The barracks hummed with dawn's gray light, seeping through the narrow slits that passed for windows in Solvaris's underbelly. Tomas Kael sat on his cot, rolling the Etherstone chunk between his calloused palms, its faint glow casting shadows across the stone floor. His new pickaxe—a borrowed, rough-hewn thing—leaned against the wall, its heft unfamiliar but solid. The spy from last night lingered in his mind, a cloaked ghost with glinting eyes, watching from the stands. Gavric's sabotage, Toren's glare, Elara's warning—they wove a net tightening around him. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, the mantra a shield against the doubt creeping in.
Elara slipped in, her footsteps soft, her Spark a gentle shimmer at her fingertips. She carried a waterskin, offering it with a faint smile. "You look like you're plotting a war," she said, sitting beside him.
"Might be," he replied, taking a swig. The water was cool, cutting through the dust in his throat from yesterday's fight. "That spy—council, Toren, someone. They're not just watching now. They're planning."
She nodded, her dark hair catching the light. "Gavric's too smug. Toren's too quiet. You're shaking their game, Tomas."
"Good," he said, tucking the chunk into his belt. "Let 'em shake. I've got another trial today—beasts again, Elara. Bigger ones."
Her smile faded. "Sereth's warning—two Gifted—was that a lie?"
"Dunno," he said, standing, stretching his burned arm. The bandage itched, but the sting was duller now. "Maybe they're mixing it up. Keep me guessing. Doesn't matter—I'll outwork whatever they throw."
She rose, her breeze brushing his shoulder. "You always do. Just… don't push past breaking."
He grinned, faint but real. "Breaking's not in me."
The arena's roar greeted him hours later, a tidal wave of sound from thousands of Gifted packed into the stands. The sun blazed high, glinting off the pit's spiked walls, now stained darker with blood. His pickaxe felt heavy, its borrowed weight a challenge he'd master. Elara watched from the trainees' bench, her nod steadying him. Gavric lounged nearby, shadows coiling, his smirk sharper than ever. The council loomed above, Mara's storm-cloud eyes unreadable, Toren's glare a silent threat.
The gate screeched open, and two Etherfiends lumbered out—bigger than before, their hides thick with Etherstone shards, claws like scythes. The crowd hushed, then roared louder. Tomas tightened his stance, sand shifting underfoot, and charged. The first beast swung, its claw slicing air. He rolled, pickaxe striking its leg—metal clanged off stone-hard flesh, jarring his arms, but he swung again, higher, cracking its flank. Blood sprayed, hot and black.
The second pounced, jaws wide. Tomas ducked, sand exploding around him, and drove the pickaxe into its underbelly. It roared, thrashing, and he yanked free, leaping back. The first charged, enraged, and he lured it toward the spikes, dodging its swipe. He leapt, planting his boots on its back, and drove the pickaxe down—skull shot, clean through. It collapsed, impaling itself as it fell.
The second circled, smarter, its tail lashing. Tomas panted, arms burning, and scooped sand, hurling it into its face. It reared, blinded, and he rushed in, swinging low—leg, chest, neck. The pickaxe bit deep, blood gushing, and it crumpled, dead. Silence fell, then cheers erupted—wild, split, a storm of noise.
He stood, chest heaving, pickaxe dripping. "Work beats claws," he muttered, too quiet for the stands. Elara clapped, relief in her eyes. Gavric's smirk twitched, shadows tight. Mara nodded, slight but clear. Toren's glare darkened, his fists clenched.
Tomas limped from the pit, the chunk's hum pulsing with his heartbeat. He'd won—again—but the spy's eyes burned in his memory. Hard work had carried him, but the edge was sharpening, and he'd need more than grit to stay ahead.