The arena roared under Solvaris's midday sun, a deafening tide of sound from thousands of Gifted packed into the stands, their silks shimmering, their Sparks a kaleidoscope of light and power. Tomas Kael stood at the pit's edge, sand crunching beneath his boots, his borrowed pickaxe gripped tight in calloused hands. His shoulder burned where Lira's lightning had struck, his side ached from the construct's graze, but he rolled the pain into fuel, his jaw set. The forge beast waited below—ten feet of Etherstone-forged fury, its steel claws gleaming, its core pulsing blue in its chest. Toren's execution, Sereth's tip—hit the core—echoed in his skull. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, the Etherstone chunk at his belt humming in time with his pulse, a rhythm he'd ride to victory or ruin.
Elara watched from the trainees' bench, her dark eyes steady, her nod a lifeline through the chaos. Gavric lounged nearby, shadows coiling tight, his smirk sharper than ever—a predator scenting blood. The council loomed above, Mara's storm-cloud gaze piercing, Toren's glare a vow of death, Sereth's face a mask with a flicker of something—hope?—beneath. The crowd chanted—"Kael! Kael!"—a drumbeat to his steps as he descended, sand shifting under his weight.
The gate slammed shut, iron screeching, and the forge beast whirred to life, its hum a deep, bone-rattling drone. Its head swiveled, eyeless but locked on him, and it charged—claws slashing, a steel wall rushing forward. Tomas dodged, sand exploding around him, and swung his pickaxe—metal clanged off its arm, jarring his bones, but he struck again, aiming low, chipping its leg. A crack split the air—progress, small but real.
It swung, its claw grazing his chest, tearing shirt and skin—blood welled, hot and sharp, but he roared, rolling back, sand stinging his eyes. He leapt up, dodging another blow, and circled, Sereth's words ringing—hit the core. The beast's chest glowed, a blue heart behind steel plates, a target he'd reach or die trying. It lunged, claws raking the sand; he dove, sliding beneath, and struck its knee—metal groaned, bending slightly. He sprang up, using a spike on the pit's wall, and swung at its back—another crack, louder, but it turned, slamming him down.
The crowd gasped, breath held, as he hit the sand hard, air knocked out, ribs screaming. The beast loomed, its claw raised, but he rolled, pickaxe slashing its ankle—steel buckled, slowing it. He staggered up, blood dripping, and charged, fury driving him. He feinted left, then tackled its leg, toppling it with his weight. It crashed, sand billowing, and he climbed, pickaxe raised—core in sight.
It thrashed, steel arm swinging; he ducked, the blow grazing his shoulder, pain flaring white-hot. He roared again, slamming the pickaxe down—once, twice—cracking the chest plate. The core pulsed, exposed, and he drove the pickaxe in, Etherstone shattering under the blow. The beast's hum spiked, then died, its frame collapsing in a heap of sparks and dust.
Silence fell, thick and heavy, then cheers erupted—wild, fierce, a storm shaking the stands. Tomas stood, panting, blood soaking his shirt, pickaxe trembling in his grip. "Work beats steel," he growled, too quiet for the crowd. Elara clapped, tears streaming, her breeze reaching him even here. Gavric's smirk vanished, shadows tight with rage. Mara nodded, Toren's face twisted—fury boiling over. Sereth's mask cracked, a faint smirk breaking through.
He limped from the pit, sand trailing, the chunk's hum a victory song in his veins. Hard work had shattered Toren's beast, but the fight left him ragged—blood, bruises, a body pushed past breaking. He'd won, but the cost was climbing, and the council's eyes burned hotter.