The council hall loomed under Solvaris's midday sun, its marble dome a gleaming crown atop the city's golden spires, steam rising from the sodden streets below as the humid air thickened, mist curling through the cracks of a world about to split open. Tomas Kael trudged through the mud-slick path, his borrowed pickaxe slung across his shoulders, its haft slick with sweat and rain, its blade glinting dully in the haze, mud caking his boots from the yard's relentless grind. His leg burned beneath its bandage, a blistering welt from Dorn's fire throbbing with every step, his chest stung where fresh cuts crisscrossed old scars, his side bled from Gavric's dagger, his shoulder ached with wounds of lightning and steel—ribs groaning, a body fraying at the edges, held together by a will forged in Dustcrag's dust and blood. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed loud, its glow a pulsing blue against the damp leather, a heartbeat syncing with his ragged breaths, tying him to the spy's scraps—three parchments clutched in his hand, damp, scrawled with runes, sketches of vials and children dosed with lies—a truth Toren couldn't bury, a fire he'd stoke into a blaze. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rain and sweat streaking his face, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—drifting from the arena, a tidal wave of sound crashing against the hall's towering doors, a pulse in his bones he'd make roar.
Elara walked beside him, her dark hair damp with sweat and mist, her Spark a faint breeze stirring the steam, her eyes sharp with worry she couldn't bury, the parchments' weight a fire between them—proof of the council's secrets, a blade they'd wield together. She'd insisted on coming, her voice fierce—you're not facing them alone—and he'd nodded, her presence a steady anchor through the ache, her boots squelching through the mud as she matched his stride. "Tomas," she said, her voice low, cutting through the mist's hum, her gaze flicking to his wounds—leg blistered, chest torn, side bleeding—"they're summoning you now—after the Blade, Gavric's knife—it's not a fight, it's a trap. Toren's desperate, and you're a wreck. The scraps—vials, children—it's enough to break 'em, but you've got to hold together."
"Trap's fine," he replied, shifting the pickaxe, mud flaking off his shirt, his grin faint but stubborn, defiance burning through the pain lancing his side. "Hard work beats their traps—Gifted, constructs, knives, lies. I'll dig it out, Elara—whatever they've forged in there. We've got the truth—vials, Sparks, kids like Lila twisted by 'em—I'll stoke it 'til it burns 'em down." He squeezed her arm, steam 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, their eyes darting to the mud trailing behind him, a Dull daring to stain their sanctum.
Inside, the hall glowed with Etherstone light, veins pulsing through the marble walls, a deep, resonant hum filling the air, thick with the weight of power and the scent of polished stone dampened by rain. 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 through the mist, her gray hair coiled tight, her presence a storm held in check; Toren to her right, his glare a blade honed with rage, his tunic crisp despite the chaos, his Spark a faint shimmer of steel at his hands, fists clenched with barely contained fury; Sereth beside him, her green eyes steady, her mask tight but cracking—a flicker of tension, maybe trust, her bet riding on him. The other four—elders with Sparks of ice, shadow, earth, and flame—watched in silence, their gazes a mix of scorn and curiosity, their thrones carved with triumphs now mocking in their stillness. The floor was marble, polished to a mirror, reflecting their light, and Tomas stood at its heart, mud dripping from his boots, pickaxe planted with a dull thud, the scraps in his hand—vials, runes, children glowing with lies—a Dull among gods, a fire beneath their forge.
Mara leaned forward, her voice cutting through the hum, smooth and cold as ice over stone, her storm-cloud eyes locking on him, steam curling from his soaked shirt. "Tomas Kael," she said, her tone a thunderclap in the hall's stillness, rain still glistening on his face, blood dripping from his side onto the marble, a red stain spreading in the reflection. "The Blade—three Gifted, two constructs—broken by your hand, mud and blood your forge. Beasts, Gifted, machines, betrayal—none stop you. Bold words—hard work beats talent—proven again, a Dull rising where gods falter. But Toren demands a reckoning—claims you're chaos, a threat to our order. Speak, Kael—what drives you?"
Toren stood, his voice ice, his Spark flaring briefly—steel glinting at his fingertips, a sharp edge cutting through the mist. "A Dull mocks us—every win spits on our legacy. Blade's dust, Gavric's fall—chaos unearned. He's a worm burrowing too deep—council's split, crowd's wild—Kael, Kael—a name that poisons Solvaris. I say end him—here, now—or he'll unravel us all." His glare burned, his fists slamming the throne's arm, the crack echoing, a vow of ruin trembling in the air.
Tomas tightened his grip on the pickaxe, stepping forward, mud streaking the marble, his voice rough but steady, blood dripping from his side, steam rising from his wounds as he met Mara's gaze, then Toren's, unflinching. "End me?" he snorted, his grin widening, a feral edge breaking through, the chunk's hum spiking, a roar in his skull. "Broke your beasts, your Gifted, your Teeth, your Blade—hard work beats your legacy, Toren, beats your order. Chaos? I'm truth—digging where you bury. You're scared—scared I'll burn your lies down." He raised the scraps, damp and trembling in his hand, runes glowing faintly in the Etherstone light, sketches of vials and children stark against the marble—proof of their forge, a fire he'd stoke.
Murmurs rippled through the council, Sparks flaring—ice crackled, shadows coiled, earth rumbled—elders shifting, their scorn turning to unease, their thrones creaking under the weight of his words. Mara's eyes narrowed, a storm brewing behind them, her voice sharp, cutting through the tension. "Lies? Bold claim, Kael—scraps and blood don't prove it. Show us—speak plain, or Toren's right—you're dust."
He stepped closer, mud squelching, pickaxe planted again, the scraps thrust forward, his voice a growl rising over the hum, steam curling around him like a shroud. "Plain? Here—vials, runes, kids dosed with Etherstone—your Sparks ain't gifts, they're forged. Dustcrag bled for your stone—Dulls died while you played gods, dosing infants, twisting 'em into this—" he gestured at their thrones, their Sparks—"a lie you built Solvaris on. I've got proof—three scraps, spy's truth—hard work dug it out, and I'll burn it down—one swing at a time." He tossed the scraps onto the marble, parchment skidding, runes glowing, children's hands sketched in agony—a fire beneath breaking free.
Silence fell, thick and heavy, the hall's hum faltering, Sparks flickering as the council stared—ice melted, shadows shrank, earth stilled, flame dimmed—Mara's gaze locked on the scraps, Toren's face twisting, rage boiling into panic, Sereth's mask cracking wide—a gasp escaping, her green eyes blazing with shock, maybe awe. The elders erupted—voices clashing, Sparks surging—accusations, denials, a storm breaking within their crescent, the marble trembling under their power, steam rising from the floor as their fury met his truth.
Toren lunged, steel flaring at his hands, his voice a roar—"Lies! Filth! A Dull dares—end him!"—but Mara's hand shot up, her Spark a gust of wind slamming him back, his throne rocking, his glare burning holes through the mist. "Enough," she snapped, her voice thunder, her eyes piercing Tomas, the scraps at her feet glowing with accusation. "Kael—truth or madness? Prove it—here, now—or Toren's blade cuts true."
He grinned, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum a roar tied to Dustcrag, to Lila, to the fire beneath. "Proof's there—vials, kids, your forge. Hard work beats your steel, your lies—reckon me all you want, I'll burn it down." The hall shook, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—seeping through the walls, a tide he'd ride, a truth he'd forge into a blade sharper than Toren's.