The arena stood defiant under Solvaris's storm, its marble walls slick with rain, the stands packed despite the gale, thousands of Gifted huddled beneath cloaks and Sparks, their cheers a muffled roar through the downpour. Tomas Kael descended into the pit, sand turned to mud beneath his boots, his borrowed pickaxe gripped tight, its haft slick with wet, its blade glinting in the lightning's flash. His chest stung, his shoulder burned, his ribs ached—wounds from the forge beast reopened by the morning's training, blood mixing with rain in faint trails down his arms. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed loud, its glow a pulsing blue against the gray, a rhythm syncing with the storm's fury, tying him to Sereth's tip—watch the Gifted's Spark. The Storm's Teeth waited—two fronts, Gifted and construct, Toren's latest blade to carve him down. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rolling his shoulders, the pain a fire he'd stoke into strength, thunder crashing overhead like a war drum.
Elara watched from the trainees' bench, her dark hair plastered to her face, her Spark a faint breeze lost in the wind, her nod a lifeline through the chaos. Gavric lounged nearby, shadows coiling tight, his smirk a razor's edge, rain dripping from his hood as he leaned forward, eager for the kill. The council loomed above, Mara's storm-cloud eyes piercing the haze, Toren's glare a vow of ruin, Sereth's face a mask with a flicker of tension beneath—her bet riding on him. The crowd chanted—"Kael! Kael!"—a rhythm swallowed by the storm, but he felt it, a pulse in his bones as the gate screeched open.
Two foes emerged through the rain—a Gifted man, Dorn, his hands crackling with fire that hissed and sputtered in the wet, and a construct, its Etherstone frame towering nine feet, steel arms ending in spiked fists, its core glowing red in its chest, a twist on the forge beast's blue. They moved as one, Dorn's fire flaring to guide the construct's brute force, a dance of flame and steel through the mud. Tomas tightened his stance, mud sucking at his boots, and charged, rain stinging his eyes, lightning splitting the sky.
Dorn struck first, fireballs arcing through the downpour, steam hissing as they met the rain. Tomas dodged, mud splashing, and swung his pickaxe—metal clanged off the construct's arm, jarring his bones, but he struck again, chipping its leg, a crack splitting the air. The construct swung, its spiked fist a blur; he rolled, mud coating him, breath knocked out as he hit the ground hard, ribs screaming. He leapt up, dodging another fireball, and circled, Sereth's tip echoing—watch the Spark. Dorn's fire wasn't just attack—it pulsed with the construct's hum, a tether he'd sever.
The construct charged, mud flying, its fist slamming down; Tomas dove, sliding through the mire, and struck its knee—steel groaned, bending slightly. Dorn flanked, fire flaring, and Tomas hurled mud into his face, the Gifted staggering, flames dimming in the wet. He tackled the construct, toppling it with his weight, mud splashing as it crashed, and climbed, pickaxe raised—core in sight. Dorn roared, fire surging, searing his leg—pain flared, white-hot, but he swung, cracking the construct's chest plate, red glow pulsing beneath.
The fight blurred—fire, steel, mud, a chaos of pain and grit. The construct thrashed, its arm swinging; he ducked, the blow grazing his shoulder, tearing flesh anew. He roared, slamming the pickaxe down—once, twice—shattering the plate, exposing the core. Dorn lunged, fire blazing, but Tomas rolled, mud slick under him, and drove the pickaxe into the construct's core—Etherstone splintered, red light dying, the machine collapsing in a heap of sparks and steam.
Dorn charged, fire flaring through the rain, but Tomas met him, pickaxe haft blocking a flaming fist, mud steaming under the heat. He swung low, cracking Dorn's knee, then tackled him into the mire, pinning him with a knee to his chest, pickaxe at his throat. "Work beats fire," he growled, rain washing blood and mud from his face. Dorn gasped, Sparks fading, and went limp, defeated.
Silence fell, thick and heavy, rain drumming the mud, then cheers erupted—wild, fierce, shaking the stands despite the storm. Tomas stood, panting, blood soaking his shirt, pickaxe trembling in his grip, mud caking his skin. "Work beats teeth," he muttered, too quiet for the crowd. Elara clapped, tears streaming, her breeze reaching him through the gale. Gavric's smirk vanished, shadows tight with rage. Mara nodded, Toren's fists clenched—fury boiling over. Sereth's mask cracked, a faint smirk breaking through, her bet won.
He limped from the pit, mud trailing, rain pounding, the chunk's hum a victory song in his veins. Hard work had shattered the Storm's Teeth, but his body was a wreck—blood, burns, bruises piling up, a toll he couldn't ignore much longer. The crowd's chant—"Kael! Kael!"—followed him, a storm of its own, but Toren's glare burned hotter, a promise of worse to come.