The arena roared as Tomas stepped onto its sand, Solvaris's sun high and merciless. Thousands filled the stands, Gifted in silks, their Sparks a kaleidoscope of power. His pickaxe felt heavy, its haft slippery with sweat, but he gripped it tight. Two Gifted waited across the pit—seasoned fighters, Sereth had warned, Toren's picks. Hard work beats talent. Time to prove it again.
Elara watched from the trainees' bench, her nod a quiet anchor. Gavric smirked nearby, shadows coiling, too smug for comfort. The council loomed above, Mara's storm-cloud eyes unreadable, Toren's glare a blade. The gate opened, and the fighters emerged—Korr, a broad man with fire sparking at his fists, and Syl, a lean woman whose hands shimmered with ice.
Tomas charged, closing the gap fast, but his pickaxe snagged—its head wobbled, loose. He cursed, dodging Korr's fireball, the heat singeing his arm. Sabotage. Gavric's grin flashed in his mind. He tightened his grip, swinging anyway, and the head held—barely. Syl flung ice shards; he rolled, sand spraying, and slammed the pickaxe into the ground, steadying it.
Korr rushed, fists blazing. Tomas ducked, ramming the haft into his gut, then swung up, catching his jaw. Korr staggered, fire dimming, and Tomas pressed, driving him back. Syl froze the sand, a slick trap, but he leapt, using a pillar for leverage, and tackled her hard. She gasped, ice fading, and he pinned her, pickaxe at her throat.
Korr roared, charging again. Tomas rolled off Syl, the loose head rattling, and hurled it—haft and all—into Korr's chest. It struck, knocking him flat, and Tomas finished with a fist to his temple. Silence fell, then cheers erupted, wild and split.
He stood, panting, blood dripping from a burned arm. The pickaxe lay broken, its head cracked. Gavric's smirk was gone, his shadows tight. Elara clapped, relief in her eyes. Mara rose, voice cutting through—"He stays. For now."
Tomas limped from the pit, retrieving his pack from the cell. The Etherstone chunk pulsed, warm and steady. Sabotage hadn't stopped him—hard work had. But Gavric's hand was clear, and Toren's glare burned hotter. He'd won, but the game was shifting.