The barracks yard shimmered under Solvaris's noon sun, its golden spires casting long, jagged shadows across the sand. Tomas Kael hauled a fifty-pound stone with his pulley rig, muscles straining, sweat dripping into his eyes. His borrowed pickaxe leaned against a dummy, its rough haft a constant reminder of Gavric's sabotage—his old weapon broken in the last fight, a petty jab that hadn't stopped him. The Etherstone chunk pulsed at his belt, warm and insistent, its hum syncing with his breaths, a rhythm he'd grown to lean on. Three veterans—Korr, Syl, Varn—lay broken in his wake, their seasoned Sparks shattered by his relentless grit. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, dropping the stone with a thud that echoed through the yard, sending a puff of dust into the still air. Sereth's warning lingered—bigger—and he'd be ready, no matter what the council threw next.
Elara approached, her dark hair loose, her Spark a faint breeze brushing the sand as she moved. She carried a waterskin, tossing it to him with a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You're a machine, Tomas," she said, leaning against a pillar weathered by years of Solvaris's winds. "Thought you'd take a breath after yesterday—three veterans down, blood on the sand. Most would call it a win and rest."
He caught the skin, drinking deep, the cool water cutting through the dust caking his throat from hours of training. "Breathing's for when I'm done," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the bandage on his sliced arm itching under the sweat. "Sereth says the next trial's big—bigger than beasts, bigger than Gifted. Gotta push harder." He handed the skin back, his fingers brushing hers, a fleeting warmth against the day's heat.
She nodded, her breeze swirling tighter, a sign of her unease. "She's right. Trainees are whispering—council's cooking something nasty. Toren's been too quiet since you broke his picks, and Gavric's strutting like he knows the punchline." Her eyes flicked to the barracks, where shadows moved behind the slits. "You're rattling them, Tomas. They don't like it."
"Good," he said, slinging his pack tighter, the chunk's hum a steady pulse in his gut. "Let 'em rattle. I'll outwork whatever they've got." He grabbed the pickaxe, testing its weight—rougher than his old one, but it'd do. He swung at the dummy, wood splintering, each strike a promise to Dustcrag, to Lila, to himself. The yard was his quarry now, and he'd dig through anything.
A horn blared, sharp and commanding, slicing through the yard's buzz. Trainees froze, their chatter dying as all eyes turned to the arena's edge. Sereth emerged, her council badge glinting like a blade in the sunlight, her green eyes cold and unreadable. Her cloak was gone, replaced by a fitted tunic that marked her rank, a stark shift from the battered woman he'd hauled up the tether. "Kael," she called, her voice carrying over the sand. "Arena. Now."
He planted the pickaxe, meeting her gaze. "Another trial?"
"Something like that," she said, turning on her heel. "Move."
Elara grabbed his arm as he started after her, her breeze sharp. "Watch her, Tomas. She's council now—loyalty's a coin she flips."
"Always do," he said, squeezing her hand before letting go. He followed Sereth, the chunk's hum quickening, a beat he felt in his bones. The arena loomed ahead, its marble walls towering, its stands already filling with Gifted in their silks and Sparks. The pit waited, sand raked fresh, spiked walls gleaming with the promise of blood. Gavric lounged by the trainees' bench, shadows coiling lazily, his smirk a taunt. The council sat above, Mara's storm-cloud eyes steady, Toren's glare a silent vow of ruin.
Sereth stopped at the pit's edge, gesturing. "The Iron Gauntlet," she said, voice low. "Not beasts, not Gifted—constructs. Three of 'em, Etherstone-forged, built to break you. Toren's idea, Mara's approval."
Tomas peered in—a trio of hulking figures stood motionless, their bodies a mesh of stone and steel, Etherstone veins glowing blue across their frames. Eight feet tall, arms like battering rams, no eyes, just purpose. "Constructs," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "No Sparks to dodge. Just muscle."
"Muscle that doesn't tire," Sereth said, her smirk faint but real. "No pain, no fear. Hard work might not be enough this time, Kael."
"It's always enough," he shot back, stepping to the edge. The crowd roared as he descended, sand crunching under his boots. Elara's nod from the bench was his anchor, Gavric's grin a goad. The gate slammed shut, and the constructs whirred to life, their hum matching the chunk's—a chorus of power he'd shatter.
The first lunged, its fist a blur. Tomas dodged, sand spraying, and swung his pickaxe—metal clanged off stone, jarring his arms, but he struck again, chipping its arm. The second charged, ramming him back; he rolled, breath knocked out, and leapt up, driving the pickaxe into its leg. A crack split the air—progress. The third swung, a steel arm grazing his side, tearing shirt and skin. Blood welled, hot and sharp, but he roared, tackling it low, toppling it into the sand.
He fought like Dustcrag—relentless, precise—striking joints, dodging blows, using the pit's walls to trap them. The first fell, its chest caved by repeated blows; the second shattered under a spike trap he rigged mid-fight. The third pinned him, its weight crushing, but he wedged the pickaxe under its arm, prying until it broke. Silence fell, then cheers erupted—wild, fierce, a tide of awe and rage.
Tomas stood, panting, blood dripping, pickaxe trembling in his grip. "Work beats iron," he growled, too quiet for the stands. Elara clapped, tears glinting. Toren's fists clenched, his face a mask of fury. Mara nodded, slight but clear. He'd broken their gauntlet, but the chunk's hum sang louder, a secret stirring beneath the victory.