Dawn broke over Solvaris, a pale gold seeping through the barracks' narrow windows. Tomas woke to the Etherstone chunk's hum, its glow faint but insistent against his hip. He'd slept fitfully, Gavric's shadows and Elara's trust tangling in his dreams. The carvings lingered too—infants dosed, Sparks forged. He rolled off his cot, splashing water from a basin onto his face, the cold sharpening his focus. Hard work beats talent. Today, he'd prove it again.
The yard buzzed with trainees, their chatter a low drone as he stepped out, pickaxe in hand. Elara waved from the dummy line, her Spark swirling a gentle breeze. He nodded back, starting his swings, when a shadow fell—Sereth, her council badge glinting, her green eyes sharp. She'd changed since the tether—colder, distant, a Gifted elite reborn.
"Kael," she said, voice crisp. "Walk with me."
He lowered the pickaxe, following her to the yard's edge. Solvaris sprawled below—spires, platforms, a city of light and lies. "What's this about?" he asked, keeping pace.
"Your next trial," she said, stopping at a railing overlooking the arena. "Council's upping the stakes. Two Gifted this time, not beasts. They want you broken."
Tomas grinned, faint but real. "They'll try. Won't work."
She studied him, her smirk gone. "You're a fool, Kael. Brave, but a fool. These aren't trainees—seasoned fighters, Sparks honed. Toren pushed for it."
"Gavric's uncle," he said, leaning on his pickaxe. "Figures."
Sereth's eyes narrowed. "You're catching on. Good. Toren hates Dulls—sees you as a stain. Gavric's his eyes, but the council's split. Mara's curious, others just want you gone."
"Why tell me?" he asked, crossing his arms. "Thought I was just useful."
"You are," she said, voice low. "But I don't like Toren's games. You've got grit—more than most up here. Survive this, and you might shift the board."
He chewed that over, the chunk's hum buzzing in his gut. "And you? Where's your piece sit?"
She turned away, staring at the arena. "Where it needs to. Don't die tomorrow, Kael. I'd hate to waste the effort."
She left, her cloak snapping in the wind, leaving Tomas with more questions than answers. Elara joined him, her breeze brushing his arm. "What'd she want?" she asked, voice tight.
"To warn me," he said, watching Sereth vanish into the barracks. "Next fight's rigged. Two Gifted, Toren's pick."
Elara frowned. "She's playing both sides. Be careful."
"Always am," he said, heading back to the dummies. He rigged his pulley higher—forty pounds now, stones scraping as he hauled them up. His muscles screamed, sweat soaked his shirt, but he didn't stop. Two Gifted, seasoned Sparks—fine. He'd outwork them, outlast them. Hard work beats talent, even when it's stacked against him.
The day blurred into swings and lifts, Elara sparring beside him, her breezes testing his reflexes. Gavric watched from a distance, shadows coiling, a smirk on his lips. Tomas ignored him, focusing on the rhythm—lift, swing, drop. By dusk, his hands bled, blisters splitting, but he kept going, the chunk's hum a drumbeat in his skull.
Elara grabbed his arm as night fell. "Enough, Tomas. You'll collapse."
"Not yet," he said, voice rough. "Tomorrow's coming. Gotta be ready."
She sighed, letting go. "You're stubborn as stone."
"Got me this far," he grinned, slumping onto a bench. The arena loomed in the dark, its silence a promise of blood. Sereth's warning echoed—Toren's game, Mara's curiosity. He'd survive it, shift the board himself. The chunk glowed, warm and alive, and he tucked it closer, ready for the fight.