The barracks yard lay sodden under Solvaris's dusk, the drizzle's last gasps fading into a heavy, humid stillness, the golden spires above casting long, jagged shadows across the churned mud and splintered dummies. Tomas Kael stood at the yard's heart, his borrowed pickaxe gripped tight in calloused hands, its haft slick with rain and sweat, its blade biting into a fresh dummy as wood shattered and flew, carried off by a faint breeze not Elara's own. His leg burned beneath its bandage, a blistering welt from Dorn's fire throbbing with every step, his chest stung where the construct's claw had torn him, his shoulder ached with scars of lightning and steel—wounds piling up, blood seeping through damp cloth, mud caking his boots from hours of relentless swings. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed loud, its glow a pulsing blue beneath the sodden leather, a heartbeat syncing with his ragged breaths, tying him to the council's decree—the Blade, tomorrow, five foes—three Gifted, two constructs, Toren's final hammer to crush him flat. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, swinging again, the crack of wood echoing through the yard, his ribs groaning with every twist, a fire he stoked into strength rather than let it slow him.
Elara emerged from the barracks' overhang, her dark hair damp and clinging to her face, her Spark a gentle breeze stirring the puddles that reflected the spires' gleam, her boots squelching through the mud as she approached. She carried a waterskin and a cloth, her eyes narrowing against the fading light, widening as she took him in—blood-streaked, mud-smeared, a body battered beyond reason, yet unbowed, swinging like the storm itself hadn't touched him. "Tomas!" she called, her voice sharp, cutting through the yard's stillness, reaching him as he drove the pickaxe deeper into the dummy, splitting it clean in half, mud splashing up his legs. "You're a lunatic—five foes tomorrow, and you're out here bleeding? Get inside, clean up, rest—something!"
He paused, panting, rain and sweat streaking his face, dripping from his jaw as he turned to her, the pickaxe planted in the mud, its haft trembling from the force of his last swing, his grin faint but stubborn, a flicker of defiance against the pain lancing his side. "Can't stop," he said, his voice rough, steady despite the tremor in his limbs. "Council's Blade—three Gifted, two constructs, Toren's design. Bigger than the Teeth, nastier than the beast. Gotta be ready—hard work beats their blades, Elara, beats everything they've got." He wiped his eyes with a sodden sleeve, the damp doing little to clear the blur, and took the waterskin, drinking slow, the cool water soothing his raw throat, washing away the taste of mud and blood.
She stepped closer, her breeze flaring briefly, pushing back the humid air in a fleeting shield around them, her face a mix of exasperation and awe, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed the cloth to his chest, wiping blood and mud with careful strokes. "You beat the Storm's Teeth—fire and steel in the mud, Dorn's Spark shattered—and you're still swinging? Your leg's blistered, chest's torn, shoulder's a wreck—your ribs sound like they're splintering every time you breathe." Her voice softened, worry breaking through the steel, her eyes searching his, a plea beneath the frustration. "I saw you in that pit—fire searing, mud swallowing, that thing's fist—I thought you were done. The crowd did too, 'til you climbed out. You're not invincible, Tomas—rest, or you'll break before they do."
He handed the skin back, his fingers brushing hers, slick and warm despite the chill settling over the yard, and squeezed her hand, letting it linger, a tether through the ache. "Rest's for the dead," he said, meeting her gaze, the chunk's hum loud in his ears, a steady pulse drowning out the distant hum of Solvaris's platforms drifting overhead. "Dustcrag didn't let me rest—fourteen hours digging Etherstone, then running laps with sacks heavier than this pick, rain or dust or dark. Lila'd patch me up, curse me stupid, but it kept us fed, kept us breathing. I don't quit, Elara—not for Toren, not for five foes, not for anything." He released her hand, rolling his shoulders, the ache a dull fire he welcomed, the chunk's glow seeping through the leather, a faint blue against the dusk.
She sighed, her breeze faltering, the humid air creeping back as she crossed her arms, her dark eyes tracing his wounds, worry warring with trust. "This isn't Dustcrag," she said, her voice low, steady despite the weight of it. "Toren's not some rock to chip away—he's a storm, and he's brewing worse than yesterday's rain. That spy's scraps—vials, runes, dosing—it's real, Tomas. Sparks are made, not born, and you're too close. The Blade—it's not a test, it's a guillotine, and you're walking right under it." She pulled the parchments from her pocket, damp but intact, holding them up—runes scrawled in faded ink, sketches of children's hands glowing with Etherstone light, proof of the council's lies.
"Guillotine's fine," he said, slinging his pack tighter, the chunk's hum a drumbeat in his gut, its glow brightening as he took the parchments, tracing the sketches with a muddy finger—a child's hand, like Lila's, twisted by their secrets. "Means they're scared—scared I'll break their lie wide open. Hard work beats their fear—beats their Sparks, their steel, their guillotines. Dustcrag bled for their Etherstone—Dulls died while they played gods. I'll dig it out, Elara—one swing at a time." He handed the scraps back, grabbing the pickaxe and swinging again, wood splintering, mud flying, each strike a promise—to Dustcrag, to Lila, to the truth humming at his hip.
Footsteps crunched through the mud—sharp, deliberate—cutting through the yard's stillness like a blade. Tomas turned, pickaxe mid-swing, as Sereth emerged from the barracks' shadow, her council badge glinting despite the damp, her green eyes sharp, her auburn hair plastered to her skull from the storm's remnants, her tunic smudged with soot and rain. She strode forward, unfazed by the mud sucking at her boots, her posture rigid, every inch the Gifted elite, but her smirk flickered—a crack in her mask, a flicker of something—respect, maybe doubt—as she stopped a few paces off, her gaze flicking to the ruined dummy, then to him. "Kael," she said, her voice smooth as steel, carrying over the faint hum of the chunk, the distant clatter of Solvaris's platforms overhead. "Still swinging—good. Council's Blade's set—tomorrow, dawn. Three Gifted, two constructs—veterans and machines, Toren's pride. They're calling it your end."
He planted the pickaxe, mud oozing around its haft, rain and sweat streaking his face, his grin widening, a feral edge to it now, defiance burning through the pain. "My end?" he snorted, rolling his shoulders, the ache a fire he stoked higher. "Toren's thrown beasts, Gifted, teeth—broke 'em all. Five more's just a bigger pile to smash. Hard work beats their pride—beats their end. What's the catch?"
Her smirk deepened, water dripping from her chin as she stepped closer, her eyes narrowing, glinting in the spires' reflected glow. "Catch is it's a slaughter—three Gifted with Sparks honed for years, two constructs bigger than the Teeth, Etherstone cores pulsing like hearts. Toren's desperate—every win twists the knife deeper. Crowd's chanting—Kael, Kael—Mara's curious, I'm betting, but he's choking on it. This Blade's his last swing—cut you down or watch you rise." She paused, her mask slipping further, a flicker of warmth beneath the steel, her voice dropping. "Tip—watch the Gifted's rhythm. They sync with the constructs—break that, you break them."
"Let 'em sync," he said, swinging the pickaxe once more, wood shattering, mud splashing up his legs, the chunk's hum spiking with his pulse, a roar tied to Dustcrag, to the truth. "I'll outwork their rhythm—Gifted, constructs, all of it. Hard work beats their last swing—beats their lies. You still betting on me, Sereth?"
She studied him, her green eyes piercing through the dusk, rain dripping from her lashes, a crack in her mask widening—a flicker of respect, maybe trust, something he hadn't seen before. "Still surprises me you're breathing," she said, her smirk softening, a rare warmth breaking through. "Yeah, I'm betting—don't make me lose, Kael. Toren's not the only one watching—council's split, spy's circling. You're stirring a mess they can't clean." She turned, mud squelching under her boots, pausing mid-step. "Rest—if you can. You'll need it." Her footsteps faded into the dusk, leaving tension thick in the humid air.
Elara grabbed his arm, her breeze sharp against the stillness, her grip fierce through the damp, her voice tight with worry she couldn't bury. "Five foes—veterans and machines? Tomas, this isn't a fight—it's a massacre. You're half-broken already—leg, chest, shoulder—how do you outwork that?"
"Half's enough," he said, squeezing her hand, rain and mud slick between them, his voice steady despite the tremor in his limbs, the ache in his ribs. "We've got the truth—vials, Sparks, lies. I'll break their Blade, Elara—one swing at a time. Together, yeah?" He met her gaze, the chunk's hum a steady pulse, a call tied to Dustcrag, to the carvings—infants dosed, power forged—a secret he'd shatter.
She nodded, her breeze softening, her eyes fierce with trust despite the fear. "Together—always. But you're fraying, and I'm not losing you to their pride." She pressed the cloth to his chest again, wiping fresh blood, her touch a fire against the cold seeping through his shirt.
Night deepened, the yard silent but for the squelch of mud under his boots, the creak of the pulley as he rigged it—eighty pounds now, stones scraping through the mire, his muscles screaming, his wounds bleeding fresh. Trainees watched from the barracks' slits, their whispers growing—Kael, the Dull who broke the storm, a name Toren couldn't silence. Elara stayed, her breeze a stubborn shield, her presence a lifeline through the pain. The Blade loomed, five shadows in the dusk, but he swung, lifted, pushed—hard work his blade, the council's shadow his forge, the truth his strength.