The forge beneath Solvaris thrummed with a low, relentless hum, its air thick with the bite of coal dust and the metallic tang of molten Etherstone. Tomas Kael stood at the cavern's edge, his boots scuffing the soot-streaked stone floor, his borrowed pickaxe resting heavy across his shoulders. The massive construct Sereth had shown him loomed in the flickering torchlight—ten feet of Etherstone-forged menace, its steel claws glinting like scythes, its frame veined with glowing blue tendrils that pulsed in time with the chunk at his belt. The forge beast, she'd called it—built to kill, not test, Toren's latest hammer to smash him flat. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rolling the stiffness from his neck, the gash on his side and the burn on his shoulder aching beneath their bandages. He'd faced beasts, Gifted, constructs—this was just bigger, meaner. He'd break it all the same.
Elara stood beside him, her dark hair clinging to her sweat-damp brow, her Spark a faint breeze stirring the heavy air. She'd followed him down the winding stair from the barracks, her silence a steady presence as Sereth's warning sank in—tomorrow, alone. Now, she crossed her arms, her gaze fixed on the forge beast, its stillness a coiled threat. "This isn't a trial, Tomas," she said, her voice low, cutting through the forge's drone. "It's an execution dressed up as a fight. Toren's done playing."
He shifted the pickaxe, its rough haft biting into his palms, and grinned—a faint, stubborn curve of his lips. "Then he's playing bad. I've outworked everything he's thrown—beasts, Gifted, those iron hulks. This one's just taller." He stepped closer to the construct, its hum syncing with the chunk's, a duet that set his teeth on edge. The workers—Gifted overseers and Dull laborers alike—moved around it, their tools clanging, their faces drawn. They didn't look at him, but he felt their eyes all the same.
Elara followed, her breeze sharpening with her unease. "It's not just taller. Look at it—those claws, that weight. The Gauntlet was brutal, but this… it's built to crush, not challenge. Sereth said it herself—Toren's losing patience. He wants you gone."
"Let him try," Tomas said, circling the beast, his boots crunching on scattered slag. He studied its joints—thick steel plates bolted tight, Etherstone veins threading through like muscle. It towered over the half-built constructs littering the forge, a king among scraps, its purpose clear in every brutal line. "Hard work beats their toys. Always has. I'll find a crack, same as always."
She grabbed his arm, her grip firm, her breeze cool against his sweat-soaked skin. "You're not invincible, Tomas. That pairing—Lira and her construct—nearly took you. This thing's worse, and you're already banged up." Her eyes flicked to his bandages, worry creasing her brow. "You've got grit, more than anyone, but even stone breaks if you hit it hard enough."
He met her gaze, the chunk's hum loud in his ears, a steady pulse that drowned out the forge's noise. "Stone breaks when it quits fighting back. I don't quit, Elara. Dustcrag taught me that—fourteen hours swinging, then running laps with sacks heavier than this pick. Lila'd curse me stupid, but it kept us fed." He squeezed her hand, letting it linger. "I'll break this thing. For me, for you, for whatever's behind their lies."
She sighed, her breeze softening, but didn't pull away. "You're stubborn as hell. Just… don't die proving it. I'm with you, win or lose."
"Together, then," he said, releasing her hand, his grin widening. "Gonna need that breeze when the sand flies."
Sereth's voice cut through—"Kael!" She strode from the forge's shadows, her council badge glinting, her green eyes sharp as she approached. Her tunic was smudged with soot, a rare crack in her polished armor, but her posture stayed rigid, every inch the Gifted elite. "Staring at it won't help," she said, stopping beside him, her gaze flicking to the beast. "Tomorrow's the real test."
"Been staring at worse," he replied, planting the pickaxe in the dirt. "You said it's Toren's move. What's he after?"
She smirked, faint but real, her mask slipping for a heartbeat. "You dead, mostly. You're a thorn he can't pull—every win digs deeper. Mara's curious, the crowd's hooked, and he's choking on it. This beast's his answer—unstoppable, he thinks."
"Thinks wrong," Tomas said, rolling his shoulders, the ache a dull fire. "I'll outwork it. You still betting on me?"
Her eyes narrowed, studying him like a blade she couldn't quite place. "Still surprises me you're breathing. Yeah, I'm betting—don't make me lose." She turned, pausing mid-step. "One tip—hit the core. Etherstone's the heart. Crack that, it falls." Her footsteps faded into the forge's hum, leaving a thread of trust he didn't expect.
Elara frowned, her breeze swirling tighter. "She's giving you an edge. Why?"
"Dunno," he said, watching the beast's glow. "Maybe she hates Toren more than she lets on. Doesn't matter—I'll take it." He hefted the pickaxe, swinging at a nearby slab of scrap steel, the clang ringing through the forge. Workers flinched, overseers glared, but he kept going, each strike a promise—core, claws, whatever it took. The chunk's hum matched his rhythm, a call tied to Dustcrag, to the carvings, to the truth he'd dig out.
Hours blurred—swings, lifts, sweat soaking his shirt, blood seeping through his bandages. Elara stayed, her breeze cooling him, her silence a steady anchor. The forge beast loomed, its shadow a weight he'd shatter. Hard work beats talent—tomorrow, he'd prove it again, core and all.