Dawn crept over Solvaris, a pale gold seeping through the barracks' slits, painting the stone walls in faint light. Tomas Kael woke to the Etherstone chunk's hum, its glow steady against his hip, a heartbeat cutting through the ache of his battered body. His chest stung, his shoulder throbbed, his ribs groaned with every breath—the forge beast's toll, a victory carved in blood and bruises. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rolling off his cot, splashing water from a basin onto his face, the cold sharpening his focus. Elara's plea—rest—had bought him a few hours, but the fight never stopped.
The yard buzzed with trainees, their chatter hushed, eyes darting as he stepped out, pickaxe in hand. Elara met him at the dummies, her Spark swirling a breeze, her dark eyes tracing his wounds. "You're up," she said, voice low, relief mixing with worry. "Thought you'd sleep 'til noon."
"Not my style," he replied, swinging at the dummy, wood splintering, each strike a jolt through his ribs. "Toren's next move's coming—can feel it. Gotta be ready."
She nodded, her breeze cooling his sweat. "Crowd's still buzzing—Kael, Kael. But Gavric's too quiet, and I saw that spy again—cloak, glinting eyes, up in the stands last night."
"Watching," he said, planting the pickaxe, the chunk's hum loud in his gut. "Always watching. Toren's eyes, maybe. Means I'm close—too close."
A shadow moved—swift, deliberate. Tomas turned, pickaxe raised, as a cloaked figure slipped from the barracks' edge, hood low, a glint of steel at their belt. The spy, closer now, darted into the yard's shadows, too fast to chase with his body screaming. Elara's breeze flared, chasing the figure, but they vanished into a stairwell, gone like smoke.
"Damn it," she hissed, her Spark dimming. "They're bold—too bold."
"Scared," he said, lowering the pickaxe, his grin faint but real. "Hard work's rattling 'em. Let's see what they whisper."
Hours blurred—swings, lifts, sweat soaking his shirt, blood seeping through his bandages. Elara stayed, her breeze steadying him, her silence a comfort. The yard emptied as dusk fell, the sky bruising purple, and he paused, rolling the chunk in his hands, its glow brighter now, tied to the forge, to the carvings—infants dosed, Sparks forged.
A rustle sounded—soft, close. He spun, pickaxe ready, as the spy emerged from the shadows, hood low, voice a rasp. "Kael," they said, stepping forward, hands raised. "You're digging too deep. Toren knows—stop, or it's worse than beasts."
"Worse?" he growled, advancing, the chunk's hum spiking. "I've broken everything he's thrown. Tell him—hard work beats his tricks."
The spy hesitated, glinting eyes narrowing. "Not tricks—truth. The Sparks—they're not what you think. Keep pushing, and you'll burn." They tossed a scrap at his feet—parchment, singed, scrawled with runes and a sketch of an Etherstone vial. Then they bolted, vanishing into the night.
Elara grabbed the scrap, her breeze trembling. "Tomas—this… it's like the carvings. Vials, dosing. They're scared you'll find it."
He nodded, the chunk's hum a roar in his skull. "Truth's close. Hard work'll dig it out." He swung at the dummy, wood flying, the spy's whisper a fire in his veins—Sparks, lies, Toren's fear. He'd break it all.