Chapter 45: The Forge of Truth

The barracks glowed under Solvaris's noon sun, its golden spires piercing a sky clearing of haze, steam rising from the sodden yard as the humid air thickened, puddles evaporating into mist that clung to the mud and splintered wood. Tomas Kael hauled a ninety-pound stone with his pulley rig, muscles screaming, sweat soaking his shirt, blood seeping through bandages on his leg, chest, side, and shoulder—wounds from the Blade, from Gavric's dagger, a body fraying at the edges but held together by relentless grit. His ribs ached with every lift, a dull fire he pushed through, the Etherstone chunk at his belt humming loud, its glow a pulsing blue against the damp leather, a rhythm tying him to the spy's latest scrap—forges, vials, children lined for dosing—a truth breaking free, a fire beneath the council's lies he'd stoke with every swing. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, dropping the stone with a thud, mud splashing up his legs, steam curling around him, the crowd's chant—Kael, Kael—drifting from the arena, a pulse in his bones he'd make roar.

Elara approached, her dark hair damp with sweat, her Spark a faint breeze stirring the mist, her eyes tracing his wounds with worry she couldn't bury, carrying a waterskin and a cloth, her boots squelching through the mud as she reached him. "Tomas," she said, her voice low, tossing the skin with a frown that deepened as he caught it, his hand trembling from the strain, blood dripping from his side onto the mud. "You're killing yourself—Blade's dust, Gavric's locked up, and you're still swinging? Leg's blistered, chest's bleeding, side's a mess—rest, or you'll burn out before Toren swings again."

"Not burning yet," he replied, drinking deep, the cool water soothing his raw throat, washing away the taste of blood and mud, handing it back with a faint grin, his fingers brushing hers through the damp, slick with sweat and steam. "Hard work beats their forge—broke the Blade, broke Gavric's knife. Toren's quiet—means the fire's close. Gotta stoke it." He swung the pickaxe at a dummy, wood splintering, mud flying, the chunk's hum a steady pulse in his gut, its glow brightening against the leather, a call tied to Dustcrag, to the truth—vials, dosing, Sparks forged.

She sighed, her breeze swirling tighter, cooling his sweat as she stepped closer, pressing the cloth to his side, wiping blood with careful strokes, the sting sharp but grounding, her voice breaking slightly. "You're right—Gavric's gone, guards hauled him off, but Toren's silence is deafening. The crowd's wild—Kael, Kael—but the council's tense, and that spy's scrap—forges, children—it's real, Tomas. You're too close, and you're the one bleeding for it—leg, chest, side, shoulder—your ribs—I can hear 'em cracking. You're fraying—how long 'til you can't lift?"

"Long enough," he said, planting the pickaxe, mud oozing around its haft, steam rising from his soaked shirt, his grin widening, a feral edge to it now, defiance burning through the pain. "Dustcrag taught me—fourteen hours digging, then running laps 'til I dropped—Lila'd patch me, call me a fool, but it kept us breathing. I don't break, Elara—I bleed, burn, bend, but I don't break. Hard work beats their lies—beats their forge. We've got the scraps—forges, kids like Lila twisted by 'em—I'll stoke it 'til it blazes." He hauled the stone again, muscles screaming, his leg trembling, his side bleeding fresh, but he lifted higher, mud squelching underfoot, steam curling around him like a shroud.

Footsteps echoed—sharp, deliberate—cutting through the yard's hum, louder than the trainees' whispers, heavier than the spy's stealth. Tomas turned, pickaxe raised, as Sereth strode from the barracks, her council badge glinting through the mist, her green eyes sharp, her auburn hair damp with sweat and steam, her tunic smudged with soot and mud, her posture rigid but her mask cracking—a flicker of urgency beneath the steel. She stopped a few paces off, her gaze flicking to the ruined dummy, then to him, rain dripping from her chin as she crossed her arms, her voice smooth but tense, carrying over the chunk's hum. "Kael," she said, stepping closer, mud squelching under her boots, her eyes narrowing in the spires' reflected glow. "Council's moving—now. Toren's forged something new—after the Blade, Gavric's fall, he's desperate. You're summoned—hall, this time it's not a fight. It's a reckoning."

He planted the pickaxe, steam rising from his hands, his grin fading, replaced by a snarl, the chunk's hum spiking with his pulse, a roar in his skull. "Reckoning?" he growled, rolling his shoulders, the ache a fire he welcomed, blood dripping from his side onto the mud. "Broke his beasts, his Gifted, his blades, his dog—hard work beats his reckoning. What's he forged now?"

Her smirk flickered, a crack widening, water dripping from her lashes as she stepped closer, her voice dropping, a thread of warning beneath the steel. "Not forged in steel—forged in words. He's calling you out—council floor, no pit. Three scraps you've got—vials, runes, children—he knows you're close, and he's twisting it. Mara's curious, I'm betting, but he's desperate—means to bury you in their game, not mud. Tip—use the scraps. They're your blade now."

"Let him twist," he said, swinging the pickaxe once more, wood shattering, mud splashing up his legs, the chunk's hum a roar tied to Dustcrag, to the truth—forges, dosing, lies. "Hard work beats their words—beats their game. I'll stoke the fire, Sereth—truth's my forge, and I'll burn 'em with it. You still betting?"

She studied him, her green eyes piercing through the mist, steam curling around her, a crack in her mask deepening—a flicker of respect, maybe trust, something raw breaking through. "Still surprises me you're standing," she said, her smirk softening, a rare warmth beneath the steel. "Yeah, I'm betting—don't make me lose, Kael. Toren's not the only one burning—council's split, crowd's blazing, spy's circling. You're the fire beneath, and they can't douse it." She turned, mud squelching, pausing mid-step. "Move—hall's waiting. Use the scraps—they'll cut deeper than steel." Her footsteps faded into the mist, 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 awe and fear. "A reckoning—not a fight? Tomas—they're cornered, and you're bleeding for it. The scraps—vials, children—it's enough to break 'em."

"Enough to burn 'em," he said, squeezing her hand, steam rising from his soaked shirt, his voice steady despite the tremor in his limbs, the ache in his ribs. "We've got the truth—forges, Sparks, lies. I'll stoke it in their hall, 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 forge of truth he'd wield.

She nodded, her breeze softening, her eyes fierce with trust despite the fear, pulling the scraps from her pocket, handing them over—damp, scrawled, glowing with proof. "Together—always. But you're a wreck—let me patch you first." She pressed the cloth to his side, blood soaking through, her hands steady despite the tremble in her voice, steam rising around them.

He stood, mud trailing, pickaxe slung across his shoulders, the scraps in his hand, the chunk's glow bright—a fire beneath he'd stoke into a blaze. The council hall waited, Toren's reckoning loomed, but he'd face it—hard work his blade, the forge of truth his strength, the crowd's chant his fuel.