Dawn crept over Solvaris, a pale gold seeping through the barracks' slits, the yard beyond a sodden ruin of mud and splintered wood, puddles reflecting the spires' gleam, steam rising from the damp as the humid air thickened. 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, side bleeding from Gavric's dagger, shoulder scarred, ribs groaning with every breath, a ruin held together by will alone. The Blade's defeat—five foes broken—and Gavric's betrayal—shadows and steel in the dark—burned in his mind, a fire beneath the pain, the spy's scraps—vials, runes, children dosed—closer now, a truth Toren couldn't bury. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rolling off his cot, splashing water from a basin onto his face, the cold sharpening his focus, blood and mud flaking from his hands 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 under the burn, his side stinging with every twist, but he pushed harder, sweat mixing with the damp, blood seeping through bandages—fresh from Elara's hands, now torn again. The chunk's hum sang loud, tied to the parchments—a secret breaking free, a fire beneath the council's lies he'd stoke with every swing. Trainees watched from the barracks' edge, their chatter hushed, eyes wide—Kael, the Dull who broke the Blade, defied betrayal, a name growing heavier, a whisper spreading through Solvaris's underbelly.
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 bury, carrying a waterskin and a cloth, her boots squelching through the mud as she approached. "Tomas," she said, her voice low, tossing the skin with a frown that deepened as he caught it, his hand trembling from the strain, blood dripping from his side onto the mud. "You're up—after Gavric's knife? You're bleeding fresh—rest, or you'll bleed out before Toren tries again."
"Not stopping," he replied, drinking deep, the cool water soothing his raw throat, washing away the taste of blood and mud, handing it back with a faint grin, his fingers brushing hers through the damp, slick with sweat and rain. "Hard work beats their knives—broke the Blade, broke Gavric's shadows. Toren's desperate—means the fire's close. Gotta push." He swung again, wood flying, mud splashing up his legs, the chunk's hum a steady pulse in his gut, its glow brightening against the leather, a call tied to Dustcrag, to the truth.
She sighed, her breeze swirling tighter, cooling his sweat as she stepped closer, pressing the cloth to his side, wiping blood with careful strokes, the sting sharp but grounding. "You're right—Gavric's locked up, guards took him, but Toren's quiet—too quiet. The crowd's wild—Kael, Kael—but the council's tense, and that spy… I saw them again, dawn, slipping through the stands. You're too close, Tomas—Sparks made, children dosed—they're scared, and you're the one burning for it." Her eyes flicked to the parchments in her pocket, damp but intact, her voice dropping. "Leg's blistered, chest's a mess, side's bleeding—your ribs—I can hear 'em cracking. You're fraying—how long 'til you can't swing?"
"Long enough," he said, planting the pickaxe, mud oozing around its haft, his grin widening, a feral edge to it now, defiance burning through the pain. "Dustcrag taught me—fourteen hours digging, then running laps 'til I dropped—Lila'd patch me, call me a fool, but it kept us breathing. I don't break, Elara—I bend, bleed, burn, but I don't break. Hard work beats their fire—beats their lies. We've got the scraps—vials, kids like Lila twisted by 'em—I'll stoke it 'til it blazes." He grabbed an eighty-pound stone, hauling it with the pulley, muscles screaming, his leg trembling, his side bleeding fresh, but he lifted higher, mud squelching underfoot, steam rising around him.
Footsteps crunched—soft, swift—cutting through the yard's hum. Tomas turned, pickaxe raised, as the spy emerged from the barracks' shadow, hood low, glinting eyes piercing the haze, a glint of steel at their belt, mud squelching under their boots as they stopped a few paces off, hands raised. "Kael," they rasped, their voice a low cut through the damp, stepping closer, rain dripping from their hood. "You're too deep—Gavric's fall rattled 'em, Blade's dust broke 'em—but Toren's forging worse. Stop, or the fire burns you out—council, crowd, all of it."
"Burn?" he growled, advancing, the chunk's hum spiking, steam rising from his soaked shirt, his eyes locked on the spy's. "Broke beasts, Gifted, blades, betrayal—hard work beats your forge. Tell Toren—I'll burn his lies down. Truth's the fire, and I'm stoking it." He swung the pickaxe into the mud, a wet thud, blood dripping from his side, his leg trembling but steady.
The spy hesitated, glinting eyes narrowing, rain dripping from their cloak as they tossed another scrap—parchment, damp, scrawled with runes, a sketch of an Etherstone forge glowing with vials, children lined beside it—then bolted, vanishing into the stairwell's shadows. Elara grabbed the scrap, her breeze trembling as she unfolded it, her voice tight with awe and fear. "Tomas—this—forges, dosing—more proof. They're terrified—you're lighting a blaze they can't douse."
He nodded, the chunk's hum a roar in his skull, steam rising from his hands as he took the scrap, tracing the sketch—a forge like Dustcrag's, twisted by their lies, a fire beneath he'd stoke higher. "Truth's close—hard work'll dig it out." He swung at the dummy, wood shattering, the spy's whisper a fuel in his veins—Sparks forged, Toren's fear, a blaze breaking free. Trainees watched, their whispers growing—Kael, the Dull who burned through betrayal, a name the council couldn't quench.
Hours blurred—swings, lifts, sweat and blood mixing with the damp, the yard a crucible of mud and will, steam curling around him like a shroud. Elara stayed, her breeze a stubborn shield, her presence a fire against the cold, patching his side as blood soaked through again, her hands steady despite the tremble in her voice. The chunk glowed, its hum a call tied to Dustcrag, to the carvings, to the fight ahead—hard work his blade, the fire beneath his forge, the truth his strength.