The council hall trembled under Solvaris's noon sun, its marble walls pulsing with Etherstone light, steam curling through the air as the humid haze thickened, mist seeping through the cracks of a world splitting wide. Tomas Kael stood at the hall's heart, mud streaking the polished marble, his borrowed pickaxe planted with a dull thud, its haft slick with sweat and blood, its blade glinting dully in the glow, a Dull among gods wielding a truth sharper than steel. His leg burned, a blistering welt throbbing beneath its bandage, his chest stung with fresh cuts, his side bled from Gavric's dagger, his shoulder ached—ribs groaning, a body fraying, held together by a will forged in Dustcrag's dust and blood, steam rising from his soaked shirt like a shroud. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed loud, its glow a pulsing blue, a heartbeat syncing with his ragged breaths, tying him to the scraps at Mara's feet—vials, runes, children dosed with lies—a fire beneath breaking free, a blaze he'd stoke with every word. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rain and sweat streaking his face, blood dripping onto the marble, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a tidal wave crashing through the walls, a pulse in his bones igniting the air.
Elara stood beside him, her dark hair damp with mist, her Spark a faint breeze stirring the steam, her eyes fierce with trust despite the fear, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of his pack, the scraps' weight a fire between them—proof of the council's forge, a blade they'd wield together. She'd followed him into this crucible, her voice a whisper in the chaos—"We've got it, Tomas—burn 'em"—her presence a steady anchor through the ache, her boots planted in the mud he'd trailed, defiance burning in her gaze as she faced the council's crescent, seven Gifted staring down, their Sparks a symphony faltering under his truth.
Mara rose, her storm-cloud eyes piercing through the mist, her gray hair coiled tight, her Spark a gust of wind swirling the steam, her voice thunder cutting through the hall's hum, sharp and cold as ice over stone. "Tomas Kael," she said, stepping forward, her robe sweeping the marble, the scraps glowing at her feet—vials, runes, children sketched in agony—"you claim a lie—Sparks forged, not gifted, infants dosed with Etherstone, Solvaris built on blood and deceit. Bold words—proof, you say, in these scraps. Prove it—here, now—or Toren's steel ends you, and your fire dies in dust." Her gaze locked on him, a storm brewing, her hand hovering over the parchments, runes glowing faintly in the Etherstone light, a challenge he'd meet or burn under.
Toren surged to his feet, steel flaring at his hands, his voice a roar shaking the hall—"Madness! A Dull dares—filth, lies—he mocks us! End him—now—or he'll unravel everything!" His glare burned, his fists slamming the throne's arm, the crack echoing, his Spark surging—steel shards glinting in the mist, a blade poised to strike, panic twisting his rage into desperation, his eyes darting to the scraps, to Mara, to the elders trembling in their seats.
Tomas grinned, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum spiking, a roar in his skull as he stepped forward, mud squelching, pickaxe steady despite the shake in his hands, his voice rough but rising over the chaos, a growl tearing through the mist. "End me?" he snarled, meeting Toren's glare, then Mara's storm, unflinching, the scraps glowing at his feet—vials, children, truth breaking free. "Broke your beasts, your Gifted, your Teeth, your Blade, your dog—hard work beats your steel, Toren, beats your lies. Unravel? I'm burning it down—your forge, your Sparks, your order—vials dosed kids like Lila, Dustcrag's blood paid for it—Dulls died while you played gods. Proof's there—three scraps, spy's truth—dig it out, I did, and I'll stoke it 'til you choke on it!" He slammed the pickaxe haft onto the marble, the crack ringing, mud and blood splattering, steam curling around him, a fire beneath igniting the hall.
Sereth stood, her green eyes blazing, her mask shattering—a gasp escaping, her council badge glinting as she stepped forward, her voice sharp, cutting through the elders' murmurs—ice crackling, shadows coiling, earth rumbling—"He's right—look! Vials, runes—Etherstone dosing—I've seen it, whispers in the forge, children taken—Kael's dug what we buried!" Her Spark flared—a faint shimmer of light bending at her hands, a crack in her steel revealing awe, maybe fear, her bet on him blazing into certainty, her gaze darting to Mara, to the scraps, a tide turning in her words.
The elders erupted—Sparks surging, voices clashing—a storm breaking within their crescent, the marble trembling, steam rising as their fury met his truth. The ice elder, Veyra, hissed, frost curling at her feet—"Impossible—Dull's lies!"—but her voice wavered, her eyes locked on the scraps, frost melting in the heat of doubt. The shadow elder, Dren, snarled, darkness pooling—"Treason—silence him!"—but his shadows shrank, faltering under the runes' glow. The earth elder, Gorrim, rumbled, stone cracking beneath his throne—"Order demands proof!"—while the flame elder, Lysa, flared, fire licking her hands—"Burn it—burn him!"—but her flames flickered, uncertainty seeping through.
Mara raised a hand, her Spark a gust slamming the hall into silence, Sparks dimming, elders freezing, Toren staggering back, his steel shards clattering to the marble, her voice thunder rolling over the chaos. "Enough!" she roared, stepping to the scraps, lifting them—vials, runes, children glowing with accusation—her storm-cloud eyes narrowing, a crack in her calm as she traced the sketches, her fingers trembling faintly, steam curling around her robe. "Kael—truth or madness? These—vials, dosing—Solvaris's root? Speak—prove it—or your fire's ash."
He stepped closer, mud squelching, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum a roar tied to Dustcrag, to Lila, to the fire beneath, his voice a growl rising higher, tearing through the mist, shaking the hall. "Truth—Mara, look! Vials—Etherstone pumped into kids, infants, Dustcrag's stone—my home bled for it, Dull graves piled while you forged Sparks—Ryn's wind, Torv's lightning, Kess's shadows—made, not born! I dug it out—beasts, blades, betrayal—hard work beats your forge, your lies—council's split, crowd's wild—Kael, Kael—'cause I'm burning it down! Spy gave me this—three scraps, proof—forges hidden, children taken—your order's a lie, and I'll stoke it 'til it blazes!" He thrust a finger at the scraps, runes glowing, children's hands sketched in agony—a fire igniting, a truth breaking free.
Toren roared, steel surging—shards flying, aimed for Tomas's chest—but Sereth's Spark flared, light bending, deflecting them into the marble, cracks spidering, her voice sharp—"Stop, Toren—he's right! I've seen the forges—below, hidden—vials, dosing—I didn't know 'til now!" Her green eyes blazed, her mask gone, a tide turning, her bet on him a flame joining his blaze, steam rising as she faced Mara, the elders, the truth.
Mara's gaze locked on the scraps, her Spark faltering—a gust dying, her storm-cloud eyes widening, a crack splitting her calm as she dropped the parchments, runes glowing on the marble, her voice a whisper cutting through the silence, trembling with rage, maybe awe. "Forged… Sparks forged—children—Etherstone—Solvaris's root?" She turned to Toren, her glare thunder, her Spark surging again—wind blasting, knocking him back—"You knew—buried it—lied to us all?" Her voice rose, a storm breaking, the hall shaking, steam swirling as the elders gasped, Sparks flickering, doubt igniting into chaos.
Toren staggered, steel dimming, his face twisting—panic, rage, desperation—his voice a snarl—"No—order demanded it! Sparks—strength—Solvaris thrives—Dulls served, as they should!"—but his words faltered, his glare darting to the scraps, to Mara's fury, to Sereth's betrayal, a man drowning in the fire he'd stoked.
Tomas grinned, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum a roar, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a tidal wave shaking the walls, a fire beneath blazing into truth. "Hard work beats your strength—beats your lies—I'm the spark, Toren, and I'll burn your order down!" The hall erupted—Sparks clashing, elders shouting, Mara's wind roaring—a crucible of truth igniting, a twist breaking Solvaris wide.