Dusk cloaked Solvaris in a humid haze, the drizzle's remnants fading into a heavy stillness, the barracks yard a sodden battlefield of mud and splintered wood, puddles reflecting the golden spires' gleam. 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, rain dripping from the slits onto the floor. His leg throbbed, Dorn's burn torn open by the Blade's last construct, a blistering welt seeping blood through a soaked bandage; his chest stung, fresh cuts crisscrossing old scars, blood soaking his shirt; his shoulder ached, flesh torn by steel and shadow, his ribs groaning with every shallow breath—a body pushed past breaking, held together by grit alone. The Blade—three Gifted, two constructs—lay defeated, Toren's pride shattered in the mud, but the cost carved deep, a toll weighing him toward collapse. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rolling the chunk between trembling fingers, its hum a steady pulse against the pain, a lifeline tying him to the spy's scraps—vials, runes, children dosed—a truth Toren feared, a lie he'd break.
Elara slipped in, her footsteps soft through the damp, her Spark a gentle breeze stirring the stale air, her dark hair dripping from the yard's wet, her eyes widening as she took him in—blood-streaked, mud-smeared, a wreck still breathing, still fighting. She carried a waterskin and a cloth, 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, the sting sharp but grounding. "Tomas," she breathed, her gaze tracing his wounds—leg blistered, chest torn, shoulder mangled—"you're a corpse walking. Five foes—Ryn's wind, Torv's lightning, Kess's shadows, those constructs—you shouldn't be here. Rest, damn it—I can't patch you forever."
"Did anyway," he rasped, taking the skin, drinking slow, the cool water soothing his raw throat, washing away the taste of blood and mud as he handed it back, his hand shaking, fingers brushing hers through the wet. "Hard work beats their blades—Gifted, constructs, rhythm. Sereth was right—broke their sync, broke 'em all." He hissed as she pressed harder, the burn flaring, but leaned into her touch, a rare surrender to the care she forced on him, his grin faint but stubborn, defiance burning through the haze.
She frowned, her breeze cooling his sweat, tying a fresh bandage tight around his leg, her fingers lingering on the blistering skin, her voice breaking slightly. "You won—crowd's screaming—Kael, Kael—but look at you. Leg's a mess, chest's bleeding, shoulder's shredded—your ribs sound like they're dust. You're fraying, Tomas—pushing past human, and it's killing you." Her eyes searched his, a plea beneath the steel, tears glinting in the chunk's glow. "I saw you climb that last construct—mud, blood, steel tearing you—I thought that was it. You're not stone, you're flesh—rest, or you'll break before their lies do."
"Flesh bends," he said, grinning wider, the effort tugging his wounds, blood seeping through the chest bandage as he shifted, mud flaking off his boots onto the floor. "Stone breaks when it quits—Dustcrag taught me that. Fourteen hours digging, then running laps 'til I dropped—rain, dust, dark—Lila'd patch me, call me a fool, but it kept us fed. I don't quit, Elara—not for Toren, not for five, not for anything." He met her gaze, the chunk's hum loud in his ears, a steady pulse drowning out the drizzle's patter, its glow brightening against the leather, a call tied to the truth—vials, dosing, Sparks forged.
She sighed, her breeze swirling with frustration, sitting beside him, her knee brushing his, a steady anchor through the ache, her hand resting on his arm, warm against the cold seeping through his shirt. "This isn't Dustcrag—this is Toren grinding you down, one fight at a time. That spy's scraps—children dosed, Etherstone lies—it's real, and you're too close. The Blade was his pride, and you broke it—but Gavric's silence… he's too quiet, Tomas. Something's off." Her eyes flicked to the door, shadows moving beyond the slits, her voice dropping. "Crowd's with you, Mara's curious, Sereth's betting—but Toren's desperate, and desperate men cut deep."
"Deep's fine," he said, his voice rough but firm, leaning back, the cot creaking under his weight, mud crumbling onto the stone. "Let him cut—I'll outlast him. Hard work's my edge—beats their desperation, beats their lies. We've got the truth, Elara—vials, Sparks, kids like Lila twisted by 'em. I'll dig it out." 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, swinging at a wooden beam—wood splintered, the crack echoing, a promise to keep fighting.
A shadow moved—swift, deliberate—cutting through the barracks' gloom like a blade. Tomas turned, pickaxe raised, as Gavric stepped in, his shadow Spark coiling tight beneath his hood, rain dripping from his cloak, his smirk gone, replaced by a cold, glinting stare, a dagger glinting in his hand—steel, sharp, Etherstone-edged. "Kael," he said, his voice a low hiss, stepping closer, shadows pooling at his feet, thicker than ever. "Broke the Blade—impressive, Dull. Toren's livid, council's split—but you're done stirring. Time to cut the thorn."
Tomas tightened his grip, mud squelching under his boots, his grin fading, replaced by a snarl, the chunk's hum spiking with his pulse, a roar in his skull. "Cut?" he growled, stepping forward, pain lancing his leg but ignored. "Broke your Teeth, your pride—hard work beats your knife, Gavric. Try me."
Gavric lunged, shadows surging, dagger slashing—steel gleamed, aimed for his chest. Tomas swung the pickaxe, metal clanging off the blade, jarring his arms, and rolled, mud slick underfoot, dodging a shadow whip that lashed the cot, splitting it. Elara flared her breeze, blasting Gavric back; he staggered, shadows coiling, and charged again—dagger grazed Tomas's arm, blood welling, hot and sharp, but he roared, tackling Gavric low, toppling him into the mud-streaked floor.
They grappled—shadows lashed, steel flashed—Tomas pinned an arm, knee to Gavric's chest, pickaxe raised—Gavric's shadows surged, throwing him off, dagger slashing his side—pain flared, blood soaking his shirt, but he swung, cracking Gavric's wrist, the dagger flying. He pinned him again, fist to his jaw—shadows dimmed, Gavric gasping, defeated, blood trickling from his lip.
"Work beats betrayal," Tomas snarled, standing, blood dripping, leg trembling, pickaxe steady despite the shake in his hands. Elara rushed to him, her breeze sharp, tying a cloth to his side, her voice tight with fear. "Tomas—he's Toren's dog—tried to kill you!"
"Knew it," he said, panting, the chunk's hum a victory song, rain washing blood from his face. "Desperate—means we're close." Gavric groaned, shadows fading, guards rushing in—alerted by the crash—hauling him off, his glare burning but broken.
Night deepened, the barracks silent but for the drip of rain, the creak of stone. Tomas sat, blood-soaked, Elara patching him, the chunk's glow steady—a call to fight on, betrayal's sting a fire he'd stoke higher.