The barracks yard glowed under Solvaris's dusk, its golden spires fading into a bruised purple sky. Tomas swung his borrowed pickaxe at a dummy, wood splintering, sweat soaking his shirt. The Etherstone chunk pulsed at his belt, warm and insistent, its hum a rhythm to his strikes. The arena's cheers still echoed—two Etherfiends down, his name on Gifted lips—but the spy's shadow loomed larger. Toren's glare, Gavric's sabotage, the scratched warning—They're watching. He'd outworked beasts, but men were trickier.
Footsteps crunched, soft but deliberate. Elara approached, her Spark dim, a waterskin in hand. "You're relentless," she said, tossing it to him. "Thought you'd rest after that."
He caught it, drinking deep. "Rest's for winners who've won it all. I'm not there yet." He wiped his mouth, nodding at the stands. "Saw that spy again—same cloak, same eyes. They're close."
She frowned, her breeze brushing the sand. "Council's moving. Toren's pushing harder—heard trainees whispering. They say he's got plans for you."
"Plans," Tomas snorted, planting the pickaxe. "Let him try. I'll break 'em."
A sharper crunch sounded—Gavric, sauntering from the barracks, shadows coiling like smoke. "Breaking things, Dull?" he called, smirking. "Heard Toren's tired of your show. Might be your last."
Tomas tightened his grip. "Keep barking, Gavric. Shows me where to swing."
Gavric laughed, shadows snapping. "Swing all you want. You're a bug under his boot—squash comes soon." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "Heard whispers—council's got a surprise. Bigger than beasts. Sleep tight." He strolled off, shadows trailing, leaving a chill.
Elara stepped beside Tomas, her eyes sharp. "He's not bluffing. Toren's got pull—Mara's curious, but he's ruthless."
"Dunno what's coming," Tomas said, slinging his pack. "But I'll outlast it. Hard work beats their surprises."
She nodded, her hand brushing his arm. "Together?"
"Always," he said, meeting her gaze. The chunk's hum quickened, a beat he felt in his bones.
Night fell, the yard emptying. Tomas rigged his pulley—forty pounds of stones, hauling them up, dropping them hard. His muscles screamed, blisters bleeding, but he kept going, Gavric's whisper gnawing at him. A surprise—bigger than beasts. Fine. He'd face it, break it. The chunk glowed, its warmth spreading, and he paused, rolling it in his hands. It wasn't just Etherstone—not anymore. It tied him to this, to the carvings, to the truth Elara glimpsed.
He resumed, swings harder, dummy splintering. The spy's eyes flashed in his mind—watching, waiting. Let 'em. He'd give 'em a fight they couldn't plan for.