The barracks glowed under Solvaris's dusk, its golden haze fading into night. Tomas sat on his cot, bandaging his sliced arm, blood seeping through the cloth. The Etherstone chunk pulsed, warm and alive, its hum a steady beat against the pain. Three veterans—Korr, Syl, Varn—downed by his hand, their Sparks shattered. Hard work beats talent. The crowd's cheers still rang, but Toren's rage burned brighter, Gavric's smirk a shadow in his mind.
Elara slipped in, her Spark dim, a waterskin in hand. "You're a mess," she said, sitting close, her knee brushing his.
"Still breathing," he replied, taking the water. "Toren's pissed. Means I'm winning."
She nodded, her breeze cooling his sweat. "Mara's watching closer now. You're shifting things—Gifted don't know what to make of you."
"Good," he said, tucking the chunk away. "Let 'em squirm."
Footsteps echoed—Sereth, her council badge glinting, her eyes sharp. "Kael," she said, voice low. "You're stirring a storm. Toren's doubling down—next trial's soon. Bigger."
"Bigger how?" he asked, standing, wincing as his arm throbbed.
She smirked, faint but real. "You'll see. Don't die yet—I'm still betting on you."
She left, leaving tension. Elara frowned. "She's playing both sides."
"Maybe," Tomas said, grabbing his pickaxe. "Doesn't matter. I'll outwork it."
He stepped into the yard, swinging at a dummy, the chunk's hum a call to fight on. The game was shifting—he'd shift it harder.