The training yard shimmered under Solvaris's noon sun, its golden spires casting long shadows across the sand. Tomas hauled a stone block with his pulley rig, muscles straining, sweat soaking his shirt. The Etherstone chunk hummed at his belt, a steady pulse he couldn't ignore. He'd survived the pit, the bandits, the climb—proof piling up that hard work beat talent. But the scratched warning gnawed at him, a splinter he couldn't pull.
Elara approached, her footsteps soft, her Spark a faint shimmer at her fingertips. She stopped beside him, dark hair loose, her eyes searching. "You're pushing too hard, Kael," she said, voice low. "Even you need rest."
He dropped the stone, wiping his brow. "Rest's for the dead. I'm not there yet."
She didn't smile. "Come with me. Need to talk." She led him to a quiet corner, away from Gavric's prying eyes and the trainees' chatter. The yard's edge overlooked Solvaris—floating platforms, Gifted drifting like gods, the wasteland a hazy smear below. She leaned against a pillar, her Spark dimming. "Why do they get Sparks and we don't?" she asked, almost to herself. "Why's it always Dulls down there, breaking their backs?"
Tomas shrugged, leaning beside her. "Dustcrag's all I know. Fourteen hours a day, mining Etherstone so they can float up here. No Sparks, just grit. Kept me and Lila alive."
She nodded, staring at the city. "I've got a Spark, but… it doesn't feel right. Like it's not mine. Does that make sense?"
He frowned, meeting her gaze. "Maybe. Never thought about it. Always figured you're born with it or you're not."
"What if we're not?" she said, voice dropping. "What if it's… given? Chosen?"
Tomas chewed that over, the Etherstone's hum buzzing in his mind. "Then someone's choosing wrong. Dulls work harder than any Gifted I've seen."
She smiled, faint but warm. "You're proof of that. Beating beasts with a pickaxe? They don't know what to do with you."
"They'll learn," he said, grinning back. Footsteps crunched—Gavric, his shadow Spark flicking like a whip, sauntering over with a sneer.
"Dull love blooming?" he taunted, shadows coiling. "She'll tire of you, Kael. Gifted don't slum long."
Tomas stepped forward, pickaxe loose in his hand. "Keep talking. Gives me a target."
Gavric lashed out, shadows snapping at Tomas's legs. He jumped, rolling across the sand, and charged, tackling Gavric hard. They grappled, Tomas pinning him with a knee to his chest, pickaxe raised. "Hard work beats your tricks," he growled.
Elara's breeze flared, pushing them apart. "Enough!" she snapped. Gavric spat sand, retreating with a glare. "He's got council ties, Tomas. Toren's his uncle. Watch your back."
Tomas stood, brushing off dust. "Always do." Night fell fast, the yard emptying. He lay on his cot, staring at the scratched warning—They're watching. Elara's words echoed—Sparks given, not born. He drifted into a dream: Lila beside him in Dustcrag, swinging a pickaxe, her hands glowing with Etherstone light. He woke, heart pounding, the chunk's hum loud in the dark.
He sat up, rolling it in his palms. It wasn't just a rock—not anymore. Elara's doubt was his now, a thread he'd pull until it unraveled. She was his ally, maybe his only one. Hard work would carry him, but trust might save him.