The healer's ward glowed faintly under Solvaris's midday sun, its stone walls etched with Etherstone veins pulsing soft and slow, a fragile calm settling over the city's golden spires as steam rose from the damp streets below, mist curling through the cracks of a world fractured wide open. Tomas Kael sat propped on his cot, his body a mending ruin—leg stitched tight, the blistering welt now a raw pink scar; chest bandaged, fresh cuts scabbing beneath; side stanched, Gavric's dagger wound a dull throb; shoulder scarred, flesh puckered from steel and fire—ribs aching with every shallow breath, blood crusted beneath fresh linen wraps, a Dull who'd burned the council's lies to ash and now bore the weight of that fire's aftermath. His borrowed pickaxe rested against the wall, its haft slick with dried sweat and blood, its blade dulled from smashing through constructs and forges, a relic of the blaze that had toppled an empire of deceit. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed steady, its glow a soft blue, a heartbeat syncing with his ragged gasps, tying him to the truth he'd unearthed—vials shattered, infants freed, Solvaris's order reduced to dust—a spark of rebellion smoldering under the ashes of his collapse. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, eyes half-open, rain and sweat dried into salt on his face, blood flaking from his cracked lips, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a rising tide shaking the ward's walls, a pulse in his bones stoking his will even as his body begged for rest.
Elara sat beside him, her dark hair tangled with sweat and ward dust, her Spark a gentle breeze stirring the stale air, her eyes fierce with trust now shadowed by exhaustion and worry, her hands steady as she clutched his, blood crusted beneath her nails from pressing cloths to his wounds in the forge's chaos. "Tomas—you're awake—truth's out, the forges are dust—but you're still breaking," she murmured, her voice soft but trembling over the ward's low hum, her gaze darting to his wounds—leg wrapped tight, chest rising unevenly, side seeping faintly through the bandages—her Spark swirling, a faint gust cooling his fevered skin, her presence a lifeline through the haze of pain and fatigue. Her tunic was torn at the shoulder, her boots caked with forge mud, steam lingering in her breath as she pressed a damp cloth to his brow, a fire stoking her care into defiance, her grip firm despite the tremble, anchoring him to the world he'd shattered. "The crowd's wild—Dulls marching, Gifted shouting—they're calling for you, but you've got to hold together. Rest, damn it—you've burned enough for now."
Sereth stood at the cot's foot, her green eyes sharp and restless, her mask of council decorum long gone, her badge glinting faintly in the ward's dim glow, her Spark bending light to pierce the shadows, illuminating his ruin—blood-soaked bandages, pale skin streaked with sweat, breaths shallow but stubborn—a fire joining his smoldering blaze, her voice steady despite the tension coiling in her stance. "Kael—you've split Solvaris wide—truth's out, council's cracking, forges are ash—but it's not over," she said, her gaze darting to the window where the spires loomed, their golden sheen dulled by unrest, then back to Tomas, her Spark flaring briefly—light bending, revealing the depth of his wounds—her defiance stoking the calm, her nod to Elara a pact forged in the wreckage. "Toren's locked up, but his dogs are loose—loyalists whispering, Gifted panicking, Dulls ready to tear it all down. You're the spark—they're waiting for you to stoke it again. Hold on, or it's dust." Steam rose from her damp tunic, her boots leaving faint mud prints on the stone floor, a tide turning in her trust, her hands clenched as if itching to strike at the chaos beyond.
Lysen, the healer, moved silently through the ward, her gray eyes calm but lined with weariness, her Spark a shimmer of warmth pulsing at her hands, her tunic crisp despite the long hours, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the ward's hum as she checked his bandages—leg stitched and cooling, chest knitted but tender, side closed but fragile. "He's mending—slowly—ribs are cracked, blood's low, body's frayed—but his grit's a forge of its own," she said, her hands hovering over his chest, warmth spreading—faint, golden—stitching flesh, easing the sharp bite of pain, steam curling as her Spark worked, her gaze darting to Elara, then Sereth. "You've kept him breathing—barely—but he's past breaking. Rest, Kael—healer's orders—or I'll tie you to this cot myself." Her fingers traced his side, the wound's edges softening under her touch, her Spark flaring brighter—golden light weaving through his ruin—a healer's hands stoking his fading pulse, the ward trembling faintly under her power, her calm a shield against the storm brewing outside.
Mara entered, her storm-cloud eyes dulled with a mix of grief and resolve, her gray hair tangled and streaked with forge ash, her robe worn and patched, her Spark a faint gust stirring the air, her voice thunder muted by exhaustion, trembling with doubt breaking into something new. "Kael—you're alive—truth's ash, forges dust, council's split—Solvaris fractures," she murmured, stepping to the cot, her gaze locking on his wounds—bandages fresh but stained, blood stanched but lingering—then to Elara, Sereth, Lysen, her presence heavy with the weight of a shattered order. "You broke us—exposed the dosing, the children, our lies—what's left? The crowd's chanting your name, Dulls and Gifted tearing at each other—your fire's burning still, but it's heavy." Steam curled around her, her hand trembling as she touched the Etherstone chunk at his belt, its glow soft and steady, a fire beneath smoldering in her silence, her fury fading into a reluctant awe, the ward a fragile refuge from the chaos clawing at the city's edges.
The window rattled—sharp, insistent—as voices rose outside, louder than the ward's hum, heavier than the midday heat. "Kael—truth—Dulls rise!"—a Dull's shout, raw and ragged, echoing through the streets—"Lies—Gifted fall!"—a Gifted's cry, shrill and desperate—torches flickered beyond the glass, footsteps pounded, Solvaris splitting under the weight of his blaze. Sereth turned, her Spark flaring—light bending, illuminating the streets below—her voice sharp and urgent. "Mara—it's breaking out there—crowd's wild—Dulls marching with picks, Gifted clashing with Sparks—Kael's name's their fuel. Toren's gone, but his loyalists are stoking it—Gavric's men, maybe. We've got to move, or it's chaos." Her green eyes blazed, steam rising as she faced Mara, a fire stoking the fracture—"Truth's his—ours—Solvaris shifts—choose now!"—a tide turning, her defiance breaking the ward's calm, her gaze darting to Tomas, a nod of trust igniting further.
Elara's breeze surged—soft but fierce—cooling the air, her voice rising over the clamor. "Mara—he burned it down—forges, lies—kids like Lila—the truth's out, and they know it! Dulls are rising, Gifted are splitting—help him hold it, or it all collapses!" Her tears were dry now, 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. "He's ours—truth's his—the ashes are heavy, but we can't let them bury us!"
Mara's Spark flickered—a gust stirring the papers on a nearby table—her storm-cloud eyes narrowing, rage and grief warring as she stepped to the window, peering out at the chaos—torches flaring, Dulls marching with tools raised, Gifted hurling Sparks in defense or defiance—her voice thunder muted by weariness. "Truth—Kael's truth—forges dust, council's ash—Dulls, Gifted—the weight of it all?" She gripped the sill, her hand trembling, steam mixing with her breath as the chants grew—Kael, Kael—a tidal wave shaking the walls. "He's broken it—us—Solvaris—what's left to forge from this? Choose?" Her gaze darted back to Tomas, his eyes half-open, his grin faint but feral, a fire beneath smoldering in her doubt, her wind dying as the ward trembled, the weight of ashes pressing down.
Lysen's hands flared—golden light weaving through his chest—easing his ribs, knitting the cracks, her voice firm but edged with strain. "He's steady—mending—rest now—ashes are his, but don't stoke them yet," she said, 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. "He's past breaking—grit's his steel—but he's not iron yet. Hold him here."
Tomas stirred—eyes flickering open wider, blood crusted on his lips—his leg shifting under the blanket, his chest rising with a deeper, pained breath—ribs grinding but holding—his side a dull throb, his voice a rasp tearing through the silence, shaking the cot despite the weakness trembling in his limbs. "Hard work—beats—talent—truth's out—forges dust—don't let it—bury us," he gasped, his hand tightening on Elara's, his gaze meeting Sereth's, then Mara's, steam fading as Lysen's warmth held him together, a fire smoldering in his ruin, the weight of ashes heavy but lifting, a spark he'd stoke again. "Lila—Dulls—Gifted—truth's mine—ours—forge it." His grin widened, faint and feral, the chunk's hum a low roar, a call tied to Dustcrag, to the rebellion, to the city he'd broken and would rebuild, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a tidal wave breaking Solvaris wide, dust stirring into something new.
The ward trembled—the voices outside swelling, the air thick with steam and tension—Elara's breeze steadying him, Sereth's light guiding them, Mara's doubt bending, Lysen's warmth forging him anew. The weight of ashes settled, heavy but bearable, a foundation for the fire beneath, Solvaris teetering on the edge of collapse or creation, its fate tied to the Dull who'd burned it down.