The training yard simmered under Solvaris's afternoon sun, its golden spires casting jagged shadows across the sand. Tomas Kael swung his pickaxe at a dummy, wood splintering with each blow, sweat dripping from his brow. The Etherstone chunk pulsed at his belt, its hum a steady rhythm syncing with his strikes. The sandstorm's carvings gnawed at him—Gifted dosing infants, Sparks forged, not born. Elara's doubt had rooted in him, a seed he couldn't uproot. Hard work beats talent, he'd always believed, but what if talent was a lie?
Footsteps crunched behind him, deliberate and mocking. Tomas turned, pickaxe mid-swing, and met Gavric's smirk. The taller trainee loomed, his shadow Spark coiling like a whip, dark tendrils flicking in the heat. "Training hard, Dull?" Gavric drawled, circling. "Or just breaking things 'cause you can't break me?"
Tomas planted the pickaxe in the sand, wiping his hands. "Keep talking, Gavric. Gives me something to aim at."
Gavric laughed, shadows snapping. "Let's play, then. Show me that grit you're so proud of." He lashed out, a shadow whip slicing toward Tomas's legs. Tomas jumped, rolling across the sand, and grabbed a fallen plank from the dummy's base. He swung it up, blocking another lash, the wood cracking but holding. Gavric's grin widened, and he pressed forward, shadows striking like vipers—chest, arms, head.
Tomas dodged, sweat stinging his eyes, and charged. He feinted left, then tackled Gavric low, driving his shoulder into the Gifted's gut. They hit the sand hard, grappling, Gavric's shadows thrashing wildly. Tomas pinned an arm, his knee grinding into Gavric's chest, and raised his fist. "Hard work beats tricks," he growled, breath hot.
Elara's voice cut through—"Tomas, stop!" She ran from the barracks, her Spark flaring a breeze that shoved them apart. Gavric spat sand, scrambling up, his shadows coiling tight. "You'll regret that, Dull," he snarled, but his eyes flickered—rattled, not smug.
Tomas stood, brushing off dust, pickaxe back in hand. "Anytime you want a rematch, I'm here."
Elara reached him, her breeze fading. "He's not worth it," she said, voice low. "He's got Councilor Toren's ear—his uncle. That's why he's bold."
"Explains the stench," Tomas said, watching Gavric stalk off. "Toren's one of the seven, right? Hardliner?"
She nodded, her dark hair catching the wind. "Hates Dulls more than most. Gavric's his dog—barks loud, bites when told."
Tomas chewed that over, the sandstorm's carvings flashing in his mind. "If Sparks are made, not born, Toren's guarding something bigger than pride."
Elara's eyes sharpened. "You think Gavric knows?"
"Dunno," he said, slinging his pack tighter. "But he's playing a game I'm not losing."
The yard emptied as dusk fell, trainees drifting to their cells. Tomas stayed, rigging a pulley with rope and stones—twenty pounds, then thirty, hauling them up and down. His arms burned, his back ached, but he kept going, each lift a defiance. Hard work beats talent—and whatever Gavric's shadows hid. The Etherstone chunk glowed faintly, warm against his hip, its hum louder now, like a heartbeat quickening.
Elara lingered, watching. "You don't stop, do you?" she said, half-admiring, half-worried.
"Not 'til I'm done," he replied, dropping the stones with a thud. "Or dead."
She stepped closer, her Spark dim but steady. "You're not alone in this, Tomas. Whatever's coming—I'm with you."
He met her gaze, the weight of her words settling deep. "Good. Gonna need it."
Night cloaked Solvaris, the yard silent but for the pulley's creak. Tomas swung his pickaxe at the dummy again, wood flying, Gavric's smirk burned into his mind. Toren's dog or not, he'd break him—one strike at a time. The chunk's hum pulsed, a call he couldn't ignore, and he wondered how deep the game ran.