Solvaris's underbelly loomed beneath the council hall, a labyrinth of stone and shadow carved deep into the wasteland's crust, its air thick with coal dust and the metallic tang of molten Etherstone, steam rising from the damp as the humid haze thickened, mist curling through the cracks of a world shattering apart. Tomas Kael descended the winding stair, his borrowed pickaxe gripped tight, its haft slick with sweat and blood, its blade glinting dully in the torchlight, mud squelching under his boots from the yard's grind, a Dull among gods wielding a truth that cut deeper than steel. His leg burned, a blistering welt throbbing beneath its bandage, his chest stung with fresh cuts, his side bled from Gavric's dagger, his shoulder ached—ribs groaning, a body fraying, held together by a will forged in Dustcrag's dust and blood, steam rising from his soaked shirt like a shroud of defiance. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed loud, its glow a pulsing blue, a heartbeat syncing with his ragged breaths, tying him to the scraps in Mara's hand—vials, runes, children dosed with lies—a truth exposed, a fire beneath blazing into an inferno he'd stoke until Solvaris burned with it. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rain and sweat streaking his face, blood dripping onto the stone, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a faint echo from above, a pulse in his bones igniting the depths.
Elara followed, her dark hair damp with mist, her Spark a faint breeze stirring the steam, her eyes fierce with trust despite the fear, her hands trembling as she clutched his pack, the scraps' weight a fire between them—proof of the council's forge, a blade they'd wielded to break the lie wide open. Her voice cut through the stair's hum, a whisper rising over the clatter of boots—"Tomas—they're with us—keep it burning!"—her presence a steady anchor through the ache, her boots squelching through the damp, defiance blazing in her gaze as she matched his stride, facing the depths with him, a tide turning in the fire beneath.
Mara led, her storm-cloud eyes blazing with fury, her gray hair whipping in her own Spark's wind, her robe sweeping the stone as she clutched the scraps—vials, runes, children glowing with accusation—her Spark a gust swirling the steam, her voice thunder rolling over the forge's hum, sharp and cold, trembling with rage breaking free. "Forges—below—truth or lies?" she hissed, descending, her gaze locked on Toren behind her, then Sereth, then Tomas, steam curling around her, a storm tearing through the depths, her fury a gale driving them into the fire beneath. Sereth flanked her, her green eyes sharp, her mask gone, her council badge glinting in the torchlight, her Spark bending light to pierce the shadows, her voice steady—"Here—forges—I've seen 'em—Kael's truth—our lie!"—a fire joining his blaze, steam rising as she faced the depths, a tide turning in the chaos.
Toren trailed, steel dimming at his hands, his face twisting—panic, rage, desperation—his voice a snarl clawing through the stair's hum, his Spark flickering as he gripped the wall, blood trickling from his brow where Mara's wind had struck. "Order—strength—Solvaris thrives—stop this!" he roared, his glare darting to the scraps, to Mara's fury, to Sereth's defiance, a man drowning in the fire he'd forged, his steps faltering, steam swirling around him as the elders followed—Veyra's ice melting, Dren's shadows shrinking, Gorrim's earth rumbling, Lysa's flames flickering—doubt igniting into chaos, their Sparks faltering in the depths' heat.
The stair opened into a cavern—vast, shadowed, a forge of nightmares pulsing with Etherstone light, its air thick with the hum of power, the clang of tools, the hiss of molten stone. Constructs lay half-built, their frames veined with glowing blue, steel arms gleaming, red cores pulsing like hearts—echoes of the Blade, the Teeth, beasts Tomas had broken. Workers—Dulls, their faces drawn, their hands scarred—moved through the haze, overseen by Gifted in crisp tunics, their Sparks flickering warily as the council descended, torches casting long shadows across vats of Etherstone, vials glowing with liquid light, a line of cribs along the wall—infants, silent, their tiny hands glowing faintly, dosed with lies, a fire beneath exposed in the depths.
Tomas froze, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum spiking, a roar in his skull as he stared—cribs, children, Dustcrag's echo twisted into nightmare, his voice a growl tearing through the forge's hum, shaking the stone. "There—vials, kids—your forge!" he roared, stepping forward, mud squelching, pickaxe steady despite the shake in his hands, his gaze locked on the cribs, then Mara, then Toren—"Dosed—Etherstone—Sparks made, not born—Dustcrag's blood, my blood—Lila's hands, twisted here! Hard work dug it—beasts, blades, betrayal—I'll burn it down!" He swung the pickaxe, smashing a vat—glass shattered, Etherstone spilling, glowing blue across the stone, steam surging as workers flinched, overseers shouted, a fire beneath breaking free.
Mara's Spark surged—wind roaring, blasting the cavern, silencing the chaos, her voice thunder rolling over the forge's hum, her gaze locked on the cribs, then the scraps, runes glowing, a crack splitting her calm wide open. "Children—dosed—Etherstone—our Sparks?" she hissed, stepping forward, her robe sweeping the stone, steam curling around her as she turned to Toren, her glare thunder—"You—built this—lied to us all?" Her wind flared, lifting a vial—glowing, liquid light trembling—into the air, a fire beneath igniting the depths into a crucible of truth.
Toren staggered, steel dimming, his face twisting—panic, rage, desperation—his voice a snarl—"Strength—order—Solvaris needed it—Dulls were nothing!"—but his Spark faltered, his glare darting to the cribs, to Mara's fury, to Sereth's defiance, a man drowning in the fire he'd stoked. Sereth rushed forward, her Spark bending light, illuminating the cribs—infants glowing, Etherstone veins pulsing in their skin—her voice sharp—"Look—truth—Kael's right—forges, dosing—I've seen it—our lie!"—her green eyes blazing, a fire joining his blaze, steam rising as she faced Mara, the elders, the depths.
Elara grabbed his arm, her breeze sharp, her voice tight with awe and rage—"Tomas—kids—like Lila—here—it's real!"—her eyes locked on the cribs, tears glinting in the torchlight, her Spark swirling, a fire stoking his own, steam curling around them as she faced the council, a tide turning in the chaos. The elders surged—Sparks clashing, voices roaring—Veyra's ice melting—"Impossible!"—Dren's shadows shrinking—"Treason!"—Gorrim's earth rumbling—"Proof!"—Lysa's flames flickering—"Burn it!"—but their Sparks faltered, doubt igniting into chaos, the forge trembling under the truth's weight.
Mara's Spark roared—wind surging, the cavern shaking, her voice thunder breaking over the chaos—"Truth—forges—children—our order's root?" She strode to a crib, her hand trembling as she touched an infant's glowing hand, runes pulsing, her storm-cloud eyes widening, rage and awe warring as she turned to Toren—"You—buried this—dosed them—lied?" Her wind blasted, knocking him back, steel shards clattering, a storm breaking, steam swirling as the forge erupted—workers fleeing, overseers shouting, the truth igniting into a blaze.
Tomas grinned, blood dripping, steam rising, the chunk's hum a roar tied to Dustcrag, to Lila, to the fire beneath, his voice a growl rising higher, tearing through the forge's hum, shaking the stone. "Hard work beats your lies—beats your forge—I'm the spark, Toren, and I'll burn it down!" He swung the pickaxe again, smashing another vat—Etherstone spilled, glowing blue, steam surging, a fire beneath breaking Solvaris wide, the depths unleashed, a truth blazing free.