The barracks buzzed with post-fight chatter, trainees trading bets on Tomas's odds. He sat on his cot, wrapping his burned arm with a strip from his shirt, the sting sharp but bearable. The Etherstone chunk glowed faintly, its hum a steady pulse against the chaos in his head. He'd beaten Korr and Syl, broken pickaxe and all—hard work trumping sabotage. Gavric's smirk haunted him, Toren's glare a weight. The game was bigger than the arena now.
Elara slipped in, her Spark dim, her eyes sharp. "You're hurt," she said, sitting beside him.
"Been worse," he replied, tying the bandage tight. "Gavric rigged my pick. Nearly cost me."
She nodded, anger flickering. "Toren's pushing him. They don't like you winning."
"Don't like losing more," he grinned, faint but real. "Hard work beats their tricks."
She squeezed his shoulder, warmth in her touch. "Always does. But be careful—someone's watching closer now."
He frowned, the scratched warning flashing—They're watching. "Yeah. Felt it today."
Night fell, the barracks quieting. Tomas stepped into the yard, new pickaxe in hand—borrowed, rougher than his old one. He swung at a dummy, testing it, when a shadow moved in the stands—a cloaked figure, too still, eyes glinting. Council spy? Toren's? He froze, pickaxe mid-air, then resumed, slower, watching from the corner of his eye. The figure slipped away, silent as smoke.
Elara joined him, her breeze soft. "Saw that?" she whispered.
"Yeah," he said, lowering the pickaxe. "They're closing in."
"Together," she said, her hand brushing his. He nodded, the chunk's hum a call to fight on.