The forge beneath Solvaris lay in ruins, its stone walls trembling under the wasteland's crust, steam surging through the air as the humid haze thickened, mist curling through the cracks of a world shattered wide. Tomas Kael slumped against a broken vat, his borrowed pickaxe slipping from his grip, its haft slick with sweat and blood, its blade buried in the mud-slick stone—a Dull among gods, a spark who'd burned their lies to ash, now fraying at the edges of collapse. His leg burned, a blistering welt torn open, blood pooling beneath its soaked bandage; his chest stung, fresh cuts bleeding through his shirt; his side throbbed from Gavric's dagger, a crimson stain spreading; his shoulder ached, flesh scarred by steel and fire—ribs cracking with every shallow breath, a body pushed past breaking, held together by a will forged in Dustcrag's dust and blood, steam rising from his soaked frame like a shroud of defiance fading into exhaustion. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed faint, its glow a dim blue, a heartbeat slowing with his ragged gasps, tying him to the truth he'd exposed—vials shattered, runes scattered, infants glowing with lies—a fire beneath that had blazed into an inferno, now smoldering in the wreckage. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rain and sweat streaking his face, blood dripping onto the stone, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a distant echo from above, fading into the forge's silence, a pulse in his bones flickering as his vision blurred.
Elara knelt beside him, her dark hair damp with mist, her Spark a faint breeze stirring the steam, her eyes fierce with trust now clouded with panic, tears streaming as she pressed a cloth to his side, her hands trembling, blood soaking through her fingers. "Tomas—stay with me!" she hissed, her voice breaking over the forge's dying hum, her gaze darting to his wounds—leg blistered, chest torn, side bleeding—her Spark swirling, a desperate gust cooling his sweat, her presence a lifeline through the haze. "You did it—broke their forge, their lies—kids, Lila—it's out—but you're breaking—don't you dare quit now!" Her fingers fumbled with his bandage, steam curling around them, her breath hitching as she tied the cloth tight, blood seeping through, a fire stoking her fear into defiance, her grip fierce on his arm, anchoring him to the world he'd shattered.
Mara stood at the cavern's edge, her storm-cloud eyes blazing with fury, her gray hair whipping in her own Spark's wind, her robe streaked with mud and Etherstone ash, the vial in her hand—glowing faintly, cracked—trembling as her Spark faltered, a gust dying in the steam. Her voice rolled over the wreckage, thunder muted by shock, sharp and cold, trembling with rage breaking into doubt. "Kael—truth—forges—children—our order's ash?" she murmured, stepping forward, her boots crunching glass and stone, her gaze locked on the cribs—infants glowing, silent, Etherstone veins pulsing—then to Tomas, slumped and bleeding, a Dull who'd burned her world down. She turned to Toren, her glare thunder fading into ice—"You—built this—dosed them—lied to us all?"—her wind flickered, steam swirling as she faced him, the elders scattered behind her—Veyra's ice melted, Dren's shadows shrank, Gorrim's earth stilled, Lysa's flames dimmed—doubt igniting into silence, the forge trembling under the weight of collapse.
Toren lay sprawled in the mud, steel dimming at his hands, his face twisted—panic, rage, desperation—blood trickling from his brow where Mara's wind had struck, his Spark flickering as he clawed the stone, steam rising around him like a shroud of defeat. "Strength—order—Solvaris needed it!" he snarled, his voice clawing through the silence, his glare darting to the cribs, to Mara's fury, to Tomas's ruin—"Dulls served—Kael's chaos—ends us!"—but his steel faltered, shards clattering, his words breaking as he staggered up, a man drowning in the ashes he'd forged, his tunic torn, his pride dust.
Sereth rushed to Tomas, her green eyes sharp, her mask gone, her council badge glinting in the torchlight, her Spark bending light to pierce the steam, illuminating his wounds—leg, chest, side, shoulder—a fire joining his fading blaze, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands as she knelt beside Elara. "Kael—hold on—truth's out—forges, dosing—you broke it!" she said, her gaze darting to his blood-soaked shirt, her Spark flaring—light bending, revealing the depth of his ruin—her defiance stoking the chaos, her nod to Elara a pact in the wreckage—"He's ours—keep him here!"—steam rising as she tore her tunic, pressing cloth to his chest, blood soaking through, a tide turning in her trust, her hands steadying his collapse.
Tomas grinned, faint and feral, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum a whisper in his skull as he gripped Elara's hand, then Sereth's, his voice a rasp tearing through the silence, shaking the stone despite the tremble in his limbs. "Broke it—hard work—beats their lies—vials, kids—Dustcrag's blood—burned it down," he gasped, his leg buckling, his chest heaving, his side bleeding—ribs cracking, vision blurring—but his will flared, a spark refusing to die, steam curling around him like a shroud of triumph fading into ruin. "Lila—truth's out—don't let it—dust," he rasped, his head lolling, the chunk's glow dimming, a fire beneath smoldering in his collapse.
Elara's breeze surged—sharp, desperate—cooling his sweat, her voice breaking—"Tomas—no—stay—truth's yours—ours!"—her tears falling, mixing with his blood, her Spark swirling, a fire stoking his fading pulse, her grip tightening, steam surging as she pressed harder, blood soaking her hands, a lifeline refusing to snap. Sereth's Spark flared—light bending, illuminating his face—pale, blood-streaked, eyes fluttering—her voice sharp—"Guards—now—he's not dust—move!"—her hands steady, steam rising, a fire joining Elara's, their defiance a tide against his collapse, torches flickering as workers lingered, overseers frozen, the forge silent but for their breaths.
Mara's wind faltered—dying in the steam, her storm-cloud eyes widening, rage and awe warring as she stepped closer, the vial dropping—cracking, Etherstone spilling—her voice a whisper cutting through the silence, trembling with fury breaking into grief. "Kael—truth—our lie—children—Solvaris—ash?" She knelt beside him, her hand hovering over his chest, blood and steam mixing, her Spark flickering—a gust stirring the air—"He's broken it—us—what's left?"—her gaze darting to Toren, to the cribs, to the elders crumbling—Veyra weeping, Dren silent, Gorrim staring, Lysa trembling—doubt igniting into collapse, the forge a tomb of their order.
Toren staggered up, steel flaring—shards glinting—but Mara's wind roared, slamming him back, stone cracking, his voice a snarl—"Chaos—Kael—ruins us!"—but his Spark broke, shards scattering, his glare fading as guards rushed in—armor clanking, Sparks flickering—hauling him off, his tunic dragging through the mud, a man dust in the fire he'd stoked. The elders surged—Sparks faltering, voices muted—Veyra's ice gone—"Truth?"—Dren's shadows fading—"Order?"—Gorrim's earth silent—"Dust?"—Lysa's flames out—"Ash?"—their thrones empty above, their power crumbling in the depths.
Tomas's vision blurred—blood dripping, steam rising—his leg numb, his chest tight, his side a fire fading—ribs cracking, breath shallow—but his grin held, faint and feral, the chunk's hum a whisper, a call tied to Dustcrag, to Lila, to the truth. "Hard work—beats—talent—burned it," he rasped, his hand slipping from Elara's, his head lolling, steam curling around him as guards lifted him—armor cold, hands rough—Elara and Sereth at his sides, their Sparks flaring—breeze and light—a fire stoking his collapse, the forge silent, the truth ash, his breaking point dust in the wreckage.