The barracks settled into a rare stillness, Solvaris's night sky a blanket of stars beyond the windows. Tomas sat on his cot, the Etherstone chunk in his hands, its glow casting faint blue across the stone walls. Tomorrow loomed—two Gifted in the arena, Toren's picks, Sereth's warning ringing in his ears. He'd trained all day, pushed past breaking, his body a map of bruises and blisters. Hard work beats talent. He'd make it true again.
Elara slipped in, her footsteps soft, her Spark a gentle shimmer. She sat beside him, her knee brushing his, a quiet comfort. "Can't sleep?" she asked, voice low.
"Nope," he said, rolling the chunk between his palms. "Too much noise in my head."
She nodded, staring at the glow. "That thing—it's more than Etherstone, isn't it?"
"Dunno," he said, holding it up. "Found it in Dustcrag, just a chunk. But it hums, glows—feels alive since we saw those carvings. You were right—Sparks aren't born."
She took it, her fingers trembling slightly. "It's warm. Like it's… listening." She handed it back, her hand lingering. "What's it mean, Tomas?"
"Means the Gifted are hiding something big," he said, tucking it into his belt. "Power, control—something worth killing for. Bandits, warnings, this fight—it's all tied."
Elara leaned closer, her breath soft. "And us? Where do we fit?"
He met her gaze, her dark eyes steady. "We dig it out. Together. You're the only one I trust up here."
She smiled, faint but real. "Good. 'Cause I'm not leaving."
They sat in silence, the chunk's hum a bridge between them. Tomas thought of Dustcrag—Lila's stew, the mines, the grind that built him. "Back home," he said, voice rough, "I'd run laps with stone sacks after shifts. Fourteen hours digging, then that. Lila called me crazy."
"She's right," Elara teased, nudging him. "But it's why you're here."
"Yeah," he said, grinning. "Hard work beats talent. Gotta keep proving it."
She nodded, her hand resting on his arm. "You will. Tomorrow, whatever they throw at you—I've got your back."
He covered her hand with his, the touch grounding him. "Same."
The night deepened, the barracks quiet but for their breathing. Elara stood, squeezing his shoulder. "Rest, Tomas. You'll need it."
He nodded, lying back as she left. The chunk hummed, its glow fading, but its weight stayed—Dustcrag's echo, Solvaris's riddle. He closed his eyes, dreaming of mines and spires, Lila's voice whispering, "Don't quit." Tomorrow, he wouldn't.