, rain washing mud from his hands as he took the scrap, tracing the sketch—a child's hand, like Lila's, glowing with lies. "Truth's close—hard work'll dig it out." He swung at the dummy, wood shattering, the spy's whisper a fire in his veins—Sparks forged, Toren's fear, a secret breaking free. Trainees watched, their whispers growing—Kael, the Dull who defied the storm, a name the council couldn't silence.
Hours blurred—swings, lifts, sweat and blood mixing with the drizzle, the yard a battlefield of mud and will. Elara stayed, her breeze a stubborn shield, her presence a fire against the cold. The chunk glowed, its hum a call tied to Dustcrag, to the carvings, to the fight ahead—hard work his blade, the whisper growing into a shout he'd make them hear.