The sun hung low over Dustcrag, a bruised orange orb bleeding into the haze of the wasteland. Tomas Kael wiped sweat from his brow, his calloused hands smearing grit across his sunburned skin. The Etherstone quarry stretched before him, a jagged scar in the earth, its glowing veins pulsing faintly beneath layers of rock and dust. His pickaxe bit into the stone with a dull thunk, sending shards skittering across the ground. Around him, the other miners grunted and cursed, their movements sluggish under the weight of exhaustion. But Tomas didn't slow. He never did.
Fourteen hours he'd been at it today, same as yesterday, same as the day before. His muscles screamed, his back ached, but he kept swinging. Hard work beats talent, he told himself, the words a mantra etched into his bones. Up in the sky-cities, the Gifted floated through life on their Sparks—magic they were born with, power they didn't earn. Down here, in the dirt, Tomas had nothing but his hands and his will. And that was enough.
"Hey, Kael!" a voice rasped from his left. Jorin, a wiry man with a face like cracked leather, leaned on his shovel. "You gonna dig us all the way to Solvaris, or what? Slow down, you're making us look bad."
Tomas grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe if you swung that shovel instead of leaning on it, we'd hit quota early." He drove his pickaxe deeper, splitting a chunk of Etherstone free. It glowed a soft blue, humming with energy—the lifeblood of the sky-cities. Without it, they'd crash into the wasteland, or so the overseers claimed. Tomas didn't care much for their threats. He cared about the coin it brought, enough to keep his sister Lila fed.
Jorin snorted. "Quota's a dream for suckers. Overseer'll just raise it tomorrow. You know how they are—Gifted bastards sitting pretty while we break our backs."
Tomas didn't answer. He hefted the Etherstone into a cart, the weight tugging at his shoulders. Jorin wasn't wrong. The Gifted ruled Eldrenvar, their Sparks letting them hurl fire or bend steel with a thought. Down here, the ungifted—the Dulls—were ants under their boots. But Tomas wasn't like Jorin, content to grumble and give up. He'd prove a Dull could rise, not with magic, but with sweat.
The whistle blew, sharp and piercing, signaling the end of the shift. Miners shuffled toward the camp, their shadows long and jagged in the dying light. Tomas lingered, eyeing a stubborn vein of Etherstone glinting in the rock face. One more swing, he thought. He raised his pickaxe, muscles coiling, and struck. The stone cracked, spilling a fist-sized chunk into his hands. It pulsed warmer than the others, almost alive. He tucked it into his satchel—no one would miss it.
Back at camp, Dustcrag sprawled like a wound across the wasteland—tents and shacks stitched together with rope and rust. The air smelled of sweat and burnt coal. Tomas trudged to his tent, a sagging canvas square he shared with Lila. She was waiting, her dark hair pulled back, stirring a pot of thin stew over a flickering fire.
"You're late," she said, not looking up. Her voice carried the same stubborn edge as his.
"Had to finish something," Tomas replied, dropping his satchel by the entrance. He sank onto a crate, wincing as his spine protested.
Lila ladled stew into a dented bowl and shoved it at him. "You're gonna kill yourself out there. What's the point?"
He took the bowl, the warmth seeping into his palms. "Point is, we eat. Point is, I'm stronger tomorrow than I am today." He spooned a bite, tasting mostly salt and grit. "Hard work beats talent, Lila. Always will."
She rolled her eyes, sixteen and already sharper than most twice her age. "Tell that to the Gifted when they're flying around up there, sipping wine while we choke on dust."
Tomas chewed slowly, staring into the fire. "One day, I'll climb up there. Show 'em a Dull can stand toe-to-toe with their Sparks. Not because I'm special, but because I work for it."
Lila snorted, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—pride, maybe, or worry. "You're a fool, Tomas Kael. But you're my fool."
He smirked, finishing the stew in silence. The night deepened, stars winking through the haze. Most miners were asleep, their snores a low rumble, but Tomas wasn't done. He grabbed a sack of stones from the corner—twenty pounds, maybe more—and slung it over his shoulder. Stepping outside, he started running laps around the camp's edge, boots pounding the cracked earth. One lap. Two. Five. His lungs burned, his legs trembled, but he pushed on. Hard work beats talent.
By the tenth lap, the camp was a blur of shadows. He stopped, chest heaving, and dropped the sack. The Etherstone chunk from earlier glinted in his satchel, catching the moonlight. He picked it up, rolling it between his fingers. It felt heavier now, like it held secrets he couldn't crack. Not yet.
A faint tremor shook the ground, barely noticeable. Tomas frowned, glancing at the horizon. The sky-cities hovered there, distant specks of light, untouchable. But something felt off—like a storm brewing where no clouds hung. He shook it off, heading back to the tent. Tomorrow, he'd swing harder, dig deeper. Tomorrow, he'd be ready for whatever came.