Dusk cloaked Solvaris, a heavy purple sky pressing down on the barracks. Tomas sat on his cot, the Etherstone chunk in his hands, its glow casting faint blue across the stone walls. His shoulder burned where Lira's lightning had struck, a red welt beneath a fresh bandage Elara had tied. The paired fight—Gifted and construct—lay broken behind him, another win carved from sweat and blood. Hard work beats talent, he'd proven again, but the weight of eyes grew heavier—Gavric's smirk, Toren's rage, the spy in the stands. The chunk's hum sang louder, a secret stirring in its warmth.
Elara slipped in, her Spark dim, a waterskin in hand. She sat beside him, her knee brushing his, and pressed the skin into his grip. "You're pushing past human, Tomas," she said, voice low, her dark eyes tracing his wounds. "That pairing—they meant it to end you."
"Didn't," he replied, drinking deep, the cool water soothing his raw throat. "Hard work beats their traps. Always will." He tucked the chunk away, its hum steadying him, a lifeline through the ache.
She nodded, her breeze cooling his sweat. "Crowd's chanting your name now—Kael, Kael. Mara's watching closer, Toren's losing his grip. You're shifting the sand under them."
"Good," he said, leaning back, the cot creaking. "Let it shift. I'll bury 'em in it."
Footsteps crunched—Gavric, his shadow Spark coiling like smoke, sauntering in with a sneer. "Big hero, huh?" he said, leaning against the wall. "Toren's not done—next one's a slaughter. Enjoy your cheers, Dull. They'll turn to screams."
Tomas stood, pickaxe in hand, wincing as his shoulder protested. "Keep yapping, Gavric. Shows me where to swing."
Gavric laughed, shadows snapping. "Swing all you want. You're a bug—squash is coming." He left, his threat hanging like damp air.
Elara frowned. "He's scared. Hiding it bad."
"Maybe," Tomas said, stepping into the yard. The night air bit his skin, sharp and clean. Dummies waited, splintered, and he swung, each strike a defiance—against Gavric, Toren, the council's eyes. The chunk glowed, its hum a call tied to the carvings—infants dosed, Sparks forged. He paused, rolling it in his hands, the spy's glint flashing in his mind. "They're close," he muttered. "Too close."
He resumed, swings harder, wood flying. Hard work would carry him, but the weight of eyes pressed—watching, waiting. He'd give 'em a fight they couldn't blink away.