Night cloaked Solvaris, its golden spires dim under a bruised sky, steam rising from the damp streets as the humid air thickened, mist curling through the cracks of a city fracturing wide, the healer's ward a quiet refuge amid the chaos breaking beyond. Tomas Kael lay on his cot, his body a mending ruin—leg blistered but stitched, chest bandaged, side stanched, shoulder scarred—ribs aching with every breath, blood crusted beneath fresh bandages, a Dull who'd burned the council's lies to ash, now clawing back from collapse. His borrowed pickaxe rested against the wall, its haft slick with dried sweat and blood, its blade dulled, a relic of his fire. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed steady, its glow a soft blue, a heartbeat syncing with his slow breaths, tying him to the truth he'd exposed—forges dust, infants freed, Solvaris's order fractured—a fire beneath smoldering in his recovery. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, eyes half-open, rain and sweat dried on his face, blood flaking from his lips, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a rising tide beyond the ward's walls, shaking the night, a pulse in his bones stoking his will.
Elara sat beside him, her dark hair tangled with sweat, her Spark a gentle breeze stirring the stale air, her eyes fierce with trust now softened by exhaustion, her hands steady as she clutched his, blood crusted beneath her nails from the forge's chaos. "Tomas—you're here—truth's alive—rest now, you've burned it all," she murmured, her voice soft over the ward's hum, her gaze darting to his wounds—leg mending, chest rising, side stable—her Spark swirling, a faint gust cooling his skin, her presence a lifeline through the haze. Her tunic was torn, her boots muddy, steam lingering in her breath as she pressed a fresh cloth to his brow, a fire stoking her care into defiance, her grip firm despite the weariness, anchoring him to the world he'd broken.
Sereth stood by the door, her green eyes sharp, her mask gone, her council badge glinting in the ward's glow, her Spark bending light to pierce the dimness, illuminating the cot—blood-streaked bandages, pale skin, steady breaths—a fire joining his smoldering blaze, her voice steady despite the tension in her stance. "Kael—council's cracking—truth's out—forges, dosing—you've split 'em," she said, her gaze darting to the window—spires dim, streets restless—then back to Tomas, her Spark flaring—light bending, revealing his mending ruin—her defiance stoking the calm, her nod to Elara a pact in the wreckage—"He's ours—truth's his—Solvaris shifts now,"—steam rising from her damp tunic, a tide turning in her trust, her hands clenched as voices echoed beyond.
Lysen moved through the ward, her gray eyes calm, her Spark a shimmer of warmth pulsing at her hands, her tunic crisp despite the night's chaos, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the ward's hum as she checked his bandages—leg stitched, chest knitted, side closed. "He's mending—slow—ribs ache, blood's low—grit's his forge—rest, Kael, or I'll bind you here," she said, her hands hovering, warmth spreading—faint, golden—easing pain, steam curling as her Spark worked, her gaze darting to Elara, then Sereth—"He's past breaking—keep him steady,"—a healer's hands stoking his recovery, the ward trembling faintly under her power, her calm a shield against the fracture widening outside.
Footsteps clattered—sharp, urgent—cutting through the ward's stillness, louder than the crowd's chant, heavier than the night's hum. Mara strode in, her storm-cloud eyes dulled with grief, her gray hair tangled, her robe streaked with forge ash, her Spark a faint gust stirring the air, her voice thunder muted by weariness, trembling with doubt breaking free. "Kael—truth's ash—council's split—Solvaris fractures," she said, stepping to the cot, her gaze locked on his wounds—bandages fresh, blood stanched—then to Elara, Sereth, Lysen—"He broke us—forges dust, children freed—what's left?"—steam curling around her, her hand trembling as she touched the wall, Etherstone veins pulsing faintly, a fire beneath smoldering in her silence, her fury fading into exhaustion, the ward a refuge from the chaos beyond.
Sereth turned, her Spark flaring—light bending, illuminating the door—her voice sharp—"Mara—outside—crowd's wild—Gifted and Dulls—Kael's name—they're tearing it—council's gone—Veyra's fled, Dren's silent, Gorrim's brooding, Lysa's broken—Toren's locked, but it's not enough,"—her green eyes blazing, steam rising as she faced her, a fire stoking the fracture—"Truth's his—ours—Solvaris shifts—choose now!"—a tide turning, her defiance breaking the calm, her gaze darting to Tomas, a nod of trust igniting further.
Elara's breeze surged—soft, fierce—cooling the air, her voice rising—"Mara—he burned it—forges, lies—kids like Lila—truth's out—crowd knows—Dulls rise—Gifted split—help him!"—her tears dry, her Spark swirling, a fire stoking Mara's doubt, her grip tightening on Tomas's hand, steam surging as she faced her, blood crusted on her palms, a lifeline pushing the fracture wider, her eyes fierce with the tide breaking beyond.
Mara's Spark flickered—a gust stirring—her storm-cloud eyes narrowing, rage and grief warring as she stepped closer, her voice thunder muted—"Truth—Kael's—forges dust—council's ash—Solvaris—what?" She knelt beside him, her hand hovering over his chest, steam mixing with her breath—"He's broken it—us—Dulls, Gifted—fracture widens—choose?"—her gaze darting to the window—spires dim, chants rising—then back to Tomas, his eyes half-open, his grin faint, a fire beneath smoldering in her doubt, her wind dying as the ward trembled, voices clashing outside.
Lysen's hands flared—golden light weaving—easing his ribs, her voice firm—"He's steady—mending—rest—chaos waits—Kael's spark—don't stoke it yet,"—steam settling as her Spark dimmed, her gray eyes softening, her calm a shield against the fracture, the chunk's hum steadying, a heartbeat syncing with her warmth, Tomas's ruin forging into recovery, the ward a refuge amid the widening split.
Tomas stirred—eyes flickering, blood crusted—his leg aching, his chest rising—ribs grinding, breath deeper—his side a dull throb, his voice a rasp tearing through the silence, shaking the cot despite the pain. "Hard work—beats—talent—truth's out—forges dust—don't let it—break," he gasped, his hand tightening on Elara's, his gaze meeting Sereth's, then Mara's, steam fading as Lysen's warmth held, a fire smoldering in his ruin, the fracture widening, a tide he'd stoke again, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a roar breaking the night, Solvaris dust in his wake.