The council hall loomed under Solvaris's midday sun, its marble dome gleaming through the drizzle's last gasps, rain streaking its carved walls—scenes of Gifted triumphs now mocking in their stillness. Tomas Kael trudged through the mud-slick streets, his borrowed pickaxe slung across his shoulders, its haft rough against his blistered palms, mud caking his boots from the yard's endless grind. His leg burned beneath its bandage, his chest stung with every step, his shoulder throbbed—wounds piling up, blood seeping through damp cloth, but he walked tall, the Etherstone chunk at his belt humming loud, its glow a pulsing blue against the gray, a rhythm tying him to the spy's scraps—vials, runes, children dosed with lies. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rain dripping from his hair, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—echoing from the arena, a pulse in his bones as he approached the hall's towering doors.
Elara walked beside him, her dark hair damp, her Spark a faint breeze stirring the puddles, her eyes sharp with worry she couldn't hide, the parchments tucked safe in her pocket—proof of the council's secrets, a fire they'd stoke together. She'd argued to come, her voice firm—you're not facing them alone—and he'd relented, her presence a steady anchor through the ache. "They're calling you now," she said, her voice low, cutting through the drizzle's patter. "After the Teeth, the storm—means they're rattled. Be careful, Tomas—they're not playing anymore."
"Never were," he replied, shifting the pickaxe, mud flaking off his shirt, his grin faint but stubborn. "Hard work beats their rattles—Gifted, constructs, lies. I'll dig it out, Elara—whatever they've got." He squeezed her arm, rain slick between them, the chunk's hum spiking with his pulse as the doors swung open, guards in gleaming armor stepping aside, their Sparks flickering warily.
Inside, the hall glowed with Etherstone light, veins pulsing through the walls, the air thick with the hum of power and the weight of eyes. The council sat in their crescent of thrones—seven Gifted, their Sparks a symphony of fire, wind, steel, lightning—Mara at the center, her storm-cloud eyes piercing, Toren to her right, his glare a blade honed with rage, Sereth beside him, her green eyes steady, her mask tight but cracking. The floor was marble, polished to a mirror, reflecting their light, and Tomas stood at its heart, mud dripping from his boots, pickaxe planted, a Dull among gods.
Mara leaned forward, her voice cutting through the hum, smooth and cold. "Tomas Kael," she said, her gaze locking on him, rain still glistening on his face. "Storm's Teeth—Dorn's fire, the construct's steel—broken by your hand. Beasts, Gifted, constructs—none stop you. Bold words—hard work beats talent—proven again. But Toren demands a final test."
Toren stood, his tunic crisp despite the storm, his voice ice, his Spark a faint shimmer of steel at his hands. "A Dull rises too fast—chaos, unearned. You mock our order, Kael—every win spits on it. I propose the Blade—three Gifted, two constructs, tomorrow. Survive, and you stay. Fall, and you're dust—where you belong."
Murmurs rippled through the council, Sparks flaring—some curious, some scornful. Tomas tightened his grip on the pickaxe, stepping forward, mud streaking the marble, his voice rough but steady. "Three Gifted, two constructs? Fine—I'll outwork 'em all. Hard work beats your blades, Toren—beats your order. I've broken everything you've thrown—beasts, teeth, lies. Bring it."
Toren sneered, steel glinting at his fingertips. "Bold for a worm. You'll crawl soon enough."
Mara raised a hand, silencing him, her eyes narrowing, a storm brewing behind them. "Agreed—the Blade, tomorrow. Five foes—veterans and machines, Toren's design. Survive, and you prove your claim. Fail, and he's right—you're dust." Her gaze flicked to Sereth, then back to Tomas, a flicker of curiosity breaking her calm. "Speak, Kael—last words."
He grinned, rain dripping from his jaw, the chunk's hum loud in his ears, a roar tied to Dustcrag, to the truth. "Hard work beats talent—beats your Sparks, your steel, your secrets. I'll break your Blade, council—watch me." He turned, mud trailing, Elara at his side, her breeze sharp with defiance as they left, the doors slamming shut behind them.
Outside, the drizzle faded, clouds parting to reveal Solvaris's gleam, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—drifting from the arena. Elara grabbed his arm, her voice tight. "Five? Tomas—they're throwing everything at you."
"Everything's what I'll break," he said, squeezing her hand, rain washing mud from his face. "We've got the truth—vials, Sparks, lies. I'll outwork their Blade, Elara—one swing at a time." He headed to the yard, pickaxe swinging, mud flying, the chunk's hum a call to fight on—hard work his shield, the council's blade his forge, the storm's echo his strength.