Dawn broke over Solvaris, a thin gold thread piercing the humid haze, the arena's marble walls slick with the drizzle's remnants, its stands packed with thousands of Gifted despite the early hour, their silks damp, their Sparks flickering through the mist, their cheers a rising tide—"Kael! Kael!"—shaking the air. Tomas Kael descended into the pit, mud sucking at his boots from yesterday's storm, his borrowed pickaxe gripped tight, its haft slick with sweat and rain, its blade glinting in the faint light. His leg burned beneath its bandage, a blistering welt throbbing with every step, his chest stung where blood seeped through damp cloth, his shoulder ached with scars of fire and steel—wounds piling up, a body pushed past breaking, but he stood tall, rolling his shoulders, the pain a fire he'd stoke into strength. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed loud, its glow a pulsing blue against the gray, a rhythm syncing with his ragged breaths, tying him to Sereth's tip—watch the rhythm—and the council's Blade—three Gifted, two constructs, Toren's pride unleashed to grind him down. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, mud squelching underfoot, the crowd's chant a pulse in his bones, thunder rumbling faintly from the retreating storm.
Elara watched from the trainees' bench, her dark hair damp, her Spark a faint breeze lost in the humid air, her nod a lifeline through the chaos, her eyes sharp with worry she couldn't hide. Gavric lounged nearby, shadows coiling tight beneath his hood, his smirk a razor's edge, rain dripping from his chin as he leaned forward, eager for the kill—too eager, a glint of something darker in his gaze. The council loomed above, Mara's storm-cloud eyes piercing the mist, Toren's glare a vow of ruin, his fists clenched with barely contained rage, Sereth's face a mask with a flicker of tension beneath—her bet riding on him, her tip a thread he'd pull. The pit's spiked walls gleamed, mud-slick and stained with old blood, a crucible waiting to test his grit.
The gate screeched open, iron grinding through the mud, and the crowd hushed, breath held, as five foes emerged—three Gifted, two constructs, a symphony of power and steel cutting through the haze. First, Ryn, a wiry woman with wind whipping at her hands, her Spark a gale that stirred the mud into swirling eddies; then Torv, a broad man whose fists crackled with lightning, arcs snapping through the damp air; last, Kess, a lean figure with shadows coiling like Gavric's, darker and denser, pooling at her feet. The constructs flanked them—nine feet tall, Etherstone frames pulsing with red cores, steel arms ending in spiked maces, their hum a deep drone syncing with the Gifted's Sparks, a rhythm Sereth had warned him to break. They moved as one, a coordinated assault, Toren's pride forged into a blade to sever his rise.
Tomas tightened his stance, mud sucking at his boots, and charged, rain and sweat stinging his eyes, the pickaxe swinging—metal clanged off the first construct's arm, jarring his bones, but he struck again, chipping its leg, a crack splitting the air. Ryn struck, wind blasting him back; he slid through the mud, breath knocked out, ribs screaming, and rolled up, dodging Torv's lightning—arcs seared the ground, steam hissing as they met the wet. Kess flanked, shadows lashing like whips; he ducked, mud splashing, and swung at the second construct's knee—steel groaned, bending slightly, progress he'd build.
The fight blurred—wind, lightning, shadows, steel—a chaos of pain and grit tearing through the pit. The first construct charged, its mace swinging; Tomas dove, mud coating him, and struck its ankle—metal buckled, slowing it. Ryn's gale roared, hurling him against a spiked wall—steel grazed his arm, blood welling, but he roared, leaping off, tackling Torv low, toppling him into the mire. Lightning flared, searing his side—pain flared, white-hot, but he swung, cracking Torv's jaw, Sparks dimming in the mud.
Kess's shadows pinned him, coiling tight; he thrashed, pickaxe slashing, breaking their grip, and charged the second construct, climbing its frame—mud-slick, steel-cold—swinging at its chest. The plate cracked, red core pulsing, but the first construct swung, its mace grazing his leg—bone jarred, burn tearing open, blood soaking the mud. He roared again, dropping to the ground, rolling through the mire, and struck its knee—steel shattered, toppling it. He climbed, pickaxe raised, and drove it into the core—Etherstone splintered, red light dying, the machine collapsing in a heap of sparks and steam.
Ryn rushed, wind blasting; he hurled mud into her face, her gale faltering, and tackled her, pinning her with the pickaxe haft—her Sparks faded, defeated. Torv staggered up, lightning arcing; Tomas dodged, mud slick underfoot, and swung low, cracking his knee, then tackled him back, fist to his temple—lights out. Kess lunged, shadows surging, but he met her, pickaxe blocking a lash, mud steaming under her Spark—he swung, breaking her arm, then pinned her, shadows dissolving into the wet.
The last construct loomed, its mace raised; Tomas staggered, blood dripping, leg trembling, and charged—mud flew, he dodged its swing, climbing its frame, slipping, clawing up. It thrashed, steel arm swinging; he ducked, the blow grazing his shoulder—flesh tore, pain blinding—but he roared, slamming the pickaxe down—once, twice—shattering the plate, exposing the core. One final swing—Etherstone cracked, red light fading, the machine crumbling into the mud.
Silence fell, thick and heavy, rain drumming the mire, then cheers erupted—wild, fierce, shaking the stands, "Kael! Kael!" a storm of its own. Tomas stood, panting, blood soaking his shirt, mud caking his skin, pickaxe trembling in his grip, leg buckling but holding. "Work beats blades," he growled, too quiet for the crowd. Elara clapped, tears streaming, her breeze reaching him through the haze. Gavric's smirk vanished, shadows tight with rage—something flickered, a glint of steel beneath his cloak. Mara nodded, Toren's face twisted—fury boiling over, his fists slamming the throne's arm. Sereth's mask cracked, a faint smirk breaking through, her bet won.
He limped from the pit, mud trailing, blood dripping, the chunk's hum a victory song in his veins, rain washing the mire from his face. Hard work had shattered the Blade—five foes broken—but his body was a ruin—burns, cuts, bruises, a toll pushing him to the edge. The crowd's chant followed, Toren's glare burned, Gavric's silence screamed—and the truth loomed closer, a fire he'd stoke with every swing.