Midday sun blazed over Solvaris, its golden spires dulled under a heavy 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 fragile calm amid the tide breaking beyond. Tomas Kael sat on his cot, his body a mending ruin—leg 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 will a spark stirring the wreckage. His borrowed pickaxe rested against the wall, its haft slick with dried sweat and blood, its blade dulled, a relic of his fire stoking the ashes. 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 rising with the day. 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 roaring tide shaking the ward's walls, a pulse in his bones igniting the air.
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 tempered by resolve, her hands steady as she clutched his, blood crusted beneath her nails from the forge's chaos. "Tomas—you're up—truth's out—crowd's breaking it—rest, but it's stirring," she murmured, her voice soft over the ward's hum, her gaze darting to the window—spires dim, streets wild—then back 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, anchoring him to the ashes stirring beyond.
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—truth's ash—Solvaris splits—Dulls march, Gifted fracture—your name's their fire," she said, her gaze darting to the window—torches flaring, chants rising—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—ashes stir now,"—steam rising from her damp tunic, a tide turning in her trust, her hands clenched as the city roared.
Lysen moved through the ward, her gray eyes calm, her Spark a shimmer of warmth pulsing at her hands, her tunic crisp despite the day'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 steady—grit's his forge—rest, Kael, ashes wait," she said, her hands hovering, warmth spreading—faint, golden—easing pain, steam curling as her Spark worked, her gaze darting to the window—chants roaring—then back to Tomas—"He's past breaking—keep him here,"—a healer's hands stoking his recovery, the ward trembling faintly under her power, her calm a shield against the ashes stirring outside.
Mara stood at the cot's edge, 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 tide—council's dust—Solvaris fractures—Dulls, Gifted—what?" she murmured, her gaze locked on his wounds—bandages fresh, blood stanched—then to the window—spires dim, chants roaring—"He broke us—forges ash, children freed—ashes stir—choose?"—steam curling around her, her hand trembling as she touched the chunk, its glow soft, a fire beneath smoldering in her silence, her fury fading into exhaustion, the ward a refuge from the chaos breaking wide.
Voices roared outside—raw, fierce—cutting through the ward's stillness, louder than the crowd's chant, heavier than the day's hum. "Kael—truth—Dulls rise!"—a Dull's shout, ragged and fierce—"Lies—Gifted burn!"—a Gifted's cry, shrill and desperate—torches flared, footsteps pounded, Solvaris splitting under the weight of his blaze. Sereth turned, her Spark flaring—light bending, illuminating the streets—her voice sharp—"Mara—crowd's wild—Dulls march, Gifted fight—Kael's spark—they're stirring—choose now!"—her green eyes blazing, steam rising as she faced her, a fire stoking the ashes—"Truth's his—ours—Solvaris shifts—stand or fall!"—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 tide—Dulls know—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 ashes higher, her eyes fierce with the chaos breaking beyond. "He's ours—truth's his—ashes stir—don't let it fade!"—her voice breaking, a fire joining the roar, the ward trembling as the chants grew—Kael, Kael—a tidal wave shaking the walls.
Mara's Spark flickered—a gust stirring—her storm-cloud eyes narrowing, rage and grief warring as she stepped to the window, her voice thunder muted—"Truth—Kael's—forges dust—council's ash—Dulls, Gifted—ashes rise?" She stared—torches flaring, Dulls marching, Gifted clashing—her hand trembling as she gripped the sill, steam mixing with her breath—"He's broken it—us—Solvaris—what's left?"—her gaze darting to Tomas, his eyes half-open, his grin faint, a fire beneath smoldering in her doubt, her wind dying as the ward shook, the ashes stirring wide.
Lysen's hands flared—golden light weaving—easing his ribs, her voice firm—"He's steady—mending—rest—ashes stir—Kael's spark—don't stoke it yet,"—steam settling as her Spark dimmed, her gray eyes softening, her calm a shield against the chaos, the chunk's hum steadying, a heartbeat syncing with her warmth, Tomas's ruin forging into recovery, the ward a refuge amid the rising tide.
Tomas stirred—eyes flickering, blood crusted—his leg steadying, his chest rising—ribs aching, 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—ashes mine—don't let it—dust," 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 ashes stirring, a roar he'd stoke again, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a tidal wave breaking Solvaris wide, dust in his wake.