Dusk settled over Solvaris, a bruised purple sky cloaking the barracks in shadow. Tomas slumped on his cot, the Etherstone chunk in his hands, its glow casting faint blue across the stone walls. His side ached where the construct had grazed him, a shallow gash bandaged with a strip from his shirt, blood seeping through. The Iron Gauntlet—three Etherstone-forged machines—lay in pieces, their hum silenced by his pickaxe. Hard work beats talent, he'd proven again, but the cost piled up—bruises on his ribs, blisters on his palms, a weariness that gnawed deeper than muscle.
Elara slipped in, her footsteps soft, her Spark a gentle breeze that brushed the stale air. She carried a damp cloth, kneeling beside him without a word, and pressed it to his gash. He hissed, the sting sharp, but didn't pull away. "You're a mess, Tomas," she said, voice low, her dark eyes searching his. "Those things—they weren't meant to lose."
"Did anyway," he replied, rolling the chunk between his fingers, its warmth a comfort against the pain. "Hard work beats iron. Beats anything."
She smiled, faint but real, dabbing the blood away. "Most would've quit. You didn't even flinch."
"Flinching's for folks who've got a choice," he said, meeting her gaze. "Dustcrag didn't give me one. Neither does this." He tucked the chunk into his belt, its hum steadying him. "Toren's constructs—meant to crush me. Didn't. Means he's scared."
"Or desperate," she said, tying a fresh bandage tight. "Gavric's been quiet since—too quiet. And Sereth… she's council, but she warned you. Why?"
"Dunno," he said, leaning back, the cot creaking under his weight. "She's playing a game I can't see yet. Useful, she says. Maybe I am—to her, to them. But I'm not their pawn."
Elara nodded, sitting beside him, her knee brushing his. "You're more than that. They're starting to see it—the crowd, Mara, even Toren. You're cracking their mask."
He snorted, a tired grin tugging his lips. "Good. Let it break."
Footsteps echoed, sharp and deliberate—Sereth, her council badge glinting, her green eyes piercing the gloom. She stopped at the cell's edge, arms crossed, her tunic crisp despite the day's heat. "Kael," she said, voice smooth as steel. "Still alive. Impressive."
"Disappointed?" he shot back, sitting up, wincing as his side protested.
Her smirk flickered. "Not yet. The Gauntlet was Toren's gambit—thought it'd end you. Mara's intrigued now, and he's furious. You're stirring a mess."
"Mess was here before me," he said, standing, pickaxe in hand. "I'm just kicking it loose. What's next?"
She studied him, her mask slipping—a flicker of respect, maybe worry. "Next is worse. Toren's doubling down—Gifted and constructs, a paired fight. Soon. He wants you dust."
"Let him try," he said, stepping closer, the chunk's hum loud in his ears. "I'll outwork it. You betting on me or him?"
She paused, her eyes narrowing. "On the one who keeps surprising me," she said, turning away. "Don't die yet, Kael. I'd hate to lose the wager." Her footsteps faded, leaving silence thick with questions.
Elara squeezed his arm, her breeze cool. "She's cracking too. You're getting to her."
"Maybe," he said, slinging his pack. "Doesn't change the fight." He stepped into the yard, the night air sharp against his skin. Dummies waited, splintered from days of abuse, and he swung, each strike a defiance—against Toren, Gavric, the council's lies. The chunk glowed, its hum a call he couldn't ignore, tied to the carvings, to the truth. He'd break their mask, one swing at a time.