The arena's roar hit Tomas like a wall, a tidal wave of sound from thousands of Gifted packed into Solvaris's coliseum. Dawn barely touched the sky, a thin gold line on the horizon, but the stands brimmed, their silks and Sparks a kaleidoscope of power. He stood at the pit's edge, sand crunching under his boots, borrowed pickaxe gripped tight. Sereth's words echoed—Gifted and constructs, a paired fight—Toren's latest blade to grind him down. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, rolling his shoulders, the gash on his side a dull throb beneath Elara's bandage. He'd break this too.
Elara watched from the trainees' bench, her dark eyes steady, her nod a quiet strength. Gavric lounged nearby, shadows coiling tighter than usual, his smirk a razor's edge. The council loomed above, Mara's storm-cloud gaze unreadable, Toren's glare a vow of ruin. Sereth sat among them, her face a mask, but her eyes flicked to him—a bet still riding.
The gate screeched open, and the crowd hushed. Two foes emerged—a Gifted woman, Lira, her hands crackling with lightning, and a construct, its Etherstone frame humming, steel arms gleaming. They moved as one, Lira's Sparks guiding the machine's brute force. Tomas tightened his stance, sand shifting, and charged.
Lira struck first, lightning arcing toward him. He dove, sand exploding, and rolled up, pickaxe swinging at the construct's leg—metal clanged, chipping stone. The construct swung, its fist a battering ram; he ducked, breath knocked out, and struck its arm, cracking a joint. Lira flanked, lightning searing his shoulder—pain flared, hot and electric, but he roared, hurling sand into her face. She staggered, Sparks dimming, and he tackled the construct, toppling it into the sand.
The fight blurred—Lira's lightning, the construct's steel, a dance of pain and grit. He dodged, struck, used the pit's spikes to trap the machine, its arm pinned and shattered under repeated blows. Lira lunged, Sparks flaring, but he swung low, cracking her knee, then pinned her with the pickaxe haft. She gasped, lightning fading, and the construct stilled, its hum dead.
Silence fell, then cheers erupted—wild, fierce, a storm of awe. Tomas stood, panting, blood dripping from his shoulder, pickaxe trembling. "Work beats pairs," he muttered, too quiet for the stands. Elara clapped, relief in her tears. Gavric's smirk vanished, shadows tight. Mara nodded, Toren's fists clenched—rage boiling.
He limped from the pit, the chunk's hum a victory pulse. Hard work had carried him, but the pairing was a taste of worse—council's desperation showing. He'd break their game, no matter the cost.