Solvaris's healer's ward glowed under the evening sun, its stone walls etched with Etherstone veins pulsing faintly, a sterile calm settling over the city's golden spires as dusk painted the sky in bruised purple, steam rising from the damp streets below, mist curling through the cracks of a world fractured wide. Tomas Kael lay on a cot, his body a ruin—leg blistered, chest torn, side bleeding, shoulder scarred—ribs cracked, breath shallow, blood soaking fresh bandages hastily tied by Elara and Sereth, a Dull who'd burned the council's lies to ash, now teetering on collapse. His borrowed pickaxe rested against the wall, its haft slick with sweat and blood, its blade dulled by the forge's stone, a silent witness to his fire. The Etherstone chunk at his belt hummed faint, its glow a dim blue, a heartbeat syncing with his ragged gasps, tying him to the truth he'd exposed—vials shattered, infants freed, Solvaris's order dust—a fire beneath smoldering in his ruin. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, eyes fluttering, rain and sweat dried on his face, blood crusted at his lips, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—a distant echo beyond the ward's walls, a pulse in his bones flickering as consciousness wavered.
Elara sat beside him, her dark hair damp with sweat, her Spark a gentle breeze stirring the stale air, her eyes fierce with trust now softened by fear, tears glinting as she clutched his hand, her fingers trembling, blood staining her palms from the forge's chaos. "Tomas—hold on—you broke it—truth's out—don't fade now," she whispered, her voice breaking over the ward's hum, her gaze darting to his wounds—leg wrapped, chest bandaged, side seeping—her Spark swirling, a faint gust cooling his fevered skin, her presence a lifeline through the haze. She'd followed him from the forge, her boots still muddy, her tunic torn, steam lingering in her breath as she pressed a damp cloth to his brow, a fire stoking her defiance into care, her grip steady despite the tremble, anchoring him to the world he'd shattered.
Sereth stood at the cot's foot, her green eyes sharp, her mask gone, her council badge glinting in the ward's glow, her Spark bending light to pierce the dimness, illuminating his ruin—blood-soaked bandages, pale skin, shallow breaths—a fire joining his fading blaze, her voice steady despite the tension in her stance. "Kael—you're not dust—truth's alive 'cause of you—forges, dosing—council's breaking," she said, her gaze darting to the healer—a Gifted woman, her Spark a faint shimmer of warmth—then back to Tomas, her Spark flaring—light bending, revealing the depth of his wounds—her defiance stoking the calm, her nod to Elara a pact in the wreckage—"He's ours—keep him breathing!"—steam rising from her damp tunic, a tide turning in her trust, her hands clenched as the healer approached.
The healer, Lysen, stepped forward, her gray eyes calm, her Spark a shimmer of warmth pulsing at her hands, her tunic crisp despite the chaos beyond, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the ward's hum. "He's a wreck—leg burned, chest cut, side stabbed, shoulder torn—ribs broken, blood lost—near collapse," she said, her hands hovering over him, warmth spreading—faint, golden—stitching flesh, easing pain, steam curling as her Spark worked, her gaze darting to Elara, then Sereth—"You've kept him here—barely—step back, let me mend him." Her fingers traced his side, blood slowing, her Spark flaring—golden light weaving through his ruin—a healer's hands stoking his fading pulse, the ward trembling faintly under her power.
Tomas stirred, eyes fluttering, the chunk's hum spiking faintly, a whisper in his skull as he gripped Elara's hand tighter, his voice a rasp tearing through the silence, shaking the cot despite the tremble in his limbs. "Broke it—hard work—beats their lies—vials, kids—Dustcrag's blood—truth's out," he gasped, his leg twitching, his chest heaving—ribs grinding, pain flaring—but his will flared, a spark refusing to die, steam curling around him as Lysen's warmth spread, easing the fire in his side, his grin faint and feral breaking through. "Lila—forges—don't let it—fade," he rasped, his head lolling, the chunk's glow steadying, a fire beneath smoldering in his ruin, consciousness clawing back.
Elara's breeze surged—soft, steady—cooling his brow, her voice breaking—"Tomas—you're here—truth's ours—rest, damn it—you've burned enough!"—her tears falling, mixing with the damp cloth, her Spark swirling, a fire stoking his fading pulse, her grip tightening, steam surging as she leaned closer, blood crusted on her hands, a lifeline refusing to snap. Sereth's Spark flared—light bending, illuminating his face—pale, blood-streaked, eyes half-open—her voice sharp—"He's fighting—Lysen—more—keep him!"—her hands steady, steam rising, a fire joining Elara's, their defiance a tide against his collapse, the ward's glow flickering as Lysen's Spark pulsed brighter.
Lysen's hands flared—golden light surging, weaving through his chest—flesh knitting, ribs grinding into place—her voice firm—"He's stubborn—blood's slowing—ribs mending—hold him, he's clawing back!"—steam swirling as her Spark worked, her gaze darting to his leg—blisters fading, skin stitching—then his side—wound closing, blood clotting—a healer's hands stoking his ruin into recovery, the ward trembling under her power, the chunk's hum steadying, a heartbeat syncing with her warmth. "He's past breaking—grit's his forge—rest now, Kael—healer's orders," she said, her Spark dimming, steam settling, her gray eyes softening as she stepped back, exhaustion creeping into her calm.
Mara entered, her storm-cloud eyes dulled with grief, her gray hair tangled, her robe streaked with forge ash, her Spark a faint gust stirring the air, her voice thunder muted by weariness, cutting through the ward's hum. "Kael—alive—truth's ash—forges dust—council's split," she murmured, stepping to the cot, her gaze locked on his wounds—bandages fresh, blood stanched—then to Elara, Sereth, Lysen—"He broke us—what's left?"—steam curling around her, her hand trembling as she touched the chunk at his belt, its glow faint, a fire beneath smoldering in her doubt, her fury fading into silence, the ward a refuge from the chaos above.
Toren's absence loomed—guards had hauled him off, steel broken, pride dust—while the elders' voices echoed faintly beyond—Veyra weeping—"Order?"—Dren silent—"Truth?"—Gorrim rumbling—"Ash?"—Lysa trembling—"Dust?"—their Sparks gone, their thrones empty, Solvaris fracturing in the wake of Tomas's blaze. The crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—drifted through the walls, a tide rising, a pulse stoking the ward's calm, a fire beneath breaking into whispers of change.
Tomas's eyes flickered—blood crusted, steam fading—his leg steadying, his chest rising—ribs aching, breath deeper—his side a dull throb, consciousness clawing back, his grin faint but feral, the chunk's hum a whisper, a call tied to Dustcrag, to Lila, to the truth. "Hard work—beats—talent—truth's mine," he rasped, his hand tightening on Elara's, his gaze meeting Sereth's, then Lysen's, steam settling as Lysen's warmth held, a fire smoldering in his ruin, the healer's hands his forge, the collapse dust in his recovery.