The council hall quaked under Solvaris's blazing sun, its marble walls trembling with Etherstone light, steam swirling through the air as the humid haze thickened, mist seeping through the cracks of a world shattering apart. Tomas Kael stood at the hall's heart, mud streaking the polished marble, his borrowed pickaxe planted with a dull thud, its haft slick with sweat and blood, its blade glinting in the glow—a Dull among gods, wielding a truth that cut deeper than steel, a fire beneath blazing into a inferno. His leg burned, a blistering welt throbbing beneath its bandage, his chest stung with fresh cuts, his side bled from Gavric's dagger, his shoulder ached—ribs groaning, a body fraying, held together by a will forged in Dustcrag's dust and blood, steam rising from his soaked shirt like a shroud of defiance. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed loud, its glow a pulsing blue, a heartbeat syncing with his ragged breaths, tying him to the scraps at Mara's feet—vials, runes, children dosed with lies—a truth exposed, a blaze he'd stoke until Solvaris burned with it. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rain and sweat streaking his face, blood dripping onto the marble, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a tidal wave crashing through the walls, shaking the hall, a pulse in his bones igniting the chaos.
Elara stood beside him, her dark hair damp with mist, her Spark a faint breeze stirring the steam, her eyes fierce with trust, her hands trembling as she clutched his pack, the scraps' weight a fire between them—proof of the council's forge, a blade they'd wielded to break the lie wide open. Her voice cut through the chaos, a whisper rising over the elders' shouts—"Tomas—they're cracking—keep it burning!"—her presence a steady anchor through the ache, her boots planted in the mud he'd trailed, defiance blazing in her gaze as she faced the council's crescent, seven Gifted faltering under the truth's weight, their Sparks a symphony collapsing into discord.
Mara towered at the crescent's center, her storm-cloud eyes blazing with fury, her gray hair whipping in her own Spark's wind, her robe sweeping the marble as she clutched the scraps—vials, runes, children glowing with accusation—her voice thunder rolling over the hall's hum, sharp and cold, trembling with rage breaking free. "Toren!" she roared, turning on him, her Spark surging—wind blasting, knocking him back, his throne rocking, steel shards clattering to the floor—"You knew—forged Sparks, dosed infants, buried it—lied to us all? Solvaris's root—Etherstone and blood—our order's a lie?" Her gaze locked on the scraps, runes glowing, her hand trembling as she thrust them forward, steam curling around her, a storm breaking within her calm, her fury a gale tearing through the hall.
Toren staggered, steel dimming, his face twisting—panic, rage, desperation—his voice a snarl clawing through the chaos, his Spark flickering as he gripped his throne, knuckles white, blood trickling from a cut on his brow where Mara's wind had struck. "Order demanded it!" he roared, his glare darting to the scraps, to Mara, to the elders crumbling in their seats—"Sparks—strength—Solvaris thrives—Dulls served, as they should! Chaos—Kael—ends us—end him now!" His steel flared again—shards flying, aimed for Tomas—but Sereth lunged, her Spark surging—light bending, deflecting them into the marble, cracks spidering, her voice sharp—"No—truth's out, Toren—stop!"—her green eyes blazing, her mask gone, a tide turning, steam rising as she faced him, a fire joining Tomas's blaze.
Tomas grinned, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum spiking, a roar in his skull as he stepped forward, mud squelching, pickaxe steady despite the shake in his hands, his voice a growl tearing through the mist, shaking the hall. "End me?" he snarled, meeting Toren's glare, then Mara's storm, unflinching, the scraps glowing at his feet—vials, children, truth blazing free. "Broke your beasts, your Gifted, your Blades, your dog—hard work beats your strength, Toren, beats your lies. Thrives? On Dustcrag's graves—my home bled for your stone, Dull kids dosed while you played gods—Lila's hands, twisted by your forge! Proof's there—scraps, spy's truth—forges hidden, children taken—I dug it out, and I'll burn it down!" He slammed the pickaxe haft onto the marble, the crack ringing, mud and blood splattering, steam curling around him, a fire beneath igniting the hall into chaos.
The elders surged—Sparks clashing, voices roaring—a storm breaking within their crescent, the marble trembling, steam swirling as their fury met his truth. Veyra's ice flared, frost curling—"Lies—silence him!"—but melted under the scraps' glow, her voice cracking. Dren's shadows lashed—"Treason—bury it!"—but shrank, doubt seeping through. Gorrim's earth rumbled—"Proof—show us!"—stone cracking beneath his throne, while Lysa's flames roared—"Burn him!"—but flickered, faltering in the heat of his blaze. Sereth stepped forward, her Spark bending light, her voice rising—"I've seen it—forges below, vials, dosing—I didn't know 'til Kael dug it—truth's here, council—face it!"—her green eyes blazing, a fire stoking his own, steam rising as she faced Mara, the elders, a tide turning in the chaos.
Mara's Spark surged—wind roaring, slamming the elders back, silencing their clash, her voice thunder breaking over the hall, her gaze locked on Toren, then the scraps, runes glowing, a crack splitting her calm wide open. "Forges—below?" she hissed, stepping forward, her robe sweeping the marble, steam curling around her as she turned to Sereth, then Tomas, her storm-cloud eyes blazing with rage, maybe awe—"Hidden—children—Etherstone—our Sparks—forged? Show me—now—or this hall burns with your lies!" Her wind flared, lifting the scraps—vials, runes, children—into the air, runes glowing brighter, a fire beneath breaking free, shaking the hall to its roots.
Tomas nodded, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum a roar tied to Dustcrag, to Lila, to the truth, his voice a growl rising higher, tearing through the mist, shaking the marble. "Below—forges hidden—vials dosing kids, Etherstone pumping Sparks—Dustcrag's stone, my blood—Dulls died for it! I've seen the scraps—spy showed me—three proofs—forges, runes, kids glowing—your order's a lie, Mara, and I'll burn it down—hard work beats your forge, your gods—take me there, see it!" He thrust a finger at the scraps, then the floor, mud and blood splattering, steam swirling, a fire igniting the hall into a crucible of truth.
Mara's gaze locked on him, her Spark faltering—a gust dying, her eyes widening, rage and doubt warring as she dropped the scraps, runes glowing on the marble, her voice a whisper cutting through the silence, trembling with fury breaking free. "Below—forges—truth?" She turned to Toren, her glare thunder, her Spark surging—wind blasting, knocking him to his knees—"You hid this—buried it—lied to me?" Her voice rose, a storm breaking, the hall shaking, steam swirling as the elders gasped, Sparks flickering, doubt igniting into chaos.
Toren crawled, steel dimming, his face twisting—panic, rage, desperation—his voice a snarl—"Strength—order—Solvaris needed it—Dulls were nothing!"—but his words broke, his glare darting to the scraps, to Mara's fury, to Sereth's defiance, a man drowning in the fire he'd forged. Sereth stepped closer, her Spark bending light, her voice sharp—"Take us—below—forges—I'll show you, Mara—Kael's truth—our lie!"—her green eyes blazing, a fire joining his blaze, steam rising as she faced the council, a tide turning in the chaos.
Mara nodded, her Spark roaring—wind surging, the hall's hum faltering, her voice thunder rolling over the chaos—"To the forges—now—truth or dust!" She strode forward, her robe sweeping the marble, steam curling around her, the scraps clutched in her hand, runes glowing, a storm leading them into the fire beneath. Tomas grinned, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum a roar, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a tidal wave shaking the walls, a fire exposed, a forge of truth breaking Solvaris wide.