The barracks hummed with the snores of exhausted trainees, a low rumble that filled the stone chamber beneath Solvaris's arena. Tomas Kael lay on his cot, the thin mattress doing little to ease the ache in his shoulders from the day's trial. His pickaxe rested beside him, its handle worn smooth by years of Dustcrag labor. The arena's sand still clung to his boots, a gritty reminder of his victory—blood on his hands, cheers in his ears. Hard work beats talent, he'd told himself, staring at the ceiling's cracks. Sleep tugged at him, but the Etherstone chunk at his belt pulsed faintly, keeping his mind sharp.
A scream shattered the quiet, high and panicked, followed by the crash of splintering wood. Tomas bolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs. Shadows flickered across the barracks' walls—too many, too fast. He grabbed his pickaxe, bare feet hitting the cold floor as shouts erupted around him. Trainees scrambled, some reaching for weapons, others diving under cots. The door burst open, and bandits poured in, their blades glinting in the torchlight—ragged men from the wasteland, eyes wild with hunger or orders.
"To me!" Tomas yelled, swinging his pickaxe at the first attacker. The man lunged, a dagger aimed for his gut, but Tomas sidestepped, driving the pick's blunt end into his temple. The bandit crumpled, blood pooling on the stone. Two more charged, one with a spear, the other swinging a rusty chain. Tomas ducked the chain's whistle, its links grazing his ear, and rolled toward a cot. He kicked it over, pinning the spearman's legs, then sprang up, cracking his pickaxe against the chained man's jaw. Bone snapped, and he fell howling.
"Behind you!" Elara's voice cut through the chaos. She stood across the yard, her dark hair wild, a faint breeze swirling at her fingertips—her Spark, weak but precise. She thrust her hands forward, and a gust slammed into a bandit creeping toward Tomas, sending him sprawling into a wall. Tomas nodded thanks, already moving. He grabbed a coil of rope from his pack, a miner's instinct kicking in, and sprinted to the barracks' center.
The trainees were a mess—some fought, most fled. A bandit loomed over a boy no older than Lila, blade raised. Tomas hurled his pickaxe, the haft striking the man's skull, dropping him cold. He retrieved it, panting, and rigged the rope across a doorway, tying it taut to a beam. Three bandits charged through, tripping hard, and he finished them with swift, brutal swings—neck, chest, head. Blood sprayed, hot and coppery, but he didn't flinch. Hard work beats knives, he thought, wiping his face.
Elara reached him, her breeze scattering dust as another wave of bandits pressed in. "They're after you," she said, breathless. "That fight today—someone didn't like it."
"Let 'em come," Tomas growled, scanning the yard. A figure watched from the balcony above—Gavric, his shadow Spark coiling lazily, a smirk on his lips. Not fighting, just observing. Tomas's gut twisted, but there was no time. He grabbed a fallen torch, tossing it to Elara. "Light 'em up."
She nodded, her Spark flaring brighter, and hurled the torch into a bandit's cloak. Flames erupted, the man screaming as he fled, igniting a pile of straw bedding. The fire spread, chaos doubling, and the remaining bandits broke, sprinting for the exits. Tomas chased one to the door, slamming his pickaxe into the frame inches from the man's head. "Tell whoever sent you," he snarled, "I don't break easy."
The bandit whimpered, vanishing into the night. Silence fell, broken by crackling flames and groans of the wounded. Elara slumped against a wall, her Spark dimming. "You're insane, Kael," she said, a faint smile tugging her lips.
"Insane works," he replied, offering a hand. She took it, their grip lingering a beat too long. Trainees emerged, staring at him—some grateful, others wary. Gavric was gone, his balcony empty. Tomas retrieved his pack, the Etherstone chunk warm against his hip. "They'll try again," he said, voice low. "Someone's scared."
Elara nodded, her eyes sharp. "Or they see a threat."
Dawn crept over Solvaris, painting the barracks in gray light. Tomas didn't sleep. He stood in the yard, swinging his pickaxe at a training dummy, each strike harder than the last. Sweat soaked his shirt, his muscles screamed, but he kept going. Hard work beats talent—and whatever came next. Footsteps whispered behind him, too soft to trust.