Bastion
Author: Phil Tucker
Date: 2021-10-30 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Fiction; Action; High Fantasy
Description: Scorio will rise from the ashes to conquer the ten layers of hell. Reborn without memories, Scorio learns that he is a Great Soul, a legendary defender of the ancient city of Bastion. That within the hallowed halls of the Academy and under the stern eyes of the underworld’s greatest instructors he will enjoy enormous privilege, rediscover unique and wondrous powers, and one day return to the millennium-old battle against their infernal foes. Until he is betrayed. Singled out and sentenced to die for crimes he can't remember, Scorio is hurled to his doom—and forgotten. But from even the dimmest
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services

Contents

Book 1

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Interlude - Lianshi

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Interlude - Imogen

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Interlude - Naomi

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Interlude - Leonis

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Thank you! Please read!

Bastion

Book 1 of

THE IMMORTAL GREAT SOULS

By

Phil Tucker

BASTION

BOOK ONE OF THE IMMORTAL GREAT SOULS SERIES

Copyright © 2021 by Phil Tucker. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced in any form or by any meansm electronic or mechanical, without expressed permission of the author.

Chapter 1

Scorio awoke from death in a tomb of hammered copper. His breath echoed harshly within the stark confines, his chest heaved, and his eyes grew wide, drinking in the faint, blood-orange glow seeping into the air from a rectangular hole in the ceiling.

With a convulsive jerk, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bier on which he’d lain. There was darkness all around, made thick and swarming by the mere hint of light from above. He grimaced, blinked his eyes owlishly, and tried to stir thoughts into motion. He sat there in a stupor, slowly coming back to himself until at last, he once more studied the rectangular hole.

It hovered some eight or ten feet above him. The steady, ruddy light came from a source outside his line of sight. He couldn’t make anything out but a great sense of enormity, of scale, of height.

Drawing deep breaths, he carefully stood upon the bier, his legs still weak, his balance unsteady. No telling how far the drop to the floor was—perhaps a yard, perhaps more. The darkness at the base of the bier was absolute. He rubbed his hands together and stretched up to the hole. It hovered a few feet above his fingertips.

Scorio drew his hands back, wiped them on his hips, rocked a little from side to side as he prepared himself, then leaped. It was a weak first attempt; he didn’t even brush the ceiling before falling back.

Again he leaped, then again, and a fourth time before casting around for some other means to get out. The bier was large, so he stepped to its head, measured how many steps he could safely take, then strode forward, half-crouched, and whipped his arms around and up, leaping again. This time his hands slapped against the hole’s broad, metallic rim, and his fingers curled over the uppermost edge.

Gritting his teeth, Scorio hauled himself up, arms shaking, muscles burning, until he was able to pull his head out.

His eyes widened at the sight. For a moment he simply hung there, shocked, but his body began slipping back into the tomb, so he heaved himself out, rolled onto his back, and sat up, staring.

The space was so vast that for a moment he thought himself outside. A great beam of luminous amber, some ten yards wide, split the darkness in the distance and rose to a great height before fading away. It shone like a slice of sun, richly golden and pitiless, inhuman in its scale and without detail or depth.

Scorio gaped in wonder, only to realize that the beam was in fact a partition between two dark walls that drew close together at the top of a dozen steps. Steps that were easily a hundred or more yards wide, partitioning the great plain on which he sat from the platform that led to the light.

Light which turned the upper surface of each step to a rich maroon, and which reflected off the ground in a feverish, apocalyptic smolder; swathes of imperfections in the copper dimmed its burning glow so its reflection looked like a bloody sun setting behind a haze of clouds.

Scorio felt himself a speck before that immensity, its grandeur. The floor on which he sat was patterned with countless small rectangles like his own, laid out with geometric precision, shallow depressions uniformly reflecting the amber light, showing they remained sealed.

His mind raced. Were others trapped below? Was he trapped here alone? Where was he, what was this place, was he meant to do something—?

Movement off to one side, and he rose to his knees, peering as a shadow clambered up from a distant rectangle, its mouth dark, unsealed. Eager, hesitant, he leaped to his feet, took a half-dozen steps, and stopped. “Hello?”

The man, for so it seemed, rolled out and onto his back, and lay there panting for breath.

Scorio could sympathize.

“What is…?” began the man, his voice a powerful rumble, but his words trailed off as he shifted onto his side, propped himself up, and caught sight of the livid amber beam.

Scorio walked toward him, taking care not to step into any of the rectangular depressions, even sealed as they were. He paused when he noticed something. He crouched and brushed his fingertips over a number incised at the base of one depression. 237. Frowning, he glanced at the next one over. 238.

“Where…?” The stranger pushed himself up to sitting. He was little more than a hulking shadow, two-toned; the side that faced the beam lit up fiery red, the other half-cast into darkness. “What is that?”

“No idea.” Scorio glanced back at his own tomb entrance. What was his number? Was it significant? “Just got out myself.”

The stranger rose to his feet and proved to be a bear of a man, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, his beard and pale skin burnished by the light, long, dark hair spilling halfway down his back. “This place. Are we dead?”

“Would be just our luck.” Scorio approached the man once more. “But before I awoke, I had this dream, or vision…”

“Of dying,” finished the stranger. His voice was rich and powerful, and with each passing moment, he seemed to be collecting himself, mastering his agitation. “Me too. But the details are lost to me now.” And he looked down and away, frowning.

Which prompted Scorio’s own thoughts. What could he remember? That dream of death, of dying… he could remember movement, violent arcs of something being swung—but no. It was gone.

“The name is Leonis,” said the man, extending a large hand. “You?”

“Scorio.” They shook, and the man’s grip was firm but not crushing.

A new voice drifted toward them, hollowed out as if from the base of a well. “Is there anybody out there? Hello?”

Both men started toward the sound, and Scorio saw a third rectangular hole, dark against the smoldering copper floor.

“We’re here,” called Leonis, his voice resonant. The kind of voice, Scorio thought, that would carry easily over a battlefield.

“I can’t get out,” said the woman, her tone tense, just shy of panic.

The two men hurried over and crouched on either side of the opening. A pale face peered up at them, little more than a smudge in the gloom below.

“Here,” said Scorio, lying down to extend his arm to her. “Grab my hand.”

She lunged up and clasped his wrist. Leonis reached in and together they pulled her out.

She was tall, pale, her frame angular, with a long mane of hair so dark it seemed to drink in the burning light and reflect nothing back but a single, shimmering line of blue across her head. She reflexively curled a long strand behind her ear as she stared at the amber shaft, and Scorio saw her eyes go wide in shock.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Leonis balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, his teeth gleaming through his beard as he grinned. “Quite the sight, isn’t it?”

“And apologies in advance. We’ve no idea what it is. Or where we are.” Scorio rose to his feet, turning to face the huge amber slash full on.

“The name’s Leonis,” murmured the large man.

“Lianshi,” said the woman, tone distracted. She took in the vast emptiness of the rest of the room, the way the copper floor extended out into the darkness, with only the umber walls that met on either side of the beam giving the room definition. Even these, titanic as they were, faded away into the distance, giving no hint as to the true size of the space in which they stood.

“I’m Scorio.” He glanced at the foot of her rectangle. “And you’re 723.”

Leonis frowned, scrutinized the incisions, then glanced back at his own opening. “You think the numbers mean something?”

“They must,” said Scorio. “Otherwise, why go through the effort of carving them into metal?”

“Is this… are we dead?” Lianshi’s voice was tremulous. “I remember… a dream of… but no.” She frowned, gave a sharp shake of her head. “It’s gone.” She paused, then her frown deepened. “It’s all gone.”

“All gone?” asked Scorio. “How so?”

There was fear in her gaze. “My life. I can’t remember… just my name. Lianshi. But beyond that, my home, my parents, who I was, what I did—it’s all gone.”

Scorio frowned and realized the same loss; the sudden awareness of the aching void within him hit him like a hammer blow to the chest. He staggered and took a step back.

Leonis plunged both hands into his long hair and wrapped his forearms around his temples, squeezing tight as he turned first one way, then the other. “She’s right. I can’t….” He trailed off, then blew out a deep breath. “All gone.”

For a moment the three of them said nothing, simply stared at each other in shock. Finally, Scorio forced a smile. “Fine. All our memories are gone but for a lingering dream of death. Odds are we’re dead. Which… would make this the afterlife.”

“But I breathe,” said Leonis. “And feel pain. I scraped my forearm climbing up.”

Lianshi surreptitiously pinched her own arm and winced.

“I didn’t say it was a logical afterlife, and we sure won’t figure this out sitting here,” said Scorio. “How about we take a closer look at that light?”

“All right. Good idea.” Leonis’s tone had grown assured once more. “Not that there’s a lot of options.”

Scorio extended a hand to the woman. “You coming?”

“Like he said. I don’t think there’s much of a choice.” Lianshi rose smoothly to her feet without aid. “But thank you for asking.”

A cry of effort yanked their attention off to the side, where another shadowy figure was struggling out of a distant tomb. Scorio took off at a sprint as the figure began to slide slowly back into the hole. He leaped over sealed tombs, footsteps echoing off the copper floor, and just as the slender figure let out a cry and slipped all the way in, he dove, crashing down just before the hole and sliding the last few feet to grab hold of her wrist.

But he had nothing to brace himself against, and momentum coupled with her weight pulled him in after; all he could do was panic and resolve not to let go as his head and shoulders slid into the darkness. He was about to topple in altogether when someone grasped his ankles tight and hauled him back.

He grunted in pain but held on. With Leonis’s help, he worked his way back out into the amber light and pulled her after him. Her thick hair was in disarray, covering her face, and for a moment she simply lay on her side, massaging her wrist as she stared, transfixed, at the beam of amber.

“It’s all right,” said Lianshi, crouching down beside her and reaching out tentatively to touch her shoulder. “I mean, it’s—well. Not all right. But—well.” She broke off, took a breath, and tried again. “Hello. I’m Lianshi. We think we might all be dead, but we’re not sure.”

The small woman pushed herself up to sitting. She had a narrow, saturnine face with thick, striking eyebrows above piercing eyes, and she tore her gaze away from the glowing beam to study them in helpless anger. “Dead?”

“It’s the theory we’re working with,” said Leonis, sitting back with a sigh. “Though honestly, this doesn’t feel much like death. We don’t know how else to explain it. I’m Leonis, by the way.”

Scorio was too restless to remain seated, so he rose and studied the hammered plain of copper, the feverish glow of the reflection undulating out across its surface. “Are all these tombs going to open up?”

“If so, it’s going to take a while,” said Leonis. “There’s an awful lot of them.”

“Tombs,” said Lianshi with a shudder. “Can we think of a better name for them?”

“Wombs?” asked Leonis.

“Let’s stick with tombs,” said Lianshi.

Scorio turned back to the new stranger. “We’d just decided to investigate that glowing light when you arrived.”

The woman nodded, a vertical line between her brows, and drew a deep, shuddering breath. “All right. Yes. I’m Asha.”

“Scorio. Good to meet you.”

She frowned up at him but took his hand and allowed him to help her stand. “Thank you. For helping me when I was falling.”

“Hey, don’t mention it. Jumping in and out of tombs is all I seem to do these days.”

Asha stared at him strangely, but Leonis grunted in amusement and clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s work on getting you a new hobby.”

The four of them stood clustered together, facing the light, their fronts painted in hues of orange and gold.

“Should we wait to see if anyone else emerges?” asked Lianshi.

“I say we get some answers first,” said Scorio. “I’m not sure I can stand not knowing what’s going on for much longer.”

“Agreed,” said Asha, arms tightly folded across her chest. “But… do you keep… I don’t know—reaching for something that’s not there?”

“How so?” asked Lianshi.

Asha’s face screwed up in annoyance. “I can’t quite explain it. Like the sensation you get when you think there’ll be another step at the top of a flight of stairs and there isn’t. That moment of disorientation. I keep… reaching for something. Within me. And it’s not there.”

They all studied her.

“I’m not crazy,” she said, voice sharp. “I’m just being honest.”

Leonis raised both hands. “Nobody said you were.”

“Reaching for something,” mused Scorio. “No. Haven’t felt that yet.”

“Never mind,” said Asha. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“It’s all right,” said Lianshi. “We’re all out of our element here.”

“Let’s focus on getting some answers.” Scorio began walking. “And if we’re lucky, someone to blame for this mess. Hell of a way to run the afterlife.”

Scorio angled their approach to the steps past his own tomb’s opening and saw inscribed at the base the number 37. Continuing forward, and upon placing his foot on the first step, Scorio turned to study the plain of copper one last time. He searched for movement, strained to hear a cry for help.

Nothing.

“Do you feel that?” asked Lianshi, voice soft.

Leonis frowned at her. “Feel what?”

“It’s…” she trailed off, unsure. “Like a current of air passing around us. But not. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Scorio raised his hand, studying it in the feverish glow. Trying to sense what she was talking about. There was no wind. The air was utterly still. But yet… he thought he felt something pass through him, or around him, like some subtle current he’d not noticed till now. But just as he felt it, the current disappeared, slipping away between his fingers like the dream of death that had awoken him.

“No,” said Leonis at last, shaking his head.

Asha stared off into the middle distance. “I do, I think. An invisible breeze, or… I can’t quite describe it. Different from what I felt a moment ago. Connected to it, though. Somehow.”

“Yes, like an invisible breeze,” said Lianshi, voice soft with wonder. She, too, raised her hand and gently moved it back and forth, as if caressing a monstrously large and unseen cat. “But it’s gone now. I lost it the moment I noticed it.”

“Same here,” said Scorio. “Let’s add it to the list of weird things we’re noticing and keep going.”

Nobody protested, so he climbed the steps, the amber beam growing broader and filling more of his vision as he reached the top. There he stopped, hands on his hips, and craned his head back to take in its vertiginous height. Even this close, a mere twenty or so yards away, it was easy to believe it was a solid, glowing object and not a gap between the two massive walls.

“No warmth,” murmured Asha.

Scorio approached cautiously, squinting his eyes against the violent yellow beam. He raised a hand as he drew near. There was no heat at all. Nothing but the sound of their breathing, the metallic tang in the air, the echo of their footsteps.

“So, do you think there’s a god on the other side?” asked Lianshi.

“Maybe,” said Leonis. “Though I don’t know which one. You remember any names?”

“None,” she admitted, and Scorio thought he heard relief in her voice.

Closer yet. The beam had become a wall before him, ten yards wide, absolute and all-consuming.

“Careful,” said Leonis.

Scorio slowed, each step now taking effort as if he were knowingly walking in the dark toward a cliff’s edge. Squinting, he stepped right up to the fiery wall, and realized at last that it was neither a tangible object nor a gap, but rather both—a veil of burning light rising before him, but through which he could only vaguely sense space, a continuation, a passageway.

“Looks like a curtain of some kind,” he said, eyes nearly closed. “Going to touch it.”

Nobody spoke as he reached forth. His hand pressed the burning amber, and for a second he felt resistance, like pushing against a soft cushion. Then his hand broke through and disappeared, the light moving up his wrist and engulfing his forearm as he slid it in deeper.

“There’s something beyond,” he whispered, sweat prickling his brow. His heart was pounding, pounding, and he couldn’t catch his breath. “Space of some kind. I’m going in.”

“Scorio,” one of them said, but he couldn’t tell which. His pulse was roaring in his ears. Even with his eyes slit, he felt blinded. He edged forward, arm disappearing to the elbow, then the bicep, then right up to his shoulder.

For an aching, agonizing second, he hesitated. Hung there, suspended in the balance.

He took a deep breath and stepped through.

Chapter 2

Scorio emerged on the far side into a dimly lit, low-ceilinged chamber. He received a brief impression of rusted walls, a dirt floor, and heavy shadows when instinct screamed at him to lunge aside.

Not thinking, not questioning, he hurled himself to the left and crashed down to one knee just as something metallic clanged against the iron wall behind him and spun away into the gloom.

He stared, dumbfounded, even as part of him reached within his being, seeking to grasp—what? He didn’t even know. It felt like an instinct without a home.

The glowing amber wall was gone. In its place was a heavy wall of dull iron, streaked with rust. A small fleck of bright steel shone at roughly chest height where he’d stood.

“What the…?” Frowning, he went to rise when a shape emerged from the iron wall, pushing through as if it were insubstantial, hands groping blindly, revealing Leonis’s bearded face, eyes wide, expression strained.

He grunted, almost stumbling as he came all the way through, then oriented on where Scorio knelt.

“What—?”

“Watch out—”

There was no sound, just a sense of movement, and Leonis jerked aside, obeying instincts of his own as another projectile ricocheted off the iron wall.

Scorio jumped to his feet. “The others, when they come through—”

But it was too late. Two pairs of hands emerged from the iron wall, both a good distance apart. They came through quickly with the determined steps of people committed to their fate, Asha’s eyes screwed shut, Lianshi blinking, bewildered.

“Watch out!” shouted Scorio, lunging forward to tackle Asha.

She froze, eyes opening in alarm, staring at him in shock as he crashed into her a second later.

They fell roughly to the ground, Asha’s shoulder clipping the wall, but the rigid object that jutted against Scorio’s arm told him it was too late.

“No, no no no,” he hissed, pulling himself free to kneel beside the young woman. She looked down at where a thick bolt of gray metal had sunk deep into her gut.

“What…?” Her voice was thick, hands closing about the shaft.

“Leonis!” Scorio looked over to where the massive man was helping Lianshi to her feet, one hand clapped to his bloody side. “Either of you know anything about healing?”

Blank looks as they hurried over.

“Stay with me,” said Scorio as Asha lowered her head back down, eyelids fluttering. “Stay with me, Asha.” He jerked his gray overrobe off his shoulders and struggled out of it, some mad thought of wadding it into the wound filling his mind.

Leonis touched his arm. “It’s too late.”

Scorio froze, overrobe half off, and stared down at her. Her eyes had closed, and thick, dark blood was welling up around the iron bolt, soaking into her clothing, running down her side into the dirt floor.

Lianshi took one of Asha’s hands and held it tight.

“Too late?” Scorio felt dizzy, at a loss. “But she’s still breathing, she’s…”

Leonis just shook his head grimly.

And Scorio saw that he was right. The young woman’s breath was already coming in ever-shallower gasps, ever longer pauses between them. The blood which had welled up thickly before seemed to slow, no longer pulsing.

The three of them knelt around her, watching in horror, as Asha’s breaths slowed, slowed, and finally stopped.

Scorio studied her face. The thick brows, the eagle-like nose, the high cheekbones, the parted lips. Such fierce strength, such dour resolve, all of it smoothing into an expression of peace, of gentle sleep.

And then her body began to fade. Subtly at first, then it disappeared altogether before them, and was gone.

The iron bolt dropped to the blood-soaked dirt, revealing a wicked, crescent moon-shaped head.

Lianshi grasped after Asha’s hand, as if it were a bar of soap slipping from her fingers, then covered her mouth in shock.

“Who loosed those bolts?” growled Leonis, rising and turning to face the depths of the hallway. “Who’s there?”

Scorio felt a deep and ugly rage arise within him, familiar in a way he couldn’t understand, welcome and hot and demanding. He tore his eyes away from the bloody earth and also rose, studying the depths of the hall in search of movement.

Nothing.

After the vast space of the first room, the immensity of its scale and the vivid lighting of that amber beam, the chamber seemed cramped, mean, and utterly unimpressive. Leonis’s head almost scraped the ceiling, and the dull light came from a hemisphere of pale glass embedded halfway down the wall. It glowed with a pale, creamy light that did more to enhance the shadows than anything else.

Made almost sullen by the lack of a target, Scorio turned to the man by his side. “You’re hurt.”

“Just a scratch,” growled Leonis, refusing to remove his hand from his bloody side.

It was clearly more than that.

Scorio curled his hands into fists and stalked down the hallway, Leonis beside him. He could feel his companion’s fury, how it curdled the air, and it matched his own.

“I’m going to wring their filthy necks,” growled the large man, and Scorio believed him.

“Wait for me,” called Lianshi, hurrying up behind them.

But there was nobody else in the hallway. No weapon, no mounted bow, no signs of a trap. Just a wall on the far side with a black door set in its center.

“How…?” Leonis came to a stop, turned in a slow circle, then glowered at Scorio. “What just happened?”

“A trap,” said Lianshi, voice hushed. “A magical trap, perhaps. Triggered by our entering this hall?”

“But to what end?” Leonis sounded ready to smash his fist through the wall. “I thought we were going to meet a god or get an explanation in here. Not a gutful of metal.”

“I don’t know,” said Scorio, voice soft. “Perhaps there’s no way to know. But there’s a door.”

“Leading to what? Another filthy trap? Is this someone’s idea of a game?”

Lianshi bit her lower lip and gave a firm shake of her head. “That first room. The size of it. The feel. It was… too grand for a mere game. Whatever’s going on, it’s serious.”

They stood in silence, studying the dismal hallway. Scorio scanned the sides of the room, but there was no sign of the iron bolts that had missed them. Nor, when he made his way back to the beginning, any sign of Asha’s blood or the bolt that had killed her.

“It’s gone,” he said, crouching down to pass his hand over the dirt where she’d lain. “Her blood. The bolt. Just… disappeared.”

Lianshi stopped just behind him. “As if it had never happened.”

“You think she’s back in that tomb?” Leonis pressed his palm against the iron wall. He strained for a moment, the muscles and tendons standing out in his forearm, then desisted. “No way back, at any rate.”

“I wonder.” Scorio scooped up a fistful of the dirt, then allowed it to trickle free. “That dream we all had before waking up. Was it of dying in here? Do we get sent back each time?”

“No,” said Lianshi, shaking her head slowly and stepping back. “That can’t be true. I don’t want it to be true.”

Leonis growled deep in his chest and turned back to the far door. “Only one way to go.”

“Only one way,” agreed Scorio, rising to his feet. “Maybe we’ll get answers on the other side.”

“Should we… should we say goodbye?” Lianshi glanced at both of them, then back down to where Asha had lain. “I mean, I don’t quite feel like it’s the right thing to do, but…”

“Why not?” Scorio took a deep breath, fighting back his anger. “Wherever you are, Asha, I hope you’ve found peace.”

Leonis grunted in agreement, then together they turned to face the far door.

“Who goes first?” asked Lianshi.

“I will,” said Scorio, moving forward.

Leonis hurried to catch up. “We should take turns. It’s not fair on you to go first again.”

“It’s just a door.” Scorio studied it as they drew closer. “We’ll crack it open and see what’s on the other side.”

“I vote in favor of that idea,” said Lianshi, raising her hand before quickly dropping it.

They crowded around the door. It was a heavy, brutish thing, seemingly made out of pure iron, the hinges massive and rusted. Scorio took a deep breath, took hold of the handle, and slowly, carefully, pulled it down. He heard some manner of lock or catch withdraw, then gestured to the others to move away.

“It opens inwards. Stand over there where the door will protect you from whatever’s inside.” He could see Leonis starting to protest.

“You’re hurt. It’s common sense to let me take a look.”

Leonis reluctantly agreed, so Scorio cracked the door open a fraction of an inch.

Nothing happened.

He took a shallow, silent breath, then carefully peered around the jamb and into the next room, only to be met by a wall of absolute darkness.

“Great,” he murmured. No breeze came through, no smells, no indication of what lay beyond.

Leonis pressed forward. “What?”

“Another blank doorway.” Scorio opened the door wider. “Watch out for bolts.”

They stood in silence, studying the blackness. Lianshi bent, took up a handful of dirt, and cast it through.

The dirt disappeared.

“Well?” Leonis cracked his knuckles in the other, blood-soaked palm. “Waiting here isn’t doing anything. Let’s go.”

Scorio nodded reluctantly. “Let’s expect a trap on the other side. Keep your wits about you.”

“I’ll go first,” said Leonis, placing a hand on Scorio’s shoulder. “I’ll step through and immediately move to the left, keeping the wall to my back. You move to the right when you enter.”

“And me?” asked Lianshi.

Leonis ran a hand in exasperation through his long hair. “I don’t know. Crouch down?”

“All right.” She gave a firm nod. “I’ll give Scorio a couple of seconds, then come in low.”

They stared at the darkness again, nobody moving.

“Well, let’s do it. Good luck to all of us,” said Leonis, moving to stand square before the portal. “And if we die horribly on the other side, I hope to see you both again soon. You seem like good people.”

Scorio couldn’t help it. He laughed. “I couldn’t wish for better comrades with whom to face an infuriatingly obtuse death. Good luck.”

Leonis clapped his hands loudly together once, twice, three times, then shrugged his shoulders. “All right. Here we go. Here we go.”

And he stepped through to disappear.

Scorio forced a smile. “Luck.”

Lianshi began to respond, but he didn’t wait, stepping into the wall of inky darkness, and through into a shadow-drowned chamber. As he tried to get a sense of what lay before him, he stepped to the right and pressed his back to the wall.

The room was pitch dark but for some thirty, fist-sized circular holes clustered high in the ceiling above, through which streamed columns of dusty, white light. Each column illuminated a perfect circle the size of a dinner plate on what proved to be pale stone, all of them clustered together to form a compact island of light in an ocean of dark.

Scorio fought to control his breathing, to listen, to get a sense of what else was in the room. Despite the darkness, it lacked the imposing sense of scale of the first chamber, instead feeling close, surprisingly small.

“You there?” he whispered.

“Here,” rasped Leonis, voice tight with tension.

“Here,” whispered Lianshi from between them, crouched low.

A pause.

“Don’t see anything but those lights,” whispered Leonis. “Maybe we should—”

And then something the size of a child passed through one of the corner columns—a flicker of movement, a hint of an enlarged, angular ear, a scrawny body, a quick, serpentine undulation behind it as if it possessed a tail.

“All right,” said Leonis, voice growing hard. “Let’s just stay put.”

“What was that?” Lianshi’s voice was tinged with panic. “Did you see that? What was it?”

“Easy,” breathed Scorio. “Easy. Stay alert. Our backs are to the wall. It can’t get behind us.”

“But we won’t see it if it comes at us.” Lianshi had stood up. “We should get in the light, stand in the center, back-to-back.”

“She’s right,” said Leonis. “We’ll not see an attack coming out here in the dark.”

Then the small creature leaned into the light, slowly, deliberately, revealing its hideous visage, a face out of a nightmare. A great, bald head with liver spots mottled across its scalp, a hole for a nose, a wide, lipless mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth, great batwing ears, and eyes that were little more than beady black gems, eyes that glittered with malice and amusement, that studied the three of them before it pulled back into the darkness.

Scorio felt his stomach tighten with fear and his mouth go dry. “To the lights,” he said. “Move together. Hurry.”

And he led the way, running across the eight or so yards that separated them from the slender columns, expecting at any time to be attacked, for that horrific creature to leap out, claws swiping—

He staggered to a stop as he entered the clustered columns, each so bright and pale that they seemed to set him on fire where he passed through them. He heard Leonis cry out in pain, but then the large man was there, stumbling into him, half-turning to look back into the darkness, blood vivid and crimson across his shredded thigh.

“Lianshi!” cried out Scorio, and she emerged from the darkness, eyes wide, hair a disordered halo about her pale face, crashing into them, turning, pressing her back to them, facing out into the darkness.

“Turn,” said Scorio, wanting instead to check in with Leonis, to see how bad his wound was, to bind it.

But there was no time.

Leonis did as he was bid, breathing harshly. Together they stood thus, forming a triangle, shoulder to shoulder, staring out through the blazing white columns at the pitch darkness beyond.

“It got me,” said Leonis, still breathing heavily as if he couldn’t catch his breath. “Talons.”

Scorio stared into the darkness, eyes narrowed, trying to pick up on a sense of movement. Anything. Even a fraction of a warning.

“How do we kill it?” asked Lianshi, and to Scorio’s surprise, her voice had steadied, grown hard.

Leonis shifted his weight off his bad leg. “Grab it. Smash it against the floor. It’s small. Looks light.”

Lianshi’s laugh was completely without humor. “Grab it and smash it. Got it.”

A flicker, a bounding leap, and the creature burst out of the darkness to fall upon Scorio, fast as a nightmare, wicked fingers terminating in black nails flexing and seeking his face, lips writhing back to reveal fangs, mouth yawning open, impossibly wide.

Scorio cried out in alarm and grabbed hold of its wiry body, its waist so thin he could almost close his hands around it. But for all its small stature it was wickedly strong, and flailed at him, slashing open his arms and a line of fire across his cheek. It was like trying to hold a wild cat by the waist, the thing hissing and spitting, and snapping its jaws.

Leonis roared in fury and lunged over Scorio’s shoulder to slam his knuckles into the creature’s face. Scorio wasn’t holding it firmly enough for the blow to do much damage, but then Leonis took hold of the creature with both hands and with another cry drove it into the ground, falling upon it, smashing it down with all his considerable strength.

Lianshi screamed and she fell into Scorio, nearly knocking him over. He twisted about and saw another of the imps latched onto her, one hand gripping her shoulder, feet planted on her chest, desperately trying to get its fangs into her neck.

Scorio let out a wordless cry and plunged in, grabbed it by the scrawny neck, and tore it away from her. The monster screeched and scratched at his wrists, shredding his flesh. Scorio’s instinct was to just hold it away from his face, but some remote part of his mind recalled Leonis’s advice and he hurled it at the ground as one might a thick clay jar, seeking to shatter it.

The little beast hit the ground on its side but was flexible enough, sufficiently sinewy, to bounce right back to its feet unharmed. Scorio kicked it across the jaw, punting as hard as he could, and knocked it back and out of the light. He followed right after, still shouting, his fury finding release in his barks of fear and anger, to stomp on its wiry frame, crushing it beneath his heel as hard as he could.

“Leonis!” Lianshi’s cry was horrified, and Scorio looked back to see a third imp on the large man’s back, its own spine arched so that its knobby vertebrae were in sharp relief, its face buried in his companion’s neck. Lianshi had grasped it around the waist and was hauling at it, but it clung on with tenacious strength.

One final stomp, the feeling of bones breaking beneath his sole, and Scorio hurled himself back, staggering wildly to crash into Leonis, grabbing the monster by the base of both ears and wrenching it away.

Its jagged maw tore free in an arc of blood.

He fell to his side, the beast writhing in his arms, then Lianshi was beside him, hammering her fist down over and over against its head, not really hurting it but keeping it from getting back up, from twisting around and breaking free.

A roar sounded—Leonis, hoarse and furious, and he lurched up and dropped down upon the monster, his entire weight behind his elbow. The blow was a terrible one, and Scorio felt the imp shudder and go still as the architecture of its skull collapsed.

Leonis rolled onto his side, only his legs still in the light. Lianshi, sucking in great, ragged heaves, took hold of Leonis’s feet and began dragging him into the light.

“Help, Scorio. Help!”

He flung away the corpse, climbed to all fours, and seized Leonis’s leg. Pulled. The man was impossibly heavy, but together they dragged him into the white islands of light.

Scorio almost wished they hadn’t.

Leonis lay with his lips pursed, jaw set, hand shoved hard into a deep wound in his neck. The blood pouring out between his fingers was so dark in the harsh illumination as to be nearly black, and quickly began to flood out across the pale stone.

“Oh no,” moaned Lianshi, letting go and sitting back on her heels. “Oh no, no no no.”

“I’m fine,” said Leonis. “Just need a moment. And…” For a few seconds, he lost focus, staring past Scorio, then came back to himself. “Just need a moment and a new neck.”

Scorio laughed helplessly. “I’d give you mine if I could.”

Leonis didn’t seem to be in pain. His face was weirdly swollen and pale. He considered Scorio, gaze steadfast, musing, then grimaced. “You know, I almost believe you. Nice of you to say.”

Emotion suddenly caused Scorio’s throat to close up, and he leaned over Leonis, a hand on his chest. “Don’t leave us, man. Come on. Please. Don’t go.”

“Apologies.” Leonis’s voice had grown thick, grown slurred. “Feeling… losing my… yeah. Words. Find that god, yeah? Kick it between…”

He blinked, slowed, stopped.

“Oh no,” sighed Scorio, sitting back. “Oh damn.”

Lianshi bit her lip, then pressed the back of her wrist tightly against her mouth.

For a moment they remained thus, then Leonis faded away and was gone, leaving a large pool of blood in his place.

Neither of them spoke. Scorio realized he’d completely let down his guard. If there had been a fourth of those imps, they’d have been history.

But there hadn’t been.

“Three of them,” he said, forcing himself to speak. “One for each of us.”

Lianshi stirred, dropped her hand to her lap. “You still think this is a test?”

“I’ve no clue. But that… the odds of that being a coincidence are small, don’t you think?”

“Your arms,” said Lianshi, reaching out but drawing back her fingers at the last moment. “This isn’t good.”

The imp’s talons had cut several deep lacerations in a crosshatching pattern from his wrist up to his elbow. Scorio regarded the wounds. He felt bemused, numb, as if his arms belonged to someone else.

“Hold on,” she said and shrugged out of her dark gray outer robe. Biting at the hem, she then tore a broad strip away with a yank. “Hold your arm out.”

Scorio did so, and watched, almost indifferent, as she bandaged him tightly. He couldn’t tell if it was expertly done, but she wrapped his arm with confidence.

“The other one,” she said.

“And you?”

She glanced down at her own arms, then gingerly touched her shoulder. “I’ll live a little longer. Let’s take care of you first.”

So he held out his other arm. She bandaged it like the first, tearing two more strips from her outer robe, till little was left behind but the short sleeves.

“Your turn,” he said. “Let me take a look.”

She grimaced, looked like she’d protest, then relented. The bright light helped. She’d been cut three times across the upper arm, each cut vicious, and had a dozen puncture wounds in an arc around her shoulder.

“It got a bite in,” she said, voice dull. “Before I yanked it away.”

He nodded and set to bandaging as best he could, removing his own outer robe to tear it apart when he ran out of material.

Finally, he was done. It was a poor job, but better than nothing. He considered asking her if she thought the talons and bites were venomous but decided there was no point. Grunting as he rose to his feet, he extended a hand. “Might as well continue.”

She took his hand this time, allowed him to haul her up. “Where do we go?”

Together they turned in slow circles, peering out into the darkness. They both saw it at once. A faint outline, rectangular, a dozen yards away.

“What do you think is in the next room?” asked Lianshi, walking beside him.

“Don’t think it matters too much,” he said. “We’re both in rough shape.”

“I can’t figure it out. Numbers at the base of the tombs. Only ours opening up. And then this series of rooms. Surprise bolts to the stomach. Then… what were those things?”

“Bastards?” he suggested.

“One for each of us. There’s something directing this. It doesn’t feel random.”

They stopped before the thin, chalky-white glow of the outline.

“But to what end?” asked Scorio, knowing there was no answer. “Just to torment us?”

“I wish I knew,” said Lianshi softly. “Shall we?”

“Yeah, why not.” He fumbled at the dark door, found the handle, and pulled it down. Taking a steadying breath, he then pulled it open to be greeted by a rectangle of pale, shimmering white light.

“I’m starting to sense a pattern here,” he said.

“Whoever runs this place, or designed it, doesn’t want us seeing into the next chamber,” she said. “It’s definitely starting to feel like a test.”

“Same as before? We step in, each move to the side to put the wall to our backs? You take the left, I’ll take the right?”

“Sure,” she said. Glancing behind them, she shuddered, then before Scorio could protest, she stepped into the shimmering light and was gone.

He bit back his annoyance, having planned to go first. He thought for a moment of Leonis, the large man’s grin, his steadying presence, and how quickly he’d come to count on his being there.

With a deep pang of regret, then a centering burn of cold rage, he stepped into the light.

Chapter 3

Scorio moved out and to the side, quickly as he could, and stared down a short, irregularly illuminated hallway that ended after some twenty yards in a blank wall.

There were no immediate signs of danger. Scorio glanced sidelong to make sure Lianshi was there, and she was, pressed hard against the wall, eyes wide, breathing deeply as she studied the space before them.

Which was… disorienting at first. A narrow path of fine gravel led from their door down the length of the hall, flanked on both sides by raised slate walkways, and passed through six bands of alternating light and darkness to end at a pair of steps. These rose to a miniature landing set against the far wall, where their exit would no doubt appear.

The illumination came from six transverse slits in the ceiling, one every three yards, each allowing a distinct wall of light to pour down the angled walls and across the floor, creating the glowing outline of a trapezoid. The hallway subtly narrowed as it progressed, so that each outline was smaller than the previous one. From Scorio’s perspective, the six trapezoids thus seemed nested, with the space between them lost in darkness.

“No monsters,” said Lianshi nervously.

“Not yet, at any rate,” agreed Scorio. “Odds are the door appears once we reach the far end. Which means we’ve got to get there.”

“Which means the place must be trapped.” She bit her lip as her brow furrowed. “The light, perhaps? Passing through it will kill us?”

“That’d be impossible to evade. But sure. It’s not like this place has been merciful thus far.” He glanced down. They stood on a duplicate of the far platform. The slate walkways were only a couple of feet wide. He relaxed, eased off the wall, and took a step forward.

Nothing happened.

Leaning down, he peered up at the first angled slit of light that crossed the ceiling. “Should we take the gravel path or one of the raised walkways?”

“Without any information, they’re both a valid choice. We can’t know which is best.”

Scorio lowered himself into an easy crouch, continuing to study the hallway. His arms throbbed painfully, a deep and insistent drain on his focus.

Lianshi joined him at the platform’s edge. “The walls. You see? They’re covered in thin tracings. Black lines.”

Scorio peered at where the closest band of light flooded down the angled wall to see that she was right. Curling incisions, thin as a spider thread. “How did you make that out?”

She shrugged. “You think that’s part of the trap?”

“Must be.”

For a moment they remained still, studying the dark hallway, the nested outlines of the receding trapezoids. The walkways at shin height above the neat central path.

“Perhaps we can just live on this platform forever,” said Lianshi. “If we don’t step forward, we won’t die.”

Scorio looked back and saw that the door was gone. Just smooth gray stone behind them. “An attractive plan. My company is its own reward. But…”

“Yeah,” sighed Lianshi. She’d been holding the last strip of outer robe in one hand, and now placed it between her teeth as she reached back to gather up her thick mane of hair. She twisted it expertly into a thick tail, then tied it off with the strip of cloth. Giving it a couple of yanks to make sure it was secure, she frowned at the hallway again. “Should we go at the same time?”

“I should go first. That way you can see what happens to me and learn from it.”

She leveled a flat stare at him. “Why should you go first?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Just feels right.”

She raised a finely arched eyebrow.

He considered. “Maybe I’m getting tired of seeing people die.”

“That I can understand. I say we go together. If there’s one trap, or enemy, that might increase the odds of our getting through.”

“All right. Why not? The walkways?”

“Sure. That gravel path looks too obvious.”

“The walkways, then.” He moved to the far right so that he’d be able to step down with ease. Flexed his fingers, which were growing stiff, the blood that coated them, sticky. Forced himself to ignore the pain that was growing ever more insistent along the length of his arms.

“You know,” began Lianshi, then hesitated. “Well, maybe you don’t. But several times while going through these rooms, I’ve done what Asha mentioned. Reached for something. Something within me. Like I expected something to be there.”

“Did you find something?”

“Nothing.” She frowned, plucked at the bandage around her left arm. “Have you felt that invisible breeze? Since the first time, I mean?”

“Haven’t thought about it.” He closed his eyes and focused, trying to sense it. The passage of that silent pressure, the swell of it moving around him, through him. For a second, he thought… but no. “Nothing.”

“I thought I did in the last room. But… I’m clearly just grasping at straws. Ready?”

He smiled at her. She looked nervous, blood smudged across one cheek, tall and gangly and young. “Hey. How old do you think Leonis was?”

She blinked. “At first, I thought he was older, but then I realized not. My age, perhaps? However old I am?”

“Same with Asha,” he said. “Same as me.”

“You’re right.” She bit her lower lip again. He was coming to recognize that habit. “I wonder if… never mind. But yes. Interesting.”

“Just a thought. We going to run?”

Her smile was grim, determined. “Like the wind. On the count of three?”

Scorio stared ahead. The walkway was but a couple of feet wide. Almost too narrow for a sprint. Almost. “On the count of three,” he agreed. “One.”

“Two,” she said, leaning forward, flipping her ponytail back over her shoulder.

“Three,” they said together, and burst forward.

Scorio leaped down to the walkway and plunged into the first band of brilliant light.

No pain. The light was harmless. But immediately he sensed movement, heard a metallic whisper, glimpsed something whipping out from the black slashes in the wall.

A gleam of steel, thin as paper, rippling fluidly as it curved out at him, slashing up in a great arc from the shins to the waist.

He hurled himself forward into a dive. Down into the dark, to hit the walkway roughly, crashing down over one shoulder and rolling up onto his feet, momentum carrying him forward and right into the next band of light before he could stop, could process what had just happened.

The black whisker-thin lines came to life as another blade was triggered. The urge to cross his arms before his face to block it was overwhelming, but instead, he dropped to his ass, falling backward to slide under the shelf of wicked steel that flashed out, nearly taking off his head.

He crashed down to the floor, slid out of the light, and cracked the back of his skull as he did so against the stone.

He lay there, dazed, then sat up, lost within the dark band between the second and third bright gashes of light. He blinked, then stared over to check on Lianshi.

She stood, hunched over, hand on the wall, having made it past the second band of light as well.

Something was wrong.

“Lianshi?”

No response. She was shuddering.

He swung his legs over the edge of the walkway and tried to stand. Only then did he see how the blood was soaking into the slashed fabric of his lower robe. Strange. He felt nothing. But the cut was deep, a diagonal incision down his calf.

“Lianshi!” This time his voice was a bark, demanding, refusing to let her just stand there like that, her braid slowly sliding, slowly sliding down her shoulder.

“Keep going,” she whispered, still not looking up. “Keep… going.”

He grimaced and forced himself to stand. His left leg felt as if it were stepping into a bucket of mud, sinking beneath him when he tried to put weight on it.

Nothing happened when he stepped onto the shadowed section of graveled path. He hobbled over to her, fighting the shock that was stealing over him, then paused, hesitant, before touching her shoulder.

She lifted her face at last, smiled bravely. She was so pale, her skin a bone-white blur in the dark. “Don’t… don’t think I’m going to get much further.”

Her hand was pressed futilely to her hip. Scorio couldn’t understand what he was looking at. Everything was red, the cut descending from just below her ribs straight into her pelvis.

He blanched, felt his bile rise up hot and thick.

There was no way he could bandage that.

Lianshi turned around, resting her full weight on her good leg, leaned back onto her shoulder blades, then slid down to the walkway.

Her wound gaped open.

“Don’t feel much,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

Tears burned his eyes. There was nothing to be said. No comfort he could give. This wound would claim her in a matter of moments.

“Keep going,” she said, voice low. “You can… make it. Stay on the walkway. I know…”

Her eyes rolled up and she leaned her head back.

“Lianshi,” he said, reaching down for her hand. All he could do was stand there, watching, waiting, as her breathing slowed and then stopped.

A moment later she disappeared, and he was left alone with the blood-soaked walkway.

He let out an explosive breath, almost a cry, and wheeled around to face the remaining four bands of light. The thin carvings that whorled across the walls.

The urge to just stride down the gravel path was overwhelming. But she’d told him to stick to the walkway. Why?

He stared blankly at the walls, and then realized. They’d each been attacked while running down, but only from one side. Perhaps moving down the gravel path would trigger both attacks at once.

Snarling against the pain, he hobbled back to his side and levered himself up, then bent over to examine his wound. It was deep. His thin boot was already soggy with blood. With a grunt, he tore a strip off his underrobe. Binding it around his calf as tightly as he could, he then straightened and stared right ahead.

The four trapezoids of light were pitiless.

And a deep resolve formed within him. A desire to get through this trap, to reach the far wall. To find out what lay beyond. To understand the logic of this place. Their imprisonment. To confront someone, anyone, and shove his fist as deep down their throat as he could manage.

He just had to get through the remaining four bands.

Carefully, he edged up to the next one and studied the black whorls. They interwove a complex path down the wall. If blades came out from every curve, he’d be cut into a hundred quivering chunks.

Turning, he studied the whorls through which he’d passed. Just as complex, but only a single blade had emerged.

Which meant not every black curve gave birth to a cut.

But how to guess which would?

He forced himself to breathe in deep, measured breaths. Then, on a hunch, following some blind instinct, he closed his eyes. Sought within himself. To reach for that emptiness he’d sensed before.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Lianshi shuddering against the wall, head bowed, propped up by one hand. Saw Leonis grinning at him in the burnished light of that amber beam, the warmth and easy sincerity of his expression. Asha as she’d lain on the floor, the bolt in her gut, her breath coming in ever slower hitches.

Come on, he thought. Come on. Whatever’s inside you, find it.

There. The impulse. Like turning in your sleep to reach for someone who has long been gone. The blind, native reflex.

But reach for what?

He tried to follow it. To go through with the motion, barely understanding what it was he was trying to accomplish.

To reach for something within himself. Something that should have been evident, should have been easy, something he felt he’d done a thousand times before.

Sweat ran down his face, dripping off his chin. He imagined his interior as a great dark space. And there, hanging in the center—what?

Again he felt that instinct, that reaching, and this time he thought he felt—or saw—a density. A mass. Cold. Ridged. A lump of something so dark it seemed to drink in the night.

Scorio realized he was holding his breath. He fought to stay focused a moment longer. To visualize this object, to see it with just a little more clarity.

His head was swimming, his mind feverish, but just before he let out an urgent gasp, he caught a flash, a sense of something the size of his fist, carved crudely from a black stone, all sharp edges and smooth, curved planes.

And then it was gone.

Scorio sagged against the wall, panting for breath. He was soaked through with sweat. His left foot was planted in a puddle of blood.

What had he seen? What was he supposed to do with a rock? Or the ghost of a rock? Confused, angry, he straightened.

He wished that Lianshi were still here so that he could share his discovery with her.

No matter.

He’d get past the blades the hard way.

The faster he was going, the less time he’d spend in the light. The smaller his profile as he ran through, the less surface area the blades had to hit.

Which meant his best bet was to dive through at a sprint.

He backed up as best he could against the second beam, took a deep breath, then burst forward, three long, limping strides and he dove, folding his bandaged arms against his chest, fists under his chin.

The black swirls came to life, a snicker-snack of living blades rippling with oily smoothness into the air.

He tucked his head, fell into a rough roll, the ground sweeping up and around to press him from his left shoulder to right hip, then he was up and diving again.

This time the blade was right there, flashing out just below his face, a startling split-second of death inches below him.

It passed under his chest and caught him down the thigh.

No roll this time. He just crashed full long onto the walkway, then slid off to fall on the gravel path.

Scorio hissed in pain, levered himself up, and saw that half an inch of flesh had been excised from the length of his thigh.

“Go,” he growled, knowing that if he stopped, if he stared any longer at his raw flesh, he’d freeze, sink into a stupor, and never get back up. Clenching his jaw against the pain, the perpetual flash of lightning that consumed his entire leg, he clawed his way upright, stood hunched for but a moment as he glared at the fifth trapezoid of light, then hurled himself forward.

He crashed through the light as one might through a window, a headlong collapse, and again blades whispered out.

He didn’t even feel where they cut him. He hit the ground, the wounds in his forearms exploding into pain, but though he screamed he kept going. Edged forward to the last trapezoid, the smallest.

Fixing his eyes on the steps leading up to the platform, like a worm he crawled into the light.

Wicked movement stirred above, and he got the impression of two saw blades blurring out, passing through each other in a great “X” cut, then retracting once more.

On he crawled, feeling as if he were stuck in a state of constant inhalation, and only when he was through did he allow himself to believe he’d actually made it.

But he couldn’t stop. Scorio toppled off the walkway to the gravel, and then, through sheer bloody-minded perseverance, dragged himself up the steps, his body aflame, the pain too generalized for him to tell where he was wounded.

When he placed a bloody hand on the platform, an outline of a door sprang to life as if painted across the wall by a thick, black-inked brush.

Growling continuously, legs no longer working, he hauled himself up, his vision narrowing to a slender tunnel. Across the platform, to press himself up and reach, straining, for the handle.

He grasped it just as he collapsed and yanked the door open as he fell. Beyond—black shimmering nothingness. A perfect rectangle of absolute ink.

For a moment Scorio just lay there, bleeding out.

He knew he’d not survive another room; he could barely cross this platform. But then he thought of his fallen companions.

For some perverse reason, he felt like he owed it to them to keep going.

So, with the very last dregs of his strength, he crawled forward and into the inky night.

Chapter 4

Another hallway. Empty, ending in another distant and dismally blank wall. Scorio blinked blearily, then rested his brow upon the stone floor and closed his eyes.

Another damn hallway.

It would be so easy to drift off. To rest. To lie to himself and say it was just for a moment, a blessed minute.

But he couldn’t.

Not knowing from where he summoned the strength, Scorio lifted his head and forced himself to study the corridor once more.

Nothing remarkable. Porous gray walls, as if carved through the heart of a mass of ashen coral. Smooth wooden floor. Recessed lights in the ceiling above, providing a general and pleasant, ambient illumination.

Where was the danger? No foes. No objects. No markings in the walls or ceiling. The lights? Would his death manifest as he made his way down the hall?

Dragged his way down the hall, he amended.

His mouth was parched. He’d have killed a dozen times over for a sip of water. With a grunt, he pulled himself forward, arm over arm, out onto the heavily polished wooden floor.

The wood was slick, smooth, and cool to the touch. Perfectly joined so that he’d not have been able to insert a nail between the seams.

But still, nothing happened.

On he crawled. The hallway was just twenty or so yards long. But in his current state, it felt a mile. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he was drenched in sweat.

Or maybe it was blood.

Or both. Probably both.

He managed two of his body lengths forward before almost blacking out. Stars danced before his eyes, his head spun, and he felt like he was going to vomit. But instead, he focused on his breathing, and the nausea passed.

On he crawled, then paused. Had the floor… moved? Frowning, he looked back and saw that the wooden boards now terminated a foot below the thin ledge that marked where the door had been.

He stared blankly, not knowing what to make of it, his thoughts sluggish. Had the ledge drifted up? Confused, he looked ahead. The end of the hallway still looked the same.

What he’d do for a glass of water.

He could barely think. Too much blood loss. Too much pain. And why waste time thinking? Not like there was anything he could do about any realizations he might have.

So he resumed crawling, dragging himself bodily along the wooden floor, and felt it shift again, growing steeper.

Definitely steeper.

With great effort, he looked behind him and saw that the ledge was now two feet above the wooden boards.

He crept forward again while looking behind him, and saw the floor descend slowly, at roughly the rate he was progressing.

Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he looked ahead. As steep as the hallway was becoming, it still terminated in the same blank expanse of wall.

But was it? Was the end of the hall moving up the inside of a wheel?

Dizzy, he shook the thought away.

Resumed crawling.

The hall grew steeper. By the time he reached the halfway mark, it felt like a forty-five-degree incline. He had to press his palms and fingers flat against the wood to keep traction, to resist the pull of gravity.

He looked back. A black rectangle a foot high had appeared just above the sharply inclined wooden boards.

A hole.

Despite the pain, despite the feverish delirium that was descending upon him, he felt a chill of panic.

A hole.

Desperate, he looked back up. Still a blank wall.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

“Where are you, Leonis?” His voice was little more than a croak. “Could use some encouragement right now.”

The sound of his voice only made him feel lonelier. He crawled forward a little more, felt the floor grow even steeper. Soon he’d have to start actively fighting the urge to slide back.

Deep breaths. He closed his eyes again, holding on tight. If he was going to die, it wouldn’t be sliding backward on his belly.

Scorio reached deep into himself, reached for strength, for resolve, the last vestiges of his willpower.

He saw again that hunk of obsidian, hanging in the center of his soul. For all the good it did him.

Then Scorio began to stand.

His legs shook like reeds in a storm. He had to climb up the wall, leaving dark blood marks on the gray stone. Hauling himself up, he gasped at the pain, vision doubling, until he stood hunched over, staring up the hallway.

Scorio’s lips writhed back from his teeth in a silent snarl. He pushed off the wall, fell into a totter, and tried to stagger up the incline.

It grew steeper, ever steeper as he stumbled up, reaching out with one hand as the far end of the hallway indeed scrolled up the inside of a subtly curved surface.

He made it two-thirds of the way before gravity won the battle.

He slipped, felt his center of gravity pass too far behind him, and fell.

He let out a harrowing cry as he fell backward, the distant wall flying away, and then, like hitting the surface of a black sea, he plunged into darkness, the hallway a rectangle of light that rapidly became smaller, smaller—

Then impact.

Sudden, vicious, and merciful.

A brief spasm of furious, impotent rage, and all went dark.

Chapter 5

Scorio blinked slowly, reflexively, and stared up, uncomprehending, at a vast and distant ceiling. There was noise all around him, but he focused on the huge dome that seemed to hover some two hundred feet above, ribbed and gilded with faded gold, its base resting on the apexes of four semi-domes, all punctured by narrow windows that allowed streams of syrupy golden light to sluice down through the dusty gloom.

It was beautiful. Surreal. Ethereal and light despite the massiveness of the architecture.

He blinked again, focus returning by slow degrees, an awareness of his body laid out upon a smooth, pebbled surface. The murmur of voices rising in consternation, a sense of a crowd all around him, filling the air beneath those heavenly domes.

He sat up. He’d been lying on a large bier, its beveled edges trimmed with dull gold, its surface patterned with gems and blue stones, across which swirled bands of silver. Around him, extending in concentric circles about the base of a spire, were hundreds more just like it, the narrow passages between each bier illuminated by a ghostly blue light.

Not hundreds. Thousands.

Most of them were bare, their glorious surfaces dusty and still. But hundreds more bore others like him, all of them young and dressed in plain, white robes girded with golden ropes. As one they were sitting up, gazing about themselves in confusion, some brows furrowed in anger, others in fear, a few in defiance.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t process what he was seeing. A moment ago he’d been falling, his body ruined, down an ever-steeper hallway, falling into the dark—

Scorio frowned at his hands. He turned them over, finding the whorls over his knuckles and the shapes of his fingers at once familiar and alien both. His hands.

He looked up his bare forearm, the swell of a strong bicep, and explored his body, a sense of dissonance filling him. No wounds, anywhere. Young, healthy, muscled, lean. No scars. No blood.

“Scorio?”

He looked over at the bier next to his and saw Lianshi staring at him, wide-eyed, dressed in the same white robes as everyone else. Her hair was tousled, her body without injury, her confusion writ large across her face.

“Lianshi,” he said, a wave of relief crashing over him at the sight of her. “I thought I was going mad.”

“What happened?” She slid over the edge of her bier into the blue-lit space between them, so that it looked like she stood hip-deep in swirling water. “I remember blades, that hallway, the bands of light… I told you to go on, but…?”

Scorio reached out to squeeze her shoulder, proving to himself that she was there, flesh and blood. Her eyes were glassy with tears, and she squeezed his wrist, her grip tight, desperate.

“I died,” he said, twisting about to take in more of the space. Vegetation climbed columns and spread across distant, upper balconies, as if this building had been partially reclaimed by the wilderness. The central spire rose a hundred feet right before them, a scepter whose peak was crowned with a gently pulsing gem of iridescent blue which dimmed, moment by moment, even as he studied it.

“In the same hallway?” she asked.

“The next one. I was cut up bad by the time I got into the next room, and the floor kept tilting up the farther I crawled. Ended up sliding all the way back and falling to my death.”

Lianshi shook her head in horror and wonder, but a joyous bellow startled them both. Turning, they saw Leonis heave himself off his bier one row behind them and approach, arms wide.

“You live! Better yet, I live! And we weren’t reborn into that infernal place!”

“Leonis!” Scorio grinned at the large man’s obvious delight.

“What did I miss?” Leonis stepped up to them both, placing an arm with easy familiarity around Lianshi’s angular shoulders before clapping his hand on Scorio’s knee. “What wonders, what pleasures? Was the next chamber a bathhouse, complete with willing servants ready to oil and massage us?”

“Something like that,” said Scorio, but the activity around them pulled his attention away. They weren’t the only newly born people to recognize each other—all across the jeweled biers, other reunions were taking place, many of them with similar joy and emotion. Hundreds upon hundreds of young men and women, their voices raised in wonder.

Lianshi had followed his gaze. “You think they all underwent a similar trial?”

“Where’s Asha?” Scorio cast about, then saw the woman with her saturnine features a dozen biers off to the left. He raised his hand in greeting, but she frowned and looked away.

“Some people take dying hard,” said Leonis. “Me? I find it strangely liberating. The worst part was being killed by odious little rat monsters. I can’t tell you how delighted I am it wasn’t permanent.”

“But where are we now?” asked Scorio, scanning the huge basilica. Their little group was located in the very center, at the base of the spire. Leaning sideways so that he could see past it, Scorio made out an ornate stage, thrusting its way from the far wall like the prow of a ship, sliding between the biers and interrupting the otherwise perfect circles they formed around the spire.

“There,” he said, pointing. “Those people look like they know what’s going on.”

The stage was flanked on both sides by statues thirty feet tall, hewn from pale marble, some bearing armor and arms, others clothed in flowing robes, all gazing down in adoration upon the crowd that stood on the stage.

A man stepped forward, arms extended as if to embrace them all. Being several hundred feet away, the details of his face were hard to make out, but he was clothed in heavy robes of a ceremonial cut, and on his head wore a large, scalloped hat that glittered with gems. In one hand he held a scabbarded blade, and in the other, a heavy shield embossed in gold.

“Welcome back, my friends.” By some trick of acoustics, his voice carried perfectly without the need to shout. It was the voice of an older man, rich and assured, the voice of a man accustomed to being listened to. “I am Pyre Lord Praximar, Chancellor of our fair Academy, and Autocrator of the House of Hydra. I know your fear, your doubts, your confusion, for twenty-three years ago they were my own. For you see, I, too, once awoke where you now lie, without a past, having gone through the Gauntlet, and burning with a need for answers.”

“The Gauntlet?” murmured Leonis. “That what it’s called?”

“But know peace!” The man raised the scabbarded blade and shield as if the sight of them would reassure the restive crowd. “These answers exist, and you’ll soon have them all. You have been reborn, by the grace of the power stored within the Archspire, and brought back to fight once more for the city of Bastion, to wage our eternal war against hell, and in doing so, serve and protect our distant homeworld. I know that you are overwhelmed. How could you not be? But this is not the first time you have been reborn. Nor the tenth, or hundredth. I myself have died and returned two hundred and three times.”

Lianshi covered her mouth in shock.

“Two hundred and three times have I awoken where you lie. Two hundred and three times it has felt like the first, a novel, terrible experience. Each time I have passed through the Gauntlet and died there, and each time I have awoken here. And two hundred and three times I have discovered that it was I that signed up for this fate, that consigned my soul to the Archspire, and that agreed to tie my cycle of rebirth to Bastion. Just, my friends, as you did, eight hundred and seventy-three years ago, when Bastion was founded.”

“Tell him to slow down,” said Leonis, pressing a hand to his brow. “That… that can’t be right.”

Scorio felt his soul tremble at the gulfs of time being revealed to him. He’d been at this for almost a thousand years? Stupefied, he could only stare as the distant figure lowered his arms and handed his sword and shield to an attendant.

“You have my boundless love and sympathy. In due time, you shall learn the whys and wheres, the hows and what fors of it all. You shall learn about yourself, for there are records and ways to determine your history. Many of you have kept journals over the centuries or left belongings and weapons in secure compartments for you to inherit once you are yourself again. Everything will be explained. But know this.”

The silence in the massive basilica ached. Each youth on their gem-encrusted bier leaned forward, eyes wide, listening, waiting, hungering for the chancellor’s next words.

Scorio leaned forward with them.

“Know, my friends, that you are special. You are part of a renowned company called the Great Souls, an elect group of heroes in whose breast beats an Igneous Heart. In time you shall set your Heart aflame once more, and when you do, you shall awaken great powers and abilities that will serve you in the coming wars. Abilities that will make the challenges you met in the Gauntlet seem insignificant!”

His words hung in the air, and Scorio thought he heard a deep longing, saw in the faces of the instructors and other people on the stage a wistful yearning.

The chancellor sighed and smiled. “Fear not. We shall guide you through this process, teach you how to harness your talents anew, and strive to set the wisdom accrued over the centuries at your service. You shall be taken care of, you shall be nurtured, guided, and taught everything you need to know. And I promise you, a day will come when you stand tall, yourselves once more, proud to be a Great Soul in the service of Bastion, proud of the contract you made with the Archspire, and ready once more to fight for humanity and destroy the very Pit of hell itself!”

The chancellor’s words rang across the basilica, and Scorio, despite his anger and resentment, thrilled at their promise. Great powers? An Igneous Heart? Was that the lump of obsidian he’d sensed within him at the last?

“But for now, let us deal in practicalities.” The chancellor’s tone became businesslike. “You entered the Gauntlet in groups of four and did your level best to progress as far as you could. This is an ancient test, and used to measure your current incarnation’s resolve, ability, and luck. Your progress has been recorded, from the astounding three Great Souls who made it into the fifth chamber down to each of you who died with an iron bolt to the chest.”

Scorio fought to keep his features hard, to betray no emotion, but couldn’t deny the shock—three people had made it past the tilting hallway? After passing through the hall of slashing blades? How was that even possible?

“Now! No matter how far you got, feel no shame. You attempted the Gauntlet without any of your native powers, so it was inevitable that you would die quickly and badly. Of the four hundred and twelve that entered, a hundred and seventy-five died to the bolt trap. So if your attempt ended there, comfort yourself with the fact that you are in good company.”

Scorio glanced back to where Asha sat on her bier, arms wrapped around her shins. She stared stonily forward, clearly not comforted by the chancellor’s words.

“Two hundred and thirty-seven of you progressed to the second chamber. I’ll have you know that’s where I myself died during my current incarnation. There another hundred and forty-eight perished, leaving only eighty-nine Great Souls to progress to the third trial. If you are one of those that entered the Hall of Blades, you should rightly feel proud.”

“I just feel nauseous,” muttered Lianshi.

Leonis rubbed his hand back and forth across his bearded chin. “That grates. I don’t recall my past, but I know I wasn’t used to losing.”

“It was because of you that we survived,” said Scorio firmly. “We’d have all died there without you.”

“Hmm.” Leonis considered. “Fair enough. I feel better.”

“The Hall of Blades claimed sixty-three lives. Even our best rarely make it beyond that fell room. But this time twenty-six of you managed to persevere against the odds. Just about six percent of all who entered the Gauntlet. Incredible. Well done.”

“How far did you both get?” murmured Leonis, glancing at them from under his bushy brows.

“That’s where I died,” whispered Lianshi. “Scorio got one further.”

“You did? Scrawny little guy like you?” Leonis pretended disbelief. “This world couldn’t be any more shocking.”

Scorio just shook his head ruefully.

“Normally my accounting ends here. The Chamber of Balance has historically felled everyone who enters its confines. But not this time. Three of you managed to pass through into the fifth chamber, where their journey came to a uniformly swift and very final end. Still, your instructors, the academy staff, and even myself are awed by this accomplishment. It has been twenty-seven years since an unpowered Great Soul, whom we commonly refer to as a ‘Char,’ has made it to the fifth chamber, and for three of you to do so is an incredible auspicious achievement. I look forward to meeting these three exemplars and learning which great heroes the Archspire has seen fit to return to our ranks.”

The chancellor linked his hands before him and beamed as the Great Souls turned to study each other.

“A final note before we introduce you to the Revelator. The Gauntlet serves as a gauge of your current power and progress. But this is not the only time you shall attempt to penetrate its depths. The next time, however, you shall be armed with powers and abilities that will tilt the odds in your favor. Of course, the rooms get progressively more difficult the deeper you go. For your personal accounting, you earn a point for each room you managed to enter. Thus three of you earned five points in all, while the twenty-three who died in the Chamber of Balance earned four, and so forth. There is also a team score, which is the average of all four entrants. Heroism is not measured only by selfish success—your team’s average will give us great insight into your ability to work with others.”

“So,” whispered Lianshi. “Four, seven, nine—we got ten divided by four as our team average. Two point five. Is that good?”

“Better than what I got,” said Leonis. “Not sure how seriously I’m going to take this grading system.”

“They make it sound like a game,” muttered Scorio, rubbing at his leg where the flesh of his thigh had been sheared off.

The chancellor spoke over the hubbub that had ensued. “Also, I am always asked by curious students as to the total number of points that may be earned, and the answer, as best we can determine, is a thousand four hundred and forty.”

“A thousand…” croaked Lianshi.

“I quit,” said Leonis, tone matter of fact.

Murmurs and groans had sounded from across the breadth of the crowd, which seemed to greatly amuse the chancellor, who raised his hands genially for silence. “Know that later rooms are worth incrementally more points. The first five you passed through are worth a single point, but the sixth through the tenth chamber are worth five each. The eleventh? Ten, and so forth, though the very last rooms break this formula. But no matter. All you need know is that you have begun your path toward greatness, and this first reckoning in the Gauntlet will be the yardstick by which you measure all your future growth.”

“Somebody do the math,” said Leonis to nobody in particular.

Scorio’s head was spinning. “So after all that, we only got three or four points out of over a thousand?”

“Leonis only got two points,” said Lianshi brightly, earning a glower from the large man.

The chancellor’s voice boomed forth once more, cutting through the many conversations that had begun. “The other reason to pass you through the Gauntlet is to determine how much of the power the Archspire harvested from your previous lives shall be apportioned to each of you. Each time a Great Soul dies, their soul is gathered by the Archspire and held until the annual reincarnation. A portion of that soul’s accumulated power is collected, then distributed to the new souls. The further you progressed in the Gauntlet, the more deserving you are seen to be, and the greater your head start at the beginning of your journey.”

“I knew it,” groaned Leonis. “I’m never helping anyone again.”

“But further, the Archspire will reveal information about your previous lives and your tenure in Bastion thus far.” The chancellor’s voice grew grave. “For many, this is the first and greatest moment of insight into the mysteries of their past that they shall receive. Approach the Archspire with reverence and gratitude, and prepare to learn something of your true nature.”

There was general movement as Great Souls began slipping off their biers and looking uncertainly toward the Archspire.

“We shall call you forth in descending order of success,” said the chancellor. “Pay attention. The information that shall be revealed over the next few hours is exceedingly valuable. What you learn about your peers may prove as important to your long-term survival as what you learn about yourself.”

“Mind if I join you?” asked Leonis, hiking himself up to sit on Scorio’s bier. “Given how low down the list I am, it’s clear I’m going to be waiting a while.”

There was ample room on the broad bier, even for a man Leonis’s size. Scorio frowned up at the Archspire, then back to the stage. He scrutinized the smiling chancellor and felt his anger deepen. “What you said before.”

“Hmm? What exactly?” Leonis was busy tearing a slender strip of cloth off the hem of his robe. “I said a lot of very interesting and important things.”

Lianshi rolled her eyes and pulled herself back up onto her bier to sit cross-legged, facing them. “I can tell that this new life is going to be very hard for you,” she said. “You’re in for some very cruel realizations.”

“What you said about not being sure about how seriously you’re going to take this whole system,” said Scorio. “That resonated with me.”

“I take it back, though,” said Leonis, tying his long hair off at the base of his skull. “Now that it seems points are connected to power, I’m quite invested in the system.”

The chancellor had left the stage and was leading a procession of notables to a smaller platform set before the Archspire, only a handful of yards from where Scorio and the others sat. They were going to get premium viewing of what was to take place.

“I don’t know,” murmured Scorio. “They’re portraying this like it was all some manner of friendly competition, but when I was in the Gauntlet, crawling up that tilting hallway... That emotion. The rage. The pain. The anger. I’m having trouble just laughing it off.”

Leonis frowned thoughtfully. “I… yes. I know what you mean.”

The chancellor gained the base of the steps to the second platform and climbed up with easy assurance, a confident, subtle smile on his lips. Tall, slender, with a broad face and expressive mouth, he wore his regalia as if born into it, at ease but not without a hint of pride. There was in his expression something warm yet condescending, thought Scorio, something overly familiar and haughty at the same time, as if he were doing the world an immense favor by being so accessible and friendly.

“Friends! Let us begin. No doubt you are all curious to learn the identities of the three Great Souls who penetrated into the fifth chamber! All deserve equal accolades, but they did not all die at the same time. And so we reward the Great Soul who not only made it the furthest, but survived the longest. Her loss last year during the Siege of LastRock was a terrible tragedy, and I speak for us all when I say it is an honor to have her back with us so quickly. None present are surprised that she made it as far as she did, given her illustrious history, devastating power, and the universal respect accorded to her by one and all. Please approach the Archspire, Jova Spike!”

Scorio saw that he wasn’t the only one searching the biers for the winner, but for long, confusing seconds nobody moved, nobody climbed down to make it obvious they were claiming the prize.

Just as Scorio was about to comment, a woman close to the back of the populated rows swung her legs over the edge and hopped down into the blue light. Even at this distance and with but a glance, Scorio found himself believing she could have made it that far. She was of medium height, her skin a light brown, with the black hair on one side of her head shorn close to the scalp, the rest long and flipped over to fall past her right shoulder. She moved with a panther-like intensity, frowning as she stared straight ahead, ignoring the stares, the attention.

Nobody spoke as she stalked her way toward the stage. She burned with a ferocious intensity, her brow furrowed, dark eyebrows lowered, mouth gathered into a frown.

“What’s she so upset about?” asked Leonis. “Was she hoping for a better prize than first place?”

“Maybe she didn’t want to be called out,” replied Lianshi, turning slowly to keep Jova in her line of sight as the other woman approached.

“Or maybe she’s just a private person,” continued Scorio. “Or maybe she’s just furious that all the pain and effort she suffered was just for a game.”

“Don’t think this is just a game,” whispered Lianshi, watching as Jova climbed the steps to stand beside the chancellor. “A trial, sure. But not a game.”

“It is an honor to address you once more, Jova, and to welcome you back to Bastion. I know you recall nothing of your immediate past, but everyone alive today remembers your meteoric rise to Charnel Duke, and how you helped LastRock withstand assault after assault over the past decade. Allow me to congratulate you on your remarkable Gauntlet run, and look forward to what you shall accomplish in this, your new life.” The chancellor beamed at the Great Soul, immune to her dark glower. “You will now receive the greatest portion of harvested power from the Archspire, and learn about your past. If you are ready, please approach and place your palm against the golden sigil that you can see here, behind me. The Archspire shall then reveal your full name, by what titles you were known when you originally consigned your soul to Bastion, the highest rank you have ever achieved during all your rebirths, and how many rebirths you have had. A lot to digest, I know, but I’m sure you won’t forget.”

Scorio leaned from one side to the other but didn’t have the right angle to see what the chancellor was indicating. Jova crossed to where the platform abutted the Archspire itself, then reached out to place her palm upon it.

The massive crystal at its apex glimmered as blue lights swirled beneath its facets, and Jova gasped, losing her irritated expression to stare upward in amazement.

A voice emanated from nowhere and everywhere, cool and calm and androgynous. “Jova Spike, once known as the Queen of the Crimson Coast, the Enduring, the Sovereign Light, and Avenger of the Lost Vale. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Imperator. It has been less than one year since you last died, and you have been reborn one hundred and sixty-three times since the founding of Bastion.”

“She is so amazing,” whispered Lianshi.

“Imperator?” Leonis glanced at Scorio. “What do you think that means?”

“No idea.”

The chancellor and several other officials had surrounded the dazed-looking Jova and were speaking earnestly to her.

Lianshi bit her lower lip, then gave a sharp shake of her head. “The chancellor made a big deal about being reborn two hundred and three times, correct? So is it more impressive that Jova has only been reborn a hundred and sixty-three times?”

“Maybe she just tends to live longer,” said Scorio.

“Or gets reborn less frequently,” said Leonis. “Otherwise why would they bother adding how long it’s been since she died?”

The chancellor patted Jova on the shoulder, ending their little conference, and she descended the steps pensively, her frown now one of mild confusion and wonder.

“In second place, if only by seven seconds, is our next Great Soul, who, let me remind you, still achieved the near-impossible by making it to the fifth chamber. Please approach the Archspire, Ravenna.”

This time the Great Soul was ready; the woman slipped down from her bier, chin raised, shoulders squared, and begin striding toward the front.

“She’s as intense as Jova,” muttered Leonis. “Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I’m too jovial.”

Ravenna’s hair was jet black, cut in rough bangs across her brow, short at the back and lengthening to follow the line of her chin. Pale-skinned, her blue eyes piercing, she had a set to her jaw which spoke volumes about her attitude. She, too, looked neither left nor right but moved forward as if alone, gaze fixed on the distant stage.

“No disrespect,” murmured Leonis, “but I was expecting one of the top two to be, well. Larger? Stronger?”

“More masculine?” prompted Lianshi, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s not unimaginable, yes,” protested Leonis.

Scorio watched Ravenna march up the steps, back straight, hands tightly fisted. “Think about it. After the imp test, you wouldn’t need strength or size. The Hall of Blades called for sharp perception, quick wits, and inhuman agility. If you got through it without being all cut up like I was, then perhaps you could just sprint up the tilting hallway and leap to reach the end, whatever that was.”

“Also, I’d put money on either of those women in a straight-up fight against you,” said Lianshi sweetly. “No offense.”

The chancellor beamed at Ravenna as she joined him on the stage. “Congratulations on your stunning achievement. Everything I said about Jova applies to you, for a mere seven seconds separated you from being called first. Please approach the Archspire, Ravenna, and place your hand on the golden sigil.”

Ravenna needed no further prompting. She stepped up smartly to the massive spire, looked up once, then placed her hand upon it.

Again the great gem at the apex came to life, blue lights swirling within it, growing faster and faster.

“Ravenna Accardi, once known as The Merciless, Destroyer of the White Tower, and Heiress of the Wind. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Charnel Duke. It has been three years since you last died, and you have been reborn one hundred and eighty-nine times since the founding of Bastion.”

“Charnel Duke,” said Lianshi. “Someone needs to tell us what these titles mean.”

Leonis scratched at his jaw. “Do you think it’s more or less impressive than an Imperator?”

Ravenna had staggered back a step, her face having turned bone-white, and was staring fixedly out at nothing as she was surrounded and spoken to by numerous officials.

“What are they saying to her?” wondered Scorio.

Lianshi shrugged one shoulder. “More congratulations?”

“No…” Scorio wished they were just a little closer so that they could hear. “They look too intent. Like they’re trying to convince her of something.”

“Or sell her something,” agreed Leonis. “While she’s bewildered and overwhelmed.”

Eventually, Ravenna descended the steps, looking as remote and thoughtful as Jova had, and the chancellor stepped forth once more.

Scorio felt flickers of anger burning within him. “You think they’d give them a chance to recover and gather their wits before cornering them like that.”

“The third and final Great Soul to make it into the fifth chamber deserves just as much respect and consideration as the first two. Demonstrating exemplary tenacity and grit, he is remembered with awe and admiration by all who knew him until his fall, five years ago, deep in the Telurian Band. Massamach, please approach the stage.”

The dark-skinned young man who descended from his bier was all that Leonis might have hoped for; he was massively built, his shoulders straining his white robe, his neck thick as a bull’s, his arms larger than Scorio’s thighs. Despite his bulk, he moved lightly on his feet, with great deliberation and precision, and in his watery blue eyes, Scorio saw the same intensity and thoughtfulness that had marked the first two winners.

Massamach ascended to the stage and there turned to consider the other Great Souls, brow furrowed, lips pursed, ignoring the chancellor who waxed on about his notoriety and martial feats during his past life. Instead, he scanned the faces below, seeming to be seeking someone, but when finally he was bid to place his hand on the Archspire, he seemed not to have found them.

Once more the great gem stirred to life, and once more that gentle voice spoke forth. “Massamach, once known as The Wise, King of the Jandites, Breaker of Shackles, Destroyer of Idols and Bringer of Light. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Crimson Earl. It has been six years since you last died, and you have been reborn one hundred and seventy-one times since the founding of Bastion.”

Massamach’s frame went rigid as the Archspire poured its power into him and when he drew his hand back, he studied his palm, as if a secret message had been inscribed there for his eyes alone.

“Here they go,” murmured Scorio as once more the notables on the stage closed around him. Massamach seemed to ignore them, but finally blinked, looked about, and then cocked his head to one side as first one and then the next sought to lecture him.

“Do you think each and every one of us has as heroic a past as these three?” asked Leonis quietly.

“If so, it must have been a large world to accommodate us all,” replied Lianshi. “How many kings and queens could there have been?”

“I wonder what caused such powerful people to agree to all this.” Scorio glanced about at the other seated Great Souls. “There are hundreds of us here, and we’re just the ones who died recently. How many more are out there, fighting this war?”

“And against whom?” asked Lianshi. “What happened, I wonder, that we’d all agree to this? When are they going to tell us?”

“Not for hours.” Leonis leaned back on his outstretched arms. “Not till we get through every title and accomplishment. Get comfortable. This is going to take a while.”

When Massamach regained his bier, the chancellor stepped forth once more to announce those who had reached the fourth chamber.

Despite his misgivings and anger, Scorio couldn’t deny a sense of excitement; how well had he done compared to the others? Twenty-three Great Souls had died in the tilting chamber. How much power would be accorded him? What would he learn at the foot of the Archspire?

First one, then a second, then a third Great Soul was called up. Scorio wasn’t in the top five, or the top ten. All had died within the last half-dozen years. Scorio schooled his features, aware of how his two companions kept glancing at him, and when his name was finally announced, he realized he’d come in eighteenth.

The chancellor by that point had greatly abbreviated his summons.

“The next Great Soul to have dared the Chamber of Balance and exemplified the best of you goes by the name of Scorio. Please approach the stage!”

Leonis clapped him on the shoulder as he slid off his bier, and Scorio felt his stomach tighten as he walked around to the front. He could feel hundreds scrutinizing him, the weight of their stares palpable, but like the others had done he ignored the attention and focused on climbing the steps.

Up close, the chancellor and the other notables were clearly a mixed group; half of them were older, some even elderly, while the other half could have been in their early thirties or mid-twenties. All, even the most genial, radiated a heavy sense of power and danger; it felt like stepping into the heart of a pack of apex predators. Scorio turned at the top to gaze out over the biers; what struck him was how many lay empty, the vast majority dusty and stretching out to the far walls of the basilica.

“Well done, young man,” said the chancellor, his voice breathy and warm. He put a hand on Scorio’s shoulder and beamed at him. “I look forward to learning more about your identity, and helping you choose which of the four Houses you might accept patronage from.”

Scorio made no comment but simply nodded, and now saw the golden symbol on which his predecessors had placed their palms. It was circular and inlaid directly into the Archspire, a complex interweaving of golden curves that could have been a maze. He was too excited, however, to pause and examine it further; the sole way of attaining control over his destiny was to accrue power, and this was obviously the quickest and most efficient means of his doing so.

Stepping up, chest tight, he raised his hand and placed it to the symbol.

The lines of gold were warm beneath his touch, and then seemed to fuse with his palm, the sensation strange, not uncomfortable, but a melding that he hadn’t expected. A thrill passed through him, a jolt that coursed from his feet to his scalp, then he sensed the Archspire before him, became physically aware of his vast extent, as if it had momentarily become part of his own sense of self.

And realized that it plunged deep into the ground; he felt its roots extending beneath the basilica, fanning out in dizzying complexity, burrowing through the rock and leaching something from the world, drawing sustenance from a vibrant, invisible force he couldn’t understand, couldn’t put a name to, but which he knew, on some basic, primal level, he understood—

“Welcome, Scorio, once known as The Scourer, Lord of Nagaran, Master of the Black Tower, The Bringer of Ash and Darkness, the Shadow of Spurn Harbor, the Abhorred, Quencher of Hope and Unmaker of Joy. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Blood Baron. It has been two hundred and thirty-three years since you last died, and you have been reborn six times since the founding of Bastion. You are Proscribed and belong on the Red List."

Before anything further could come from the Archspire, a hand seized him roughly by the shoulder and with unstoppable strength dragged him away.

Stunned, Scorio turned to stare at the notables, and the chancellor’s pallid face.

“Seize him,” said the chancellor, eyes wide with shock and anger. “Seize him and take him away.”

Chapter 6

Everything began happening too quickly and all around him. Scorio raised both hands and tried to shrug off the grip on his shoulder, but he might as well have tried to knock off his own arm.

The woman who had taken hold of him was imposing, her face strikingly handsome but now cast in an expression carved from granite. There was a self-possession in her gaze that clearly made her more than a simple brute.

“Wait,” said Scorio. “I don’t know what any of that meant!”

The chancellor’s stare was chilling; all humor and geniality had fled from his face. He raised his chin so he could stare at Scorio down the length of his aquiline nose. “Your statement is nuncupatory. The Archspire has told us enough. Instructor, please remove this… filth… to a holding cell below.”

“I’m not going to unleash any chaos or horror,” said Scorio, wrestling against the woman as she bent Scorio’s arm behind his back with irresistible strength. “Ease off!”

The chancellor had turned back to the crowd, however, and was now ignoring him utterly.

The instructor began to drag Scorio across the stage, the other notables having drawn back, eyes narrowed, most of them looking as if they’d just sucked on a putrid lemon.

“Get off me,” barked Scorio, but his arm was wrenched to such a degree that he had to tiptoe across the stage, his back arching painfully to avoid having his shoulder completely dislocated.

The Great Souls below were alert; many had stood, faces tense with confusion and shock.

Scorio saw Leonis striding toward the stage, Lianshi in his shadow. “What’s going on?” shouted the large man, his voice surprisingly authoritative and demanding. “There’s been a mistake. Let him go.”

Even as gratitude blossomed in Scorio’s chest, he knew it would do no good. A slender man with a shock of black hair, clad in the gray robes of the instructors, leaped down off the stage to land lightly before Leonis and Lianshi, his manner cold, calm, professional.

“Sit back down, brother,” he said. “This isn’t your concern.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Leonis, tracking Scorio as he was marched down the steps. “Step aside, my friend.”

Scorio’s mind raced. Frustration, horror, embarrassment—all of these emotions burned within him but were obscured by his growing rage.

“I didn’t do anything,” he growled over his shoulder.

“Even so,” said woman, voice matter of fact.

Her grip was expert, her strength and leverage unbreakable. Scorio tried to jerk free and felt the woman’s grip on his wrist tighten, the bones therein grinding against each other.

Scorio hissed in pain and was forced to keep walking. Forced up onto the balls of his feet, so that he couldn’t even bring his heel down in a stomp on the woman’s foot. Couldn’t twist around to drive an elbow at her face.

Nothing.

“Scorio!” shouted Leonis.

He cast a look back at his friends just as Leonis stepped forward, looking to press the poised instructor back. Who simply stood firm, as immovable as the Archspire.

Lianshi, however, had ducked down and run around the biers to come around and emerge in the channel before him. She straightened, expression wild, tall and gangly, unsure but clearly trying to think of a plan.

“Step aside,” said the woman escorting him, voice confident but edged with a threat. “There is nothing you can do to stop this.”

“Still have to try,” said Lianshi, and Scorio’s heart swelled in response.

“I applaud your loyalty, but it’s misplaced.” The woman didn’t slow down. “Last chance to step aside.”

Lianshi settled herself into a combat stance, legs bending, fists raised, moving to stand in a three-quarters profile.

The instructor released her grip on Scorio’s shoulder and extended her hand toward Lianshi.

She immediately withered, collapsing to the ground as if under immense pressure, shaking and fighting the whole way till she was pressed to the ground under an invisible load.

“Lianshi!” bellowed Scorio, and he flailed, fought to break free, and felt something tear in his shoulder as the instructor maintained her grip.

“Relax,” said the imperious instructor. “She’ll be fine.”

“What did you do to her?” barked Scorio, sweat prickling his brow from the pain that was shooting down his arm and into his back.

“You’ll never have the chance to learn,” said the instructor.

On they marched. The Great Souls were watching him pass, expressions ranging from alarmed to inscrutable, but nobody else moved to help him.

“My apologies, everyone,” called the chancellor, tone affable once more. “This happens but rarely, and when it does it’s best to move quickly and remove the stain. The odds of another Red Listed soul appearing amongst you is vanishingly small, so please, relax. You have nothing to worry about. In due time you’ll learn about what just took place, and the necessity of our actions, but for now, let us remain focused on the Revelator and your own successes. Now, the next worthy soul who managed to enter the Chamber of Balance…”

Accepting that he couldn’t break free from the woman’s grip, Scorio did his best to avoid wrenching his shoulder further. On they marched, to the basilica’s far side, and then into a colonnaded walkway that encircled the floor. Vines and greenery clothed the cream-colored rock, and the shadows were cool and damp.

They passed into a large hallway, tall enough for giants to march down, one side lined with ancient banners and tapestries, the other open to an old courtyard with uneven pavers and a resplendent tree growing from an earthen well in its center, all of it bathed in syrupy amber light from above.

“Tell me where we’re going,” asked Scorio.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“This Red List, what is it? You can tell me that much?”

“I could,” said the other. “But I won’t. Now be quiet or I’ll break your arm.”

Something about the instructor’s tone convinced Scorio she wasn’t bluffing, so he clenched his jaw and decided to wait for an opportunity to break free.

They turned off the walkway into another hallway, and passed numerous doors till they reached a broad stairwell. A couple of men stood at attention there, clad in rose- and gray-colored robes, and Scorio saw their eyes widen when they caught sight of him.

No, he realized, at the sight of the woman escorting him.

“Easy, men,” said the instructor, tone suddenly strangely playful. “This poor bastard is on the Red List.”

Both drew back as if Scorio had suddenly started venting bilious green fumes.

“Can we be of assistance, Instructor Helminth?” asked one.

“I think I can handle a Char,” she replied and escorted him down the steps.

The steps descended for a while before leveling out. Below, the air was as cool and damp as it had been in the shadows of the basilica; the occasional half-orb of illuminated glass projected from the wall and gave a soft, lambent glow to the stark hall.

On they marched, through intersections, past closed wooden doors bound in black iron, then descended a second set of steps into the bowels of the earth.

Scorio felt a helpless panic threatening to sweep through him, a furious sense of outrage. “I didn’t do anything.” His words sounded pathetic in his own ears. “How can I be punished for things I’ve no memory of?”

“First thing you learn,” said the woman, tone almost sympathetic, “is that nothing’s fair about this world. Here we are.”

They turned off into a new hallway, startling two new guards who leaped from their seats to salute the instructor. The hall’s length was lined with ponderous metal doors. Each looked absurdly reinforced and strong, and when an attendant guard rushed to open one, Scorio saw that the metal was easily over an inch thick.

Helminth marched him into the square chamber. Scorio thought she might release him, but she walked him right to the wall where she finally released his arm and spun him about, shoving him hard in the chest so that he fell back against the stone.

Efficiently, handling him as if he were a child, she raised first one wrist, then the second, and clamped them in manacles bolted to the wall. The very act of having his shoulder wrenched up brought tears to Scorio’s eyes; the joint had become numb, and pain radiated out from it in every direction. He felt manacles close about his ankles and realized he was completely bound.

“There.” She stepped back and wiped her hands with distaste. She scrutinized his bindings as if seeking some fault, then gave him a reluctant nod. “Would that this were otherwise.”

Scorio wanted to beseech her, ask her to stay, to answer a question, any question, but the hard glint in her brown eyes stopped his tongue. He straightened where he stood and just glared at her.

No more words. A final, cursory look up and down his body, then she turned and left the chamber.

The heavy iron door swung closed behind her, plunging him into darkness.

Scorio stood still, breathing harshly, mind reeling. What had just happened? It didn’t make sense. A Red List? He was Proscribed? By whom? For what? Had he done something in the Gauntlet he shouldn’t have? Was it his anger at being so manipulated? No, there had to be other Great Souls who were that resentful. Then what?

No answers were forthcoming. He couldn’t resist straining against the bindings, not because he thought he might escape, but because he had nothing else to do. When he finally desisted, he leaned back against the wall and listened.

Nothing.

The walls were too thick.

Time became meaningless. With no memories beyond what had happened in the Gauntlet, he played those moments over again and again. Thought on everything the chancellor had said above, searched for some clue, some way to understand what had befallen him.

Nothing made sense.

Perhaps hours later, he finally heard footsteps. The large lock slid back in the door, and light flooded into the chamber as the chancellor entered the room.

Gone was his ceremonial clothing, his bejeweled hat, his heavy robes and marks of office. Now he wore a severe set of black robes, belted at the waist with a cord of gold. A second man entered next, holding a lantern which he set upon the floor. This man was subtly deferential to the chancellor, dressed in simpler white robes, his face ascetic, his lipless mouth pursed.

Scorio’s gut churned; he wanted to lean forward, to immediately start asking questions, but instead, he bit his tongue.

The man in white spoke. “Scorio, once known as The Scourer, Lord of Nagaran, Master of the Black Tower, The Bringer of Ash and Darkness, the Shadow of Spurn Harbor, the Abhorred, Quencher of Hope and Unmaker of Joy.”

Was it a question? Scorio glanced from the speaker to the chancellor, who stood with an expression of severe distaste. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

“Of course you don’t,” said the man in white, his voice nasal, grating. “How could you? It matters not. You are marked as Proscribed and have been set down on the Red List for heinous actions against Bastion, the Archspire, the collected Great Souls, and our hopes to return to Ettera. For that, you are condemned to be cast through the Final Door.”

Scorio looked wildly from one man to the other. “How can I be punished for what I didn’t do?”

“Easily,” said the man in white, his lips carving themselves up into a smile. “The seeds of sins past ride upon the soul and never fail to bloom. It takes particularly terrible crimes to make the Red List, and given your titles, you must have accomplished them without much effort.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Scorio, jerking at his manacles. “Release me. Now!”

“You poor, pathetic beast,” said the chancellor, breaking his silence at last. “You are in no position to make demands. Already you have taken far too much of my time, alarmed the other Great Souls needlessly, and now you make spurious demands?” The cold disgust in the chancellor’s voice froze Scorio where he stood. “You are nothing more than an obligatory duty that I must execute. A problem just begging to be nipped in the bud. Your spirit is filth. Your mind will inexorably tend towards violence and depravity. A beast that must be put down before it can spread its spiritual disease.”

These words were spoken without emotion. Cold, clinical, and utterly with mercy, the chancellor stared at him from under half-lidded eyes.

“There’s been a mistake,” Scorio heard himself say faintly. “This can’t be right.”

“But it is. Great Souls like you are the reason we’ve yet to anoint an Infernarch. That we’ve failed to realize our destiny, and sacrificed in vain for almost a thousand years. Your crimes, if I could be bothered to look them up, would no doubt surprise even my jaded mind.”

Scorio sagged back against the wall, a terrible pressure building in his chest that made it hard to breathe. He could feel the burn of bile in the back of his throat, and stared, transfixed, at the older man.

“I simply hope that you haven’t already corrupted those poor souls who joined you in your Gauntlet run. I’ll have to watch them carefully for signs of… weakness. But you? Filthy, wretched, traitorous scum that you are?”

And with that the chancellor stepped forward, palm outstretched.

Scorio wrenched himself back, from one side to the other, but he couldn’t get away.

“You will pay for inconveniencing me.” The chancellor’s voice grew soft as he placed his hand upon Scorio’s chest.

“Get off!” shouted Scorio, thrashing again. “Get your hand off me!”

“Hmm.” The chancellor closed his eyes, his brow furrowing, and a slight smile appeared on his lips. “Let us see… there it is.”

And without warning, Scorio felt shards of pain tear through his chest, as if he’d birthed ragged knives of crude iron in his heart. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so intense that he could only let out a strange wheezing gasp as his every muscle spasmed.

Something precious flowed out of him, a source of vitality, a power, he didn’t know what—but it flowed from him, and in his mind’s eye, he saw that ragged chunk of black stone once more, saw streams of crimson light pour from its facets and into the chancellor’s palm.

The moment was infinite while it lasted, and when the chancellor at last removed his hand, he dropped, knees giving way, to hang from his wrists, head low, gasping in horror. It felt as if the chancellor had taken a razor to the inside of his skin and scraped every ounce of flesh away, had sucked the marrow right out of his bones, had violated him in a way he couldn’t even understand.

“There,” said the chancellor, stepping back and drawing in a shuddering breath. “I shall take that as payment for the inconvenience you’ve imposed upon me.”

Scorio could only fight for breath; his strength fled from him, his body grew cold as if he’d been held in icy water for an hour.

“Compose yourself,” snapped the man in white. “Try and meet your end with just a little dignity.”

“Have him cast through the Final Door,” said Praximar, smoothing down his black robes. “I shall ascend to my quarters and cleanse myself. Report back when you are done, Petros.”

“Yes, Chancellor.” The man in white bowed his head reverently as the chancellor made his way out, and once he was gone barked out with curt impatience, “Guards, toss this filth through the Final Door. Be wary. He placed eighteenth out of this year’s incarnates, so don’t take any chances, even if he’s mewling like a wretch now.”

And with that, he strode out of the holding cell.

Both guards entered right after, their expressions hard. “All right, Red List,” said one of the men. “Let’s get this done.”

Scorio’s mind felt shattered. His core, some place deeper even than his beating Heart, felt ravaged and bereft. He tried to raise his head, but it was all he could do to glower at both men through his own hair.

They released him from the manacles and half-dragged him out into the hallway. Back to the stairway and then down again they went, both men impossibly strong, almost carrying him between them so that his feet barely touched the ground.

Down they went, the stairs seeming interminable, down into the darkness, the orbs of light growing rare, so that they passed through seas of darkness between the occasional island of light. Down, down, until at last, they stepped out into a crude corridor that led to a massive iron door.

“Wait,” rasped Scorio, the sight of the doorway sending a cold bolt of fear into his innards. “Tell me what’s going to happen. What’s on the other side?”

“You’re about to find out,” said one of the guards. “That’s the Final Door. Once you go through it, you never come back out. If it’s of any comfort, you won’t last long. Nobody does.”

“Damn you!” His cry echoed off the walls, and now he did buck and kick, hauling at his arms with everything he had.

It was like trying to pull iron spikes out of stone. His strength was completely gone, and the little resistance he managed made him want to vomit.

The rusted door was ponderous, massive, and gave a sense of crude strength. Its surface depicted interlacing bands as tall as Scorio’s hand, as if some impossible weaver had knitted the door together, under and over, again and again.

One of the guards clamped a hand around his neck and drove him to his knees while the second approached the door, drawing a massive, golden key from under his robe. There was no keyhole, but the guard simply pressed the head of the key to a shallow rectangular groove in the door’s surface.

Immediately the outlines of every band glowed red as if an inner furnace had been lit, and the door swung outward, exhaling a great breath of musty, mineral dampness and rot.

Scorio stared at the darkness beyond. For a moment he’d thought it was like the Gauntlet, a magical wall he’d have to pass through, a portal perhaps to another location, but no—it was just a cavern on the far side, lit only by the faint light stemming from the hallway.

There was no point in arguing further. No point in proclaiming his innocence. All he could do was struggle futilely as the guards picked him up and dragged him to the open door. Struggle and kick and grunt as they lifted him and hurled him into the darkness.

He fell hard, crashing down onto his side, but with supreme effort turned and began crawling back toward the door.

He was too late.

It swung closed with a slam that shook the ground and caused dust to fall from the hidden ceiling above.

Scorio fell against it, pressed his brow and palms to the pitted surface. “Damn you!” He hammered his fist against the door. “Damn you all!”

No sound filtered through. No distant echo of footsteps retreating, nothing.

The only sound in the silence was his harsh, ragged breathing, and the booming beat of his heart.

“Damn it,” he whispered, turning around and sitting against the door. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared out into the darkness. He’d caught a glimpse of a cavern, large but not impossibly so. Large enough not to echo, at any rate. But with the door closed, he couldn’t even make out his own body.

Scorio’s mind raced even as his soul ached. Those indolent moments spent on the bier with Leonis and Lianshi seemed a vanishing dream sandwiched between the horrors of the Gauntlet and the anguish of the holding cell. Would his friends come for him? They’d tried to intervene. Or would they give him up for lost? Even if they wanted to help, would they be able to find a way to open this door, to pass those guards? Not at their current level of strength. That instructor alone would have no trouble stopping them cold.

Perhaps when they gained some power, then.

The hope felt faint even to Scorio.

He sat there, brooding and shivering, staring out at nothing, not thinking, just turning his rage over and over as if it were an object he held in his hands.

A Red Lister. A villain. Scorio the Scourer. What else had he been called? The Abhorred? Bringer of Ash and Darkness? He frowned, considered. Did he have it within him to earn such titles? Be called the Quencher of Hope and whatever else?

A deep, fundamental part of his spirit rejected the very idea. No. There had to be a mistake. Especially when you considered the other information the Archspire had revealed. He’d not reincarnated in two hundred years? What was that about? And only six total incarnations?

It was all off. How could nobody else see that? There had to have been a mistake. Every one of the other seventeen Great Souls had all died within the last six years. Been reincarnated over a hundred times.

It made no sense.

He grimaced, fighting to control his anger, to keep it locked down, but he couldn’t—he let out a bark of fury and pounded his elbow into the door.

The damn thing was so heavy, it didn’t even shiver.

Fine. If they wanted to create an enemy, they were on the right track. Slowly he levered himself back up to his feet and stood, irresolute, staring out into the darkness. Whatever the chancellor had done to him had sapped Scorio of his strength, and on some deeper, more profound level, of his vitality. He felt not just weak, but delicate; the cold seeped into his flesh, and he couldn’t stop shaking.

But he wouldn’t just sit here moping. The first order of business was to explore this cavern and see if there were any exits.

Reaching out with his hand, he pressed his fingertips to the door and began walking to the left, brushing the wall as he went. His steps were slow, hesitant. The ground was rough, with natural dips and the occasional chunk of rock waiting to catch his boots. More than once, he tripped and crashed down to his knees. The wall itself undulated as it went, bowing in then falling away, but slowly it curved around.

He forced himself to breathe quietly. To listen. But all was silent.

The wall suddenly disappeared. He froze, groped around, found a corner, paused again. A tunnel? And if it was? Should he follow it, or keep going around the cavern?

He’d follow it. Keep taking every left he came upon.

Heartened by his own plan, he set off down the tunnel, which proved narrow enough that he could reach out with his other arm and touch the far wall. It meandered, turning back and forth so that he soon lost all sense of direction. The air tasted stale. The walls began to close in, and before long he was insinuating himself ever deeper into a crack, turning sideways, the rocky walls rubbing against his chest and back.

Another dozen paces and he stopped. There was still a way forward, but he’d have to really wedge himself in there to keep going. And if he got stuck?

Heart hammering, he considered.

No. He’d see if there were any other options before forcing his way farther. The thought of getting trapped, held tight in a claustrophobic and absolutely dark space, was too grim to imagine.

Back he went, hand on the other wall now, only to find another tunnel splitting off from the first. He went down it, jaw set, staring balefully out at nothing.

The act of walking soon became monotonous—the turns of the tunnel, the occasional opening.

His mind began to wander, to consider everything he could remember. He played the events in the Gauntlet over in his mind. Asha’s death. The nature of each chamber. Lianshi’s wry smile. Awakening in the basilica. The chancellor’s words. The information he’d imparted.

Scorio stopped, still lost in complete darkness. Was there anything he’d learned that he could use now? An Igneous Heart. The chancellor had to have been referring to the block of black stone he’d sensed before. He’d spoken about lighting it, and upon doing so discovering his powers.

Scorio sat down, brow gelid with sweat, back to the rough stone wall, and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, then slowly released his breath. Igneous Heart. His Igneous Heart. All right. Time to try and set it on fire.

But his focus kept slipping away. Whatever the chancellor had done to him seemed to have banished that floating chunk of black rock. All Scorio could feel now was a dull, throbbing ache within his soul.

Had the bastard consumed his Heart?

Scorio dismissed the thought before the anger and fear could consume him.

If he was so dangerous, why hadn’t they just killed him? Why give him the chance to wander around down here?

Was there some kind of monster in here that they fed with Red Listers to? Or were they too high and mighty to deign to kill him themselves?

Scorio frowned and tried to focus again. The Igneous Heart. He tried to visualize it. To picture it hanging within his chest, dark and gleaming, vitreous and sharp-edged.

Almost… he felt it just outside his reach, but each time he thought he was getting close, it slipped away, and the pain in his core would redouble, till he was left bent over and wheezing, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose and soaking into his robes.

Eventually, he sighed in disgust and climbed to his feet.

Which way had he been going? For a second, he hesitated, then clamped down on his fear. That way.

On he walked. Tunnels dead-ended, others grew too narrow, a few plunged too precipitously into the ground for him to follow without falling. Occasional cracks opened treacherously underfoot, so that he nearly plunged into them before catching himself, and he soon adopted a gliding step to avoid further perils.

How long had been down here? An hour? Three? His throat was growing dry. The air was damp, which meant there should be some water around here somewhere, but everything he touched was gritty and slick. No puddles underfoot.

Nothing but the need to go on.

One by one every tunnel ended in some fashion or another until at last, he emerged into what he thought might be a cavern but which a few cautious steps revealed to be a wider tunnel. He kicked some manner of light branch that rolled away from him, and thoughts of creating a torch danced in his mind. He dropped to his knees and groped around till his hand closed over it.

Not a branch. Too smooth, with a slight curvature to its length, porous, and ending in a strangely knobby protrusion.

Bone, he realized, and dropped it quickly, skittering back to the wall.

Made sense. Made sense that he’d come across the corpses of other Red Listers down here. It was called the Final Door for a reason, right? They wouldn’t call it that if everyone escaped.

To be expected, really. Nothing to get excited about.

Scorio didn’t know for how long he sat there, fighting to control his emotions, but eventually, he stood, breath shaky, and resumed walking the perimeter. The tunnel grew broader, or so he thought from the subtle echoes, and then opened up into a large cavern or the like.

Scorio stopped. He could hear a distant, thready sound. The wind? It was constant, a susurrus that seemed more echo than anything else.

An underground river?

Moving quickly now, he continued along the wall and passed a tunnel mouth in order to keep moving in the sound’s direction. He accidentally kicked his way through another mass of bones but pressed on, determined.

The ground began to slope down, and the wall grew ever damper. Was that a light ahead? No, his eyes were playing tricks on him. On he walked, struggling to maintain his caution, then decided that there was a light ahead, a vague, bluish glow that looked like a cloud.

He moved faster, striding now, breathing powerfully, until at last the wall ended and he stood upon the rounded stone banks of a stream, rushing past under the soft, cerulean glow of moss that grew across the ceiling.

Scorio wanted to rush forward, drop to his knees on the wet stone bank, and drink deep of that rushing water, but forced himself to hang back. That Gauntlet had taught him that much. So he waited, listened, and to looked around.

The river was less than a yard wide and ran along a channel it had carved into the pale rock. It looked to have been larger once, for it had carved a broad tunnel that intersected with Scorio’s—or perhaps it was prone to flooding. There was a high ledge on the far side, with what looked like a trail leading up from the far bank along the steep wall to it, though perhaps that was fanciful thinking on his side.

No movement. The light from the moss was constant and soft, a gentle, candlelight glow that caused the wet rock to glimmer with star-like flecks. For how long would the moss glow if he harvested some?

Then he saw that someone had obviously thought along the same lines, for the moss along the upper end of the river was scraped down to the rock, revealing flaking dirt and ashen strands of roots.

Other people, perhaps? Or the grazing of some chthonic beast?

Scorio licked his dry lips. Edged forward, moving carefully on the slick rock. The ground sloped down treacherously, and soon he was forced to sit and slide forward, bracing himself on the occasional bulge of stone.

Again he paused and scrutinized the shadows. No movement. Nothing from the shadowed region above the ledge. Looking up and down the narrow river, he saw that it curved out of sight in both directions after only a dozen or so yards, the blue moss continuing to grow in a thick canopy above it.

He wished Leonis and Lianshi were here, then smiled ruefully. Would a good friend wish his comrades imprisoned with him? Probably not.

He reached down to the fast-flowing stream and cupped his hand in the frigid current.

A strand of white cord burst from the water and wrapped around his wrist a half-dozen times, squeezing so tightly that he felt his skin split. Scorio let out a cry of shock as his arm was hauled down toward the current, where he saw a mass of webbing begin to shift and unfurl, detaching from the rocks and rising toward the surface.

Grunting, he pulled his arm back, but then his braced foot slipped off the damp rock and plunged into the water to the knee, immediately snagged by three more milky-white tendrils that wrapped cruelly about it.

Panicking, Scorio yanked at his arm and reached back with his free hand to clutch at another bulge of rock, but failed to find purchase. The tendrils began pulling him into the water, their strength tenacious, each strangely muscular and elastic, so that they gave a little when he pulled, then tightened again the moment he ceased.

He wasn’t going to get out of this by strength alone.

Turning back to the water, he anxiously studied the mercurial surface. Shadows played just beneath the surface. Did this thing have a body? A head? Was it just a mass of decentralized tendrils?

A dozen more burst out of the river to lash around his upper thigh and waist.

Gasping, the freezing water numbing his leg, he lost purchase with his other foot and slid all the way in, the current strong enough that his feet had trouble finding the bottom of the river. Floundering, cursing, he struggled against both the tendrils and fast-flowing water, and pushed away from the bank to stand knee-deep in the middle, his weight helping him plant his feet.

The tendrils were cutting into his flesh, tightening like garottes. Scorio heaved back on them, saw those attached to his arm grow thin against the tension, then reached down swiftly to grasp them in his fist and keep on hauling.

Another half-dozen lashed up out of the water, flinging spray, and one of them wrapped around his neck, or tried to—he dropped his chin just in time to catch it, and immediately felt its abrasive edge cut through his skin.

His anger, which had been momentarily displaced by his panic, came roaring back. He released the tendrils and plunged both hands into the stream, following the tendrils down, dropping to one knee as he did so that the water began to crash about his waist. He felt something rough and soft, like a sponge wrapped in sandpaper, and wrested it out of the water.

He couldn’t tell what he was holding, but it was horrific. It split in two, opening a mouth that was lined with thousands of slender needles, and let out a hissing, gurgling screech as it began to contract its tendrils, trying to bring its nearly translucent and bloated sack-like body closer to Scorio’s face.

No eyes. No features. Just a gelatinous mass that was all mouth and stomach.

Scorio tried to adjust his weight, lost his balance in the current, and fell into the water. He sought to bury his thumbs into its body, to pierce the slick surface, to tear it apart.

But the skin was surprisingly thick, and there was no internal resistance against which he could work. The water washed over his head, and he felt the tendrils binding his limbs together, pulling his legs tight, bringing his elbows to his ribs.

Still, he squeezed, then in a fit of abandon, he shoved a hand into that gaping mouth to crush its innards from within.

The creature spasmed and released him, the tendrils all uncurling at once, but still, Scorio kept kneading and pounding at it. Hundreds of needle-like teeth sank into his wrist as it bit at him, but he refused to stop, a perverse, bloody-minded desire filling him, controlling him.

Gasping, he brought his head above the water level. He floundered some more, finally wedged his legs, and stood. The gelatinous mass in his hand had gone still, its formerly clear interior now a clouded mass, with what looked like hundreds of slender threads hanging from its side into the water.

Shivering, Scorio used his free hand to peel its mouth open, the needles sliding free from his wrist, and was about to hurl the monster away in fury when he stopped.

He’d not come across anything else he could eat.

The thought turned his stomach, but before he could change his mind, he threw the sickening object up onto the bank. He stared mutely at his wrist. A perfect bracelet of holes went all the way round, blood welling up continuously.

Not knowing if it was the right thing to do, he put his hand into the freezing river and held it there for a spell, then clambered out, sat on the silty bank, and tore a strip off his white robe.

Doing so brought memories of the Gauntlet back, of Lianshi, and his very being seemed to quiver with a pang of loneliness.

Carefully, using his teeth as much as his fingers, he wrapped the wound tightly and tied it off, then sat there staring at the rushing water.

Were there more of those monsters? Would getting a drink always prove to be as perilous?

For a while he sat, as if in a stupor, staring at the swift-flowing water, then he recalled, as if it were an academic footnote, that he’d come here to drink. He edged down, cupped the water to his lips, and drank deep of the delicious, mineral-tasting water. He filled his belly, then scooted back once more to sit against the wall.

He had to get up and keep going. But his body felt lethargic, a dull, abused thing. And it was strangely soothing to just sit and stare at the glowing moss. To enjoy how its soft, azure luminescence was being reflected back up onto it from the stream below.

Exhausted, Scorio shifted his weight, found a slightly more comfortable spot in which to rest, and closed his eyes.

He slept poorly. Every few moments he startled himself to wakefulness, expecting lashing tentacles to be reaching out for him. Each time he groaned and resolved to abandon the river and its perils.

But the soft blue luminescence was a lure he couldn’t resist; the thought of returning to the dark was too much. So, again and again, he slipped back into his fitful sleep.

“Down there, look.”

The voice was terse, guarded. Scorio pushed himself upright, having half-slumped over, and bit back a groan at the pain that pulsed in his wrist and the stinging cuts that lacerated his body.

“Not dead, at any rate.” A man’s voice. “Unless he’s in the act of dying?”

Scorio looked across the river and up at the ledge, where two figures stood in the shadows, one of them with a cheroot of some sort clenched between his teeth, its tip cherry red.

“Hey,” he called, but the sound was an unintelligible rasp. He coughed and tried again. “I’m not dead. Not yet, at any rate.”

“What do you think?” The first speaker was a woman. “Strong enough to open the door?”

“Could be, could be,” hedged the guy. “He looks a little worse for wear.”

Scorio grit his teeth and pushed himself up the wall. His wrist was badly swollen, the outline of the bones lost to the puffy red flesh. “What are your names? I’m Scorio.”

“Scorio?” The man moved forward so that the soft blue light played across his face. He was short, stocky, his face framed by a square-cut beard, a rough cap on his head. “There been a reincarnation cycle just now?”

“Yes,” said Scorio, forcing himself to stand straight. “I didn’t pass muster. Something about a Red List.”

The man scoffed. “You and me both. My name’s Havert. Come on up. Careful crossing the water. Lashers frequent this spot.”

“Yeah, I know.” Scorio made his way back to the water’s edge, moving carefully, watching for the dance of webbing beneath the surface. “I killed one before taking a nap.”

Havert let out a low whistle. “Good on you. You get bit?”

“On the wrist.” He took a sharp breath and leaped across the flowing waters. “Looks like the wound’s gone bad. You wouldn’t happen to know how to treat it?”

“That we do,” said Havert. “Though nothing down here’s free.”

Scorio made no response, and instead focused on carefully scaling the steep path up to the ledge. Both strangers had drawn close to a narrow tunnel at the back, their expressions wary.

Scorio held up both palms. “Honestly. Last thing I’m looking for is trouble.”

Havert stroked his beard, cheroot tilted upward between his clenched teeth, and finally gave a slow nod, but the woman didn’t seem convinced.

She was even shorter than he was, her body lost in a formless coat with sleeves hanging down past her hands. Her hair was a greasy brown and locks of it wound down over her pale, heavily freckled cheeks. Serious brows, a full mouth pulled into a frown, and with all the tense flightiness of an animal on the verge of startling and racing away.

“How long you been in here?” asked Havert, tone gruff.

“I’m not sure,” said Scorio. “A few hours? Half a day?” He forced a smile. “To be honest, I’ve lost track of time.”

“The warren’ll do that to you. You’re lucky to have found the bright stream, though. And to have had the wits to sit and wait.”

Scorio’s smile turned bitter. “Wasn’t much of a decision after the Lasher.”

“Fair enough, fair enough.” Havert wiped his hands nervously on his thighs. “But fortune’ll carry you just as far as wit and good looks, if you don’t lean on it too hard.”

“True enough. Were you both on the Red List? How long have you been down here?”

“A year, both of us,” said Havert. “Almost exactly, seeing as you just reincarnated. Hestia and I were thrown in together, had the fortune to run into Salamander after only a couple of days. He’s been here the longest, going on five years.”

“Five years?” Scorio’s heart sank.

“You should be impressed,” said Havert, tone defensive. The tip of his cheroot danced with each word. “Takes real strength to last that long. But come on. He’ll be wanting to meet you, and if we don’t tend to that wound, you’ll lose the arm and then you’ll be of no use to anybody. Hestia and I’ll collect our moss, and then we’ll take you back to the camp.”

“Hestia said something about a door,” said Scorio, as both strangers reached back to take up rakes with broad sacks affixed under their heads. “That the Final Door?”

“Nah, not the Final Door. What Sal calls the Brass Door.” Havert extended the rake and began scraping at the moss, causing great clumps to fall into the sack.

“What’s that?” asked Scorio, heart rising in his chest. “A way out?”

“Nah.” Havert spoke around his cigar, eyes narrowed as he continued to scrape. “Only death comes through the Brass Door. Opens once a month to let in fresh hell. Great big bloody thing, it is. We’ve never been able to open it ourselves.”

“Not till now,” said Hestia, speaking at last. She paused at her scraping to looked at him over her shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for one more person to be banished down here and join our crew.”

“Why’s that?” asked Scorio, his pulse picking up with excitement.

“’Cause Sal’s got a plan,” she said, turning away again. “He’s rigged up something special, and with your help, we mean to make a run for the surface or die trying.”

Chapter 7

“These warrens were designed as a lure, see,” said Havert, walking ahead of Scorio with his rake propped over one shoulder, the contents of the leather sack glowing through the rough stitchwork, a crude lantern stuffed with moss hanging from the far end and illuminating their passage. “Bastion’s not what it used to be. Hasn’t been for centuries, we reckon. Every now and then it gets attacked, and things get through. Perhaps once long ago those things would be hunted and exterminated, but Salamander says a good third of the city’s gone to the dogs. Collapsing. Those fiends, they go to ground in the ruins, worm their way down into the cracks. Infest the city like fleas on a dead dog.”

Hestia brought up the rear, rake folded in two and slung across both shoulders, her hands resting over the haft as if she were in stocks. “You’ve a way with words, Havert.”

The other man ignored her. “Anyways, years ago, someone smart designed this place and put something here that draws the fiends. Big and small. Like a drain. They come and gather at the Brass Door, and when it opens, in they rush, and get trapped.”

Scorio nodded but made no comment. They’d been walking for a while now, and he was starting to feel hot, his brow feverish.

“Not too long ago, someone decided this was a good way of disposing of Great Souls.” Havert’s voice grew bitter. “This way they don’t get blood on their hands. Sal says they’re afeared of earning a Red Lister’s wrath. That we’d come back in the next life and remember who killed us, and exact our revenge.”

“Doesn’t make much sense to me,” said Hestia softly. “I don’t remember anything.”

“How does Sal know all this?” asked Scorio. “Has he set his Igneous Heart on fire? Does he have… powers?”

“Nah,” said Havert, tone expansive, confident. “All of us were thrown in here within hours of incarnating. No time to learn anything. Sure, we’ve tried to figure it out, but we’ve gotten nowhere. But Sal says there was another fellow here when he was first thrown in, someone who’d come into the warrens on purpose, like, through the Brass Door—mad as that sounds—and stayed a while before leaving again. An explorer, called himself Radert. Explicated to Sal a bunch of things, and said he’d come back one day for him soon.”

“Never did,” said Hestia.

“Not yet, at any rate.” Havert sniffed loudly. “And Sal’s grown tired of waiting.”

“If this place floods with… fiends… every week, how are you all still alive? How have you survived for years down here?”

Havert glanced back to wink at Scorio. “Probably something to do with us being formidable Red Listers.”

“That, or the hideout that’s been in use for who knows how long,” said Hestia. “They’ve been throwing Red Listers in here for centuries, looks like. Over time, folks fortified a cave. Figured out where they could get water, how to harvest enough food to scrape by if there weren’t too many of us.”

“How many are you?” asked Scorio.

“Four,” said Hestia, tone tinged with regret. “Which hasn’t been enough for Salamander’s plan, but with you here…”

“And what’s his plan?”

Havert cut in before Hestia could answer. “He’ll tell you himself if he judges you fit to take part. He’s mighty possessive of his plan. Might cancel it in a fit of pique if we steal his thunder. Anyways, we’re almost there. The warrens are pretty small, all things considered. Mostly a bunch of dead ends.”

“Tell me about it,” said Scorio ruefully. “I must have stumbled down all of them before finding the stream. But one more question, if you don’t mind. If every month a fresh batch of fiends are let in here, where are they now? I’ve only seen the Lasher. Nothing else.”

“They’re all gone by the end of the month,” said Havert, as if that explained everything. “They start to die off once the Brass Door closes. Takes a few weeks, but even the biggest ones wither up. Don’t know why. Part of what makes this place a trap for them, I suppose. That and they tend to eat each other if they can’t get their claws on us. Anyways, here we are.”

He turned into a short, broad tunnel that terminated in a landslide. Heavy boulders had tumbled down along with a great flood of rocks, stones, pebbles, and sand, all of which blocked passage completely.

“Watch this,” said Havert, grinning at Scorio as he set his rake down and moved over to the left side. “Looks like a dead end, don’t it? You’d walk right by, as do all the fiends. But it was all carefully set up ages before we got here, and the trick’s been passed down. See this rock here? It’s not bearing any load at all. Clever, hey? All it takes a good shove, and it slides right in.”

Havert got down on one knee and set his shoulder to a rock whose surface was covered in scratch marks. He gave a grunt as he pushed, and the rock slid inward as if on a greased track to reveal a faint blue glow within.

“When we’re all inside, we shore it up,” said Hestia, taking up Havert’s rake as the other man crawled inside. “Occasionally we hear things trying to figure out why our smells lead here, but they die off before they can get inside.”

“So you just hunker down until the fiends die,” said Scorio, nodding. “I see. Smart.”

“It’s worked thus far,” said Hestia, crouching down to pass the rakes through the hole. “Go ahead. I’ll go last so I can close the door.”

Scorio crawled inside. The passage was tight and wormed a good four yards through heavy rocks that were rigidly supported by wooden beams and struts. He got a queasy feeling as he contemplated what might happen if one of the beams gave way, but then he emerged into a large cavern that had clearly been inhabited for a long time.

Lanterns made from rusted wire filled with luminous moss were placed strategically on stone shelves or hung from hooks in the ceiling, their blue light casting a subtle, dreamlike glow over the cave. Ledges had been carved out of the walls on which roughly stuffed pallets were laid, and rickety chairs were set about a central table cunningly wrought from driftwood on which a checkered board was placed, crudely crafted pieces arranged in some manner of game. A small firepit was set against a soot-stained wall, and over it hung a shallow stone bowl that might have served as a primitive cauldron.

But it was the walls that drew Scorio’s attention—they were daubed in vibrant, luminous murals that glowed with various colors: the blue of the moss, a deep, smoldering red, a rich green, and a pale yellow that was nearly white. Every inch of the cave’s interior was decorated with complex interweaving and geometric patterns. These were interspersed with full-sized figures in various poses, the quality of their composition ranging from crude to skilled, as if various artists had worked on the walls over the years. Here and there Scorio saw monsters portrayed, with one clearly being a Lasher, its tendrils extended from a bright blue stream to entrap a hapless man.

A cadaverous man with skin the color of old bone and a stringy beard rose warily from his chair. His hair hung in twisted ropes past his shoulders, and his smile revealed missing teeth.

“Havert, my boy, what’ve you got for me, eh?” The man approached cautiously, obliquely, studying Scorio out of the corner of his eyes. “A newcomer?”

“Found him sleeping by the Little Stream,” said Havert, taking the rakes over to one side where a bundle of them were laid across brackets. “He killed a Lasher with his bare hands. Was sleeping.”

“Killed a Lasher, did he? Well, that’s grand, that’s most impressive, a true warrior I see, a blessing to us all. What’s your name, warrior? I’m Salamander, or so I style myself, for I’ve chosen not to use the name they gave me, the name, you see, that’s to blame for all my woes.”

The man was eager, yet still, he stood half-turned away, moving his hands over each other as if washing them without water. His neck seemed permanently bent, or perhaps it was his back that was hunched, and the lines of his skull were visible right beneath his creased skin.

“A pleasure, Salamander. My name’s Scorio.” Despite feeling wretched, Scorio forced himself to stand tall and smile. “Thank you for taking me in.”

“Ah, a right gentleman! See how polite he is, Nissa? You could stand to learn a lesson from him.”

A woman had sat up on one of the higher ledges. Her straight hair appeared green in the blue light, and her expression was grave, her gaze direct, almost hollowed out. As if she’d been running a race all her life, and could no longer understand what it was she was chasing.

“Dream on, Sal,” she said, voice husky. “You’ll get my respect back when you earn it.”

“Ah, she wounds me, she cuts me to the bone. But pay her no heed, stranger. Through the Final Door you’ve come, hey? Cast away like so much trash. Not given a chance to plead your case, or explain that you and yours never did none of the things you were accused of, am I right?”

Scorio followed Salamander’s beckoning to join him at the table, and sat gratefully. “That’s right. The same happen to you all?”

“That’s why we’re here,” said Nissa, studying him intently. “One and all.”

“Criminals, monsters, creators of death and destruction,” said Salamander, waving a claw of a hand. “Oh, how they fear us. Yet what is there to fear? Do we look like the engineers of doom? Trapped here in our fanciful little den, whiling away the years as we await our inevitable death at the fangs of some terrible beast?”

Hestia moved over to a large cistern and emptied her heavy waterskin into it; Havert then did the same.

“I was told you had a plan,” said Scorio carefully. “That there might be a way out of here.”

Salamander’s eyes narrowed and he whipped around to glare at the other two, but they both studiously ignored him.

“I might have a plan, I might at that. But.” And at this, he looked back to Scorio, still keeping his body turned away. “It’s a desperate stratagem. You, being so freshly arrived, might not be willing to gamble so freely with your life.”

Scorio laughed. “You’ve been here five years?”

Salamander nodded reluctantly.

“Then I’ve no desire to wait as long before deciding to leave. If you’ve a plan, I’d like to hear it.”

“Determined,” mused Salamander, rubbing at his wispy beard. “Brave and bold. Ready for adventure. Ignorant, too, though that’s not his fault. Tell me, is old Praximar still the chancellor? Or has he finally choked on his pride and died a fitting death?”

“Pyre Lord Praximar,” said Scorio softly. “Yes. He’s the bastard who ordered me thrown down here.”

“And me,” said Nissa dully. “After attacking my soul.”

“Me too,” said Hestia, and Havert just raised a hand.

“Myself as well,” hissed Salamander, his voice seething with anger. Unable to control himself, he leaped to his feet and began to pace, walking always obliquely, as if constantly changing his mind about where he wished to go. “There I was upon my bejeweled bower, a naive, innocent, yes, even hopeful youth, and when the Archspire spat out its hateful lies, oh, the pleasure he took in destroying my life…”

“Peace, Sal,” said Nissa, her voice toneless.

“Yes, yes.” Sal stopped before a portrait on the wall, and Scorio realized it was a remarkably well-drawn portrait of the chancellor, a caricature that emphasized his every defect. “But no matter. The past is dead, is it not? It is the future that concerns us. Tell me, Scorio, you are truly willing to risk it all on the harebrained scheme of a stranger?”

Scorio sat back carefully, unsure if the rickety chair would bear his weight. He felt flushed and sweat ran down his back. His wrist throbbed, the various cuts along his arms and legs burned, and the dull ache that the chancellor had inflicted upon him yet throbbed. “What choice do I have? Tell me your plan.”

“The Brass Door,” whispered Sal, pulling at his wispy beard and moving to another segment of the wall where a great crimson door was painted. “So massive it might as well be painted on stone. The means by which the fiends enter our warren, and having entered, are unable to pass out once more.”

“Right,” said Scorio, forcing himself to focus. “You’ve a way to open it?”

“That I do,” said Sal, eyes gleaming as he grinned. “Force multiplication. A pretty problem. My old friend was able to open the door with his native might, but we mere Chars, without our Igneous Hearts aflame, why, we must settle for native wit.”

Hestia sat heavily on one of the lower ledges and pulled off a boot. “He’s come up with a way to open the doors using ropes and wheels. It’s actually pretty brilliant.”

“Ropes and wheels? Ropes and wheels?” Sal darted across the floor to where Hestia sat and raised his hands as if to strike her. “I’ll give you ropes and wheels, you—you—!”

Hestia ignored him, and after a moment he relaxed and turned back to Scorio. “But yes.” He sniffed. “Pulleys. A natural means of lifting great weight.”

Scorio wiped the sweat from his brow. Getting the man to speak felt like digging in hard clay. “Hestia said the four of you weren’t enough. You need a fifth to lift the door?”

“Even with six wheels, we cannot do it, no.” Sal slumped back down into his seat. “I’d devise more, but there’s not enough rope. But if you are willing to help, we can raise the Brass Door, or attempt to, and if your strength is insufficient, why, we can cannibalize the last of our clothing to make more rope, and I’ll devise more blocks, and we’ll make our escape as naked as the day we were born.”

“Then let’s pray Scorio’s strength is sufficient,” said Nissa.

“But what lies on the other side?” asked Scorio. “A way to the surface?”

“Supposedly,” said Sal, expression turning dour. “But my old friend said you first had to descend before you could climb, and that the way was too perilous for him to bring me with him. So…”

“So he has no idea,” said Nissa flatly. “But anything’s better than sitting in this cave for another year.”

“You’ve been here but three,” said Sal. “You don’t have the right to complain till it’s been at least four.”

“One is plenty,” said Hestia, voice almost inaudible. “My gums bleed. My strength is almost gone.”

Havert sighed and plonked down next to her. “And if I have to eat stewed mushrooms and rock beetle for another year, I’ll accidentally forget to close the cavern door.”

“I’m willing to help,” said Scorio firmly, or as firmly as he could manage. “I just need a rest. The Lasher’s bite… and what Praximar did to me… it’s all hitting me pretty hard.”

“Bite? Bite?” Sal leaped to his feet. “Is that why you are perspiring so freely? I thought you were shy, or overwrought!”

“You’re lying,” said Nissa. “You knew he was infected.”

“So if you’re satisfied,” said Havert, “give him the medicine before he keels over.”

Scorio bit back his own comments and watched as Sal bared his teeth at the other three. “Attacked from all sides. Where is the gratitude? Without me—”

“Yes, we know,” said Nissa. “So maybe heal him before we have to wait another year?”

Sal scowled at them all and stalked over to the little fire. Bending down, he shoved some dried moss onto the coals, which he blew on and coaxed back to life. He then ran his fingers lightly over several small stone cups that were arrayed on another carved ledge, and drew one down.

“Concentrated Lasher poison,” he said over his shoulder to Scorio. “Reduced to a powdered form, and then combined with a secret blend of herbs and extracts. It won’t be pleasant, but it will break the fever.”

“Concentrated poison?” asked Scorio. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Trust him,” said Nissa. “It works. He won’t share the formula, but we’ve all had to use it at one time or another.”

Scorio nodded reluctantly and watched Sal as he tapped some powder into the stone bowl, then poured a beaker of water into it. Then, anxious as a brood hen, he set to stirring with a bone spoon, and finally tilted the stone bowl and poured a thick, noxious liquid into a small cup.

“Here,” he said, setting it down before Scorio. “The taste will curl your toes, but if you want to live, you’ll lick the cup dry and then ask for more.”

Scorio accepted the cup. A spoonful of ichor had collected at the bottom. Unsure, he glanced to Hestia, who gave a subtle nod.

“He doesn’t trust me!” cried Sal, throwing up his hands and looking stricken. “I offer him the fruits of my wisdom, and he—”

“Sal!” Nissa’s voice had risen to a bark. “Enough! He doesn’t know you.”

“That’s right,” said Hestia, voice placating. “This’ll be where he learns to respect you and your talents. We all have to begin somewhere, don’t we?”

Sal frowned down at Scorio. “Perhaps.”

Scorio raised the cup to him. “You have my thanks. Truly.” And then he drained the ichor to its last drop.

His whole body did its level best to reject the antidote, spasming and causing him to gag. But through sheer bloody-mindedness, he forced it down, then did lick the stone cup, grimacing and coughing the whole time.

“Well done,” said Sal stiffly, taking the cup back. “Now you’d best go lie down before you collapse. Just like everything in life, it’ll get worse before it gets better.”

Scorio nodded, forced himself to dry swallow once more, then rose shakily to his feet.

“Here,” said Hestia, patting the ledge she’d been sitting on and moving away. “You can have mine.”

“Be a little less transparent, won’t you?” asked Havert.

Hestia looked mortified. “I wasn’t even—”

“Peace, you two. I swear.” Nissa shook her head tiredly. “True freedom is being alone.”

Scorio staggered over to the ledge and sat heavily. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank us,” said Sal, slipping back onto his stool. “You are both a source of novelty and a means of effecting our escape!”

“Seeing as old Radert never showd up to help,” muttered Hestia

“Radert,” repeated Scorio, as if seizing onto a lifeline. “Your old friend?”

“Seems there’s nothing sacred left in this old world,” sneered Sal, glaring at Hestia. “But yes. An old and dear friend of mine. What of it?”

“He… had he lit his Igneous Heart?”

“He had.” Sal drew himself up. “But that’s privileged information. I don’t share it with anyone. He told me in confidence.”

“Might as well give up, Scorio,” said Nissa, drumming her heels idly on the ledge’s side. “Sal guards information on Radert like a Lasher does a stream bed.”

Havert tamped some mulched fiber into his cheroot leaf and set to carefully rolling it. “Radert the Mighty. Radert the All-Knowing. Radert the Wise.”

“Radert the Missing,” sneered Nissa.

“Something happened,” said Sal, darting angry looks at them both. “He swore he’d come back, and he would have, if he could. You’ll see. When we get out, I’m sure we’ll find out the why of it.”

“Radert with his magical toys,” said Hestia, but her tone was wistful, half-longing. “I don’t really care if he’s real or not. I just like hearing about him. We’ve so little to talk about, down here.”

Scorio was shivering now, despite his rising fever. “Magical toys?”

“None of your business,” snapped Sal, turning away.

Havert rose and walked to the fire, where he crouched to touch the tip of his cigar to the coals. “A magical bridge that could reach the sky when you spoke the right word. An enchanted piece of chalk that drew invisible walls—”

“Silence!” snarled Sal, whipping back around, eyes gleaming.

“A rod that once activated couldn’t be moved by all the forces in Bastion and hell,” said Hestia dreamily, leaning back on both arms.

“That is privileged information!” Sal rose to his feet, his whole frame shaking in rage. “I shared it with you under the strictest confidence!”

“Scorio’s one of us now,” said Havert, placing the cheroot between his lips and inhaling rapidly over and over again till the tip began to burn cherry red. That done, he took it out, narrowed his eyes, and blew out a plume of oily smoke. “If he’s going through the Brass Door, he ought to be able to hear our bedtime stories, right?”

“Wrong,” said Sal coldly. “Don’t disappoint me further, Havert, or I’ll leave you behind.”

“No, you won’t,” said Havert calmly, moving back to his seat. “Unless you’re willing to wait another year.”

“Easy,” said Nissa from above. “Easy, Havert. Ease up.”

Sal glowered at Havert, then turned around again to face the wall.

It had to be tough, having nowhere to go and get away from each other, thought Scorio, finally allowing himself to topple over and curl up on the ledge.

“Don’t vomit all over the cave,” said Sal testily. “You’ll waste the cure if you do.”

“Deep breaths.” Hestia sounded strangely hollow. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Havert’s voice seemed to come from a world away. “Enjoy the fever dreams. I sometimes take a pinch of the stuff just to make the week go by faster.”

Scorio faced the wall. His insides were burning. It felt like the antidote was scouring away everything but his ribs.

“Hestia,” he heard Nissa say. “Get him a wet cloth. He’s going to be burning up soon. And with what Prax did to him, he’ll have no defenses.”

He closed his eyes, tucked his hands under his chin, and drew up his knees as his body began to shake.

Scorio thought dimly of Leonis and Lianshi. Of that vast basilica, the Archspire, and the promise of power and freedom.

It all seemed a lifetime ago.

A hand rested gently on his shoulder. “It’s all right. You’ll get through this. You’re going to be fine.”

* * *

When Scorio finally awoke, it felt as if two weeks had passed. An age spent floundering in fever dreams that he mercifully couldn’t recall. There’d been a sense of someone talking to him as he’d tossed about upon the ledge and pressing a cool, wet cloth to his brow. The luminous scrawling upon the cavern walls had taken on a nightmarish urgency, pulsing as if they were veins carrying riotous colors across the inside of the cavern’s body.

Scorio sat up. The fever had broken. His wrist was no longer inflamed, the puncture wounds had scabbed over, and he was able to clench his hand into a fist without much pain.

“You’ll be thirsty,” said Nissa, walking over with a stone cup.

“That I am, thank you.” Scorio took the cup and drained it dry. Before he could ask for another, Nissa smiled wryly and gave him the one she’d been holding in her other hand.

“Thanks,” he managed when he finally came up for air, his stomach pleasantly filled with the cool, mineral-tasting water. “How long was I out?”

“Time’s hard to reckon down here,” she said, bringing over a large bowl of some lumpen, milky-looking gruel. She handed it to him and sat at the end of the ledge. She was lean, raw-boned, face pale to the point of unnatural pallor. It made her stark blue eyes all the more striking. “We generally adopt the same sleeping shift and use that as a measure of time. Whether it’s day or night upstairs we’ve no idea.”

“I see,” he said, shoveling the gruel into his mouth. His tongue was still scalded by the antidote, which he supposed was a blessing. “You’ve been here three years?”

“Yes.” There was an immensity of loss and resignation in that word, as if she’d exhausted a well of rage years ago. “Feels much longer though.”

“I bet. But it looks like we might be getting out?”

“If we can open the Brass Door.” She paused and studied her hands, lips pursed, then sighed. “If so, we’ll leave the warren behind. But the odds of actually reaching the surface? Not so great. And then I catch myself thinking, how large is Bastion? A thousand souls? Ten thousand? Fifty? We’ve no idea. How hard will it be to hide out there? What kind of life are we going to live? Will we be fugitives forever, or might we be able to start an actual life without being caught and thrown back in here?”

“I don’t know,” said Scorio at last. Her gaze was striking, mesmerizing in its intensity. “But anything’s better than being down here, right?”

She stood up. “You’re right about that. Come on. If you’re up to it, I’m to take you to the Brass Door. Sal’s already setting up.”

Scorio stretched, then climbed off the ledge and stood. He felt stiff and ravenous but otherwise fine. “Setting up?”

“His contraption. He can’t leave it out or the fiends’d destroy it.” She moved to where a heavy pack was set against the wall. “If everything’s in place, we might make a go of it tonight. If we leave it any later, there’d probably be too many fiends waiting on the other side.”

“Because they’re drawn here? By the lure Havert spoke of?”

She lifted the pack with wiry strength and slipped it over one shoulder. “It’s a theory. For all we know, the cave beyond the door fills with fiends the moment the door closes. But Sal thinks it slowly accumulates monsters, which means tonight’s our best bet. The last wave’s threats have died off, but there’s still a couple of weeks till the door opens again. Happy balance between safety and the numbers waiting for us outside.”

Scorio moved over to a second pack that had been set aside for him. “And if we run into trouble?”

“We’ve got these.” She moved to a rack set by the entrance. “Nothing very durable or effective, but they’re better than using our nails and teeth.”

Scorio hauled the pack on, then stepped over to examine the motley collection of weapons. There was no denying how primitive they were. Bone daggers and clubs made out of large rocks lashed to femurs, mostly, with a few curved spears that would never fly true.

He hefted a club. The grip was made of interwoven plant fibers, the bone larger than any man’s, and the stone at the top heavily ridged and the size of his fist. He gave it a few experimental swings, and found it top-heavy; it whipped around easily but was hard to control.

“All set?” Nissa asked.

“Let’s do it.”

She led the way through the narrow exit chute and out into the tunnel. There they spent a moment strapping on their packs, and with weapons in hand, they headed out.

For a while they walked in silence, Nissa taking the turns without hesitation, but then she glanced back at him, her face illuminated a radiant blue by her moss-lantern. “What were you accused of? By the Archspire?”

“Accused of? You mean my previous self?” For a moment Scorio felt reluctant to answer, but he couldn’t think of a reason not to. Whomever that person had been, it wasn’t the man he was today. “I was called The Scourer. Lord of… Nagaman? Nagaran? The Quencher of Hope, Unmaker of Joy… it went on for a bit. Bringer of Ash and Darkness. That kind of thing.”

“Impressive.” She looked ahead once more. “I was merely the Flayer of Men.”

“Nissa the Flayer of Men?”

“Yeah.” She raised her lantern, illuminating a narrow side tunnel, and stepped into it. “I’ve thought about it a lot, over the years. Why did I flay men? How many must I have flayed to become known for it? Who gave me that name? Did I choose it, or was it thrust upon me by my enemies?”

“The chancellor said there were histories. That some of us have kept journals over the years. Maybe the answer’s out there.”

“Maybe. Don’t think the academy will give me access to their records, though.”

Their footsteps echoed about them, and then she sighed and lowered her lantern so that it hung down by her knee. “It was just me and Sal for two years at first. He wasn’t quite so… himself, yet, at that point. But by the time Hestia and Havert showed up, I was about ready to find my own corner of the warren. They helped a lot, but there’s only so much folks with no past can talk about before running out of conversation.”

She slowed, came to a stop, staring down at the ground. “Only so much speculating about the same things you can do before you begin to hate the sound of your voice. But even death’s no escape, knowing that we’ll simply be reborn within a year or two and thrown back down here.” She turned to stare at him sidelong. “You know what’s the worst thing I found down here?”

“What?”

“A name. Carved in rock. Below a hundred others. All of them… my own. The oldest one is barely legible.” She stared morosely at the ground. “I kept debating whether to add my name again to the bottom.”

Scorio studied her, horrified. “Did you?”

She didn’t seem to hear him, and after an extended pause Scorio cast about for something else to ask. “I last died over two hundred years ago. What about you?”

“Two hundred years?” She blinked as if awakening from a dream. “Are you—of course you’re sure. That’s… I mean, the longest delay I heard was twenty years. And I got to hear several hundred have their information announced first.”

Scorio scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know. Just what the Archspire told me.”

“Maybe it’s got something to do with all your titles. Mine’s short. So are those of the others.” She studied him, and her gaze was eager, hungry. Then a veil passed behind her eyes, hiding that moment’s enthusiasm, and she turned away. “Anyway, what I’ve been trying to tell you is…” She shook her head, frustrated, and resumed walking. “I’ve been waiting for a new arrival for some time. Someone new to talk to. But now you’re here and we’re going straight through the Brass Door, and everything feels so… futile.”

“How so?” Scorio strode after her, studied her back, the hunched shoulders, saw how emaciated she was. “We’re going to escape. Things could be just beginning.”

She looked back at him once more, her expression frank, bleak, verging on raw. “No, Scorio. There’s nothing waiting for us on the other side of the Brass Door but death. We’ve all convinced ourselves there’s a chance so that we don’t go mad. But Sal… when I first met him, when he was more… normal, more himself… he shared what his ‘friend’ had truly told him. Things he denies now, pretends to have never heard. That Chars like us—we simply don’t have the power, the abilities, to survive. It’s just a pity. A pity we won’t get to talk more before we go through. That’s all.”

And then she resumed walking into the darkness.

Scorio stopped and stared after her. She’d drawn away a dozen yards before he clenched his jaw and hurried after.

Chapter 8

The Brass Door was a massive wall of dull metal embedded in the side of a circular cavern. Its ornate construction was at odds with the rough stone around it, and it appeared otherworldly in the light of the blue-burning moss. Like some ancient treasure espied at the bottom of the sea.

Sal was busy with his mechanism, his movements verging on frantic, as Havert and Hestia sat to one side, clubs laid over their laps, packs against the wall.

“You’re alive,” said Hestia with a hesitant smile. “Glad you survived the cure.”

“Was there any doubt?” barked Sal, tugging on a rope. “I am an herbalist without equal. Scorio lives because of me. He literally owes me his life.”

“A debt of gratitude, to be sure,” said Scorio, unshouldering his pack and moving to where Sal worked. “Thank you, Sal.”

“Bah. You’re welcome, I suppose. There. We’re about ready. You time your recovery with admirable precision. Behold! The wonders of a brilliant mind.” And Sal stepped back, arms thrown out wide, to present a series of ropes and wooden and bone blocks that hung in a column from the ceiling before the door.

“Impressive,” said Scorio, not understanding what he was looking at. “How does it work?”

“Ah! You take in with but a glance what it has taken me years to devise! Observe. There, affixed to the ceiling—with great effort, might I add—is an iron hook, fashioned from a blade Radert gifted me, and screwed in to a depth of some dozen inches. From this simple hook hangs a thick rope, twined from our original robes, belts, and all manner of tough fibers that we have harvested over the years. Sinew, Lasher tentacles, everything we can think of. This rope descends to these pulleys, winding up and down, around and around.”

Scorio pursed his lips. “And, ah, how does this open the Brass Door?”

“Force multiplication! No magic here, no impossible talents.” He drew a second hook from within his sash. “We mere Chars will slide this metal hook under the door, then turn it so that it catches on the other side. We then attach it to the lowermost pulley, and pull upon this length of rope here to haul the door open.”

Scorio considered the massive brass door. “It looks pretty heavy.”

Sal threw up his arms. “And it is! But this system of mine will multiply our strength by four times. We shall become twenty, a host hauling upon its edge. Though, if it doesn’t work, I’ll have to find a way to add more circles to the system, make longer rope, and wait another year for someone else to assist us… but it will work! I know it will.”

Scorio again considered the Brass Door. “And if there are fiends on the far side?”

“Hestia will rush forward and place this stone under the door once we’ve lifted it a foot,” said Sal, rushing over to where a dark block was placed but a few feet from the door. “If anything wishes to crawl through at that point, we’ll club in their heads. Then, once the way is clear, we’ll squeeze through ourselves, and venture forth into the great unknown!”

Scorio nodded pensively, looking back and forth, then finally back to Sal. “I’m no engineer, but I’m happy to give it a try.”

“Then let us begin! After five years of patience, I find myself unable to wait a moment more.” He clapped his hands energetically. “Everyone, look lively now! Hestia, at the front. Now to squeeze the hook under the door and make sure it holds…”

Sal grabbed his hook, which looked to be a sword blade hammered into the base of a rectangle, and slid it under an exceedingly thin groove that had been chiseled out under the Brass Door. This he then righted, and eyes narrowed, tongue jutting out of the corner of his mouth, he fiddled and adjusted till it caught.

“Took me four months to get that hook made just right.” He leaped to his feet, his energy manic. “Four months! But the dimensions are precise. Now it simply needs to hold the door’s weight without flattening out. Havert, bring the lowest pulley over to me.”

Havert stood and hurried over, took hold of the large, bottom-most circle, and carefully swung it over. Sal elongated the ropes connecting everything so that it connected to the hook, and then raced over to where the long rope was tied to the pack.

“There! Now, Hestia, Hestia, come on, my dear, look alive. Grab the rope here at the front. Then Scorio, then Havert, just so. Nissa? Thank you. I’ll hold the rear. Do we have enough rope? Squeeze forward, I’ve nothing to hold onto. Very well. Everybody got a good grip? When I give the count of three, begin pulling gently, oh so gently. And if we are fortunate, if we are owed anything by this wretched world, the components shall hold. Are we ready?”

Scorio flexed his fingers then gripped the oily rope. If only Leonis were here. He’d be worth almost the rest of the entire team alone.

“One!” Sal’s voice cracked with excitement. “Steady now! Two! Deep breath! Three!”

Everybody leaned back, digging their heels in, and hauled on the rope. Scorio watched anxiously as everything went taut, the pulleys vibrating in their places, the rope creaking and growing leaner.

He pulled harder, bending his knees, leaning back. No movement, but he thought he heard a low grinding come from the top of the door.

“She’s holding!” shouted Sal. “Now, everything you’ve got! This is it! Pull, you fools, pull for your lives!”

Scorio grit his teeth and hauled back with everything he had, hearing Havert grunt behind him.

And the base of the door began to lift. Slowly, impossibly slowly, the door began to open, upward and out, swiveling from hinges hidden at the top.

Hands burning, shoulders on fire, Scorio bent his legs further and heaved.

“The hook’s straightening!” gasped Havert.

He was right. The iron was slowly emerging from under the door frame. Dust was filtering down from around the ceiling hook. Threads were splitting along the length of the rope, popping and peeling back as the pressure became too much.

“Almost there!” shouted Scorio. “One last pull!”

Somehow, impossibly, the great metal door rose. It wasn’t nearly as thick as he’d imagined, but still, the act seemed magical. Up it came, an inch at a time.

“Hestia!” barked Sal. “Go!”

She let go of the rope and dove for the stone block. Scorio fought to compensate for the loss of her strength, felt his heels slide forward over the rock.

The door began to drop.

“Pull!” shouted Scorio, reaching deep for more strength, ignoring the pain in his hands, the weakness growing in his arms. “One—last—”

Hestia dropped to her knees before the block and shoved it forward. It was a little over a foot tall, just enough to crawl through, but its upper edge hit the bottom of the door, which was slowly slipping back down.

“Pull!” shrieked Sal. “Pull, you blasted—”

And then the hook tore free from the ceiling in a shower of dust, the rope went slack in Scorio’s hands so that he crashed back into Havert, and the door swung closed, the pulleys clattering to the ground.

“No!” screamed Sal, wrestling his way out from under Nissa. “No!” He seemed a man possessed, tugging at his hair, running forward to glare up at the ceiling where a large hole now showed, the iron screw torn completely free.

“Get back!” Hestia’s cried, the panic and urgency of it splitting the air. “Something’s got the bottom of the door!”

Scorio climbed to his feet, heart pounding, and stared. The door had swung nearly all the way closed. Only an inch now remained, but curled around the bottom were five massive fingers, each ending in a glowing blue talon. Then a second hand crept under, grasped the Brass Door’s lower edge, and began to push.

Havert cursed, took up his club, and raised it high, ready to bring it down upon the knuckles, only for Nissa to seize his wrist and stop him cold.

“Wait,” she shouted. “Let it open the door! Hestia! Get ready!”

“Get ready?” The other woman looked up at Nissa from where she’d collapsed on her side. “Are you mad?”

“There’s but one way out of here!” Nissa released Havert and raked her hair back from her face. Her smile was wide, unhinged. “Why not let this fiend do the work for us?”

“Look at the size of its hands!” shouted Havert. “You want to let that in here?”

“She’s right,” said Sal, moving up alongside Nissa, stone-headed club in hand. “It might be large, but it’s just the one! This is our time, our hour, Havert! Before long, there’ll be a mass of them out there, but I know, I can feel it, right now there’s just this one! We club it when it comes through, and then—”

“You’re mad!” Havert glared at them both in disgust.

“The door’s rising,” wailed Hestia, scrabbling away from it.

And indeed it was. Whatever was on the other side was pushing it up, inch by inch, fingers flattened against the metal. Scorio stared, frozen. Hands that big. If it had human proportions, it’d be—what? Ten feet tall? How strong would it be? A blow from such a fist would end a life.

“We have to stop this,” shouted Havert. “We can try again, Scorio’s with us now, we can fix the pulley, we know it works—”

“No!” Sal brought up the twisted screw, the flanges flattened. “It’ll take me a year to make this anew! I can’t wait! I won’t wait!”

“Not your decision,” growled Havert, moving back to the door. “Better to wait than to die.”

“Havert, don’t do it,” cried out Nissa as the man raised his club. The door was now a foot off the ground. Scorio, moving as if in a dream, took a wide step and pushed the stone block under its edge.

“Havert!” shouted Nissa again. “Stop!”

The stocky man brought his club crashing down upon one of the hands, crunching the digits and glowing talons. A strangely garbled roar of pain sounded from the far side.

The hand withdrew, the door shuddered, began to drop, and then the mangled hand appeared once more, clutching ruinously at the door, two of the fingers twisted awry.

The door began to rise again.

Havert raised his club, face scrunched into a knot of determination and fear.

Then he sagged, dropped bonelessly to the ground, and Scorio saw Nissa standing behind him, clutching her own club, its head gleaming wetly in the mosslight.

“Havert!” Hestia scrambled over to his fallen form. “Nissa—what did you do? Nissa? What did you do?”

“I… he couldn’t… I couldn’t let him…” Nissa stared wide-eyed down at where the man lay, the back of his head wet in the blue light.

The door continued to rise.

Sal circled out wide, mouth working, eyes glittering, transfixed by the fallen Great Soul.

“It’s coming in!” shouted Scorio, snatching up his club. “Get ready!’

As the door rumbled all the way open, Scorio felt himself reach for something reflexively once more, a fumbling grab for what had to be his Igneous Heart. But there was nothing to take hold of, just a cold, throbbing void that enervated him so suddenly that he cried out in pain and stumbled.

The door slammed against the roof of the cavern, and a massive beast stepped forward, propping it open with one upraised palm, nearly filling the entirety of the space.

Scorio felt his knees go weak at the sight of the monster. It was nearly as wide as it was tall, its shoulders and arms muscled to the point of deformity, its head reptilian, snub-nosed like a tortoise, its maw open to reveal massive, saurian teeth. But more than the plated shielding across its chest and stomach, more than the talons that dug into the stone ground, it was the energy burning off the beast that caught him flatfooted and made his heart constrict.

For in the light of the blue moss, the beast’s hide was a deep, featureless black, while ragged lines of burning purple flame patterned its face, contoured around its body, and gathered in riotous intensity at its claws. Flames that surged and burned as if venting some inner furnace within the beast, leaving afterimages of light in its wake as it moved.

Hestia lunged forward to grab hold of Havert’s shoe and begin hauling him away, trying to remove him from the monster’s path. Nissa stood, transfixed, staring up into its burning, purple eyes.

Scorio let out a wordless cry of defiance and raced in, knowing it was madness to do so, and swung his club as hard as he could at the monster’s knee.

The second his blow connected, he threw himself forward into a rough dive, narrowly evading a clawed hand nearly two feet across as it came slicing through the air at where he’d stood.

Hestia screamed.

Scorio came up to his feet and saw the monster bend low to snatch Havert up in its maw, crunching the man in half between its saurian jaws. Whirring movement off to one side, then Sal unleashed a stone from his slingshot that pinged off the monster’s snout.

The beast paused in its ruminative crunching to turn and stare at him, purple eyes narrowing, and Sal let out a wail, sprinting through the open Brass Door into the darkness beyond.

“Hestia!” shouted Scorio, backing away from the huge, hunched-over back, the upraised arm that still held the door open. “Get out of there!”

Nissa was a shadow, pressing herself along the far wall to slip out through the doorway, dragging a pack along after her, face a panicked blur, eyes wide, shocked into a daze.

“Hestia!” Scorio ran out wide as the monster oriented on the last remaining Great Soul in the room. He caught a glimpse of the other woman pushing herself back with her heels, staring up, mouth agape in horror.

The monster released the door and stepped fully into the cave, closing the distance between them.

Scorio had no time to react. No time make a conscious decision. The huge door began to close with utter finality.

Ignoring it, he lunged back into the cave and leaped, swinging the club with all his strength to bring it whistling over and around the boulder-like shoulder to crack into the monster’s temple.

The beast felt the blow, its head jerking aside, and it opened its mouth to roar, pieces of Havert tumbling out to fall wetly to the ground.

The door smashed down onto the stone block, made a warping, metallic sound of protest, then stayed open, a foot of darkness between it and the ground.

“Get through!” shouted Scorio, backing away, arms wide, the club feeling loose and weak in his grip. “Hestia, go!”

He couldn’t tell if she obeyed. The monster oriented on him, gave its blunt head a shake, then hunched and spread its arms open wide to let loose an ear-splitting roar, head turning from side to side as it gave vent to its hunger and fury, the purple flames that patterned its body flaring out everywhere a foot in height.

Scorio hurled the club with all his strength, a wild and desperate gamble.

The club spun as it flew at the monster’s face, only to be batted aside by a violent flick of its claws.

But Scorio wasn’t waiting. He took three long strides and dove under the door, slid most of the way across, then scrabbled the rest of the way and through.

Only to realize that Hestia was trapped, her eyes wide, fingers clawing at the naked stone floor as she tried to disentangle herself from her pack. She’d tried to dive through sideways while wearing it, but it had gotten stuck.

“Scorio!” Her eyes were panicked in the light of the moss-lamp she’d shoved in ahead of her. “I can’t—I’m stuck—”

He lurched toward her, grabbing hold of her wrist. There were tears in her eyes, and he saw that the strap was nearly torn clean off. Digging his heels in, he yanked as hard as he could, and heard the strap tear further.

“One more time,” he shouted. “One more—”

Then her eyes opened wide as her whole body jerked, and Scorio barely had time to let go before she was ripped out screaming from under the door and disappeared.

Scorio crashed down onto his rear and simply gaped. He blinked, stunned into immobility, then heard Hestia’s scream cut short.

He had to get moving. Had to back away, do something, anything, but he just stared at where she’d been a second ago, her freckled face still vivid in his mind’s eye.

Then a burning purple claw reached under the rim of the door, took hold, and began to lift it open.

Scorio snapped back to life. Snatching up the moss lamp, he wheeled around to take in the small cavern in which he stood. A half-dozen ragged tunnels led into absolute darkness. Sal and Nissa had fled ahead without him.

With no pack, no weapon, and no idea as to where he was running, he raised the moss lantern high, picked a tunnel, and bolted.

Chapter 9

The fiend charged right after him. Glancing back over his shoulder, Scorio saw its purple markings burning in the darkness behind him, surreal and terrifying and savage. It moved silently, so that when he looked forward once more it felt as if he sprinted alone, pushing for speed as he raced down the tunnel, the moss-lantern jouncing and swinging wildly in his fist.

A fork. He chose the left, ran down it, and glanced behind, saw that the huge beast was almost upon him, its bulk filling the tunnel, looming over him like a wave about to crest.

Desperate, Scorio pushed himself to run faster, his lungs burning, feet feeling as if they barely touched the rough ground. The blue light swung and bounced across the rough features of the tunnel walls before him, shadows leaping and retreating with each swing of his fist.

No time to think, to calculate, he had to turn around. Perhaps if he smashed the lantern across its face, blinded it—no, wait—there! A shadow that remained solid, a crack in the wall. Scorio was running so fast that he nearly passed it, tried to stop, leaned back, and crashed to the ground.

Just as a huge claw swiped through the air above him, the talons trailing purple flame.

Scorio lurched into the crack, racing on all fours, scrambling into the depths. It was just wide enough for him to squeeze into. Turning sideways, he shoved himself in deeper, the tight walls scraping his chest and back. Deeper he wormed, breath loud in his ears, head turned back to the mouth of the crack where the beast had paused to lower its head and gaze at him with one malevolently burning eye.

Gasping, Scorio realized he couldn’t go in any deeper. He was wedged in as far as he could go. He could only watch as the monster slowly inserted its hand and probed for him, burning talons scoring the raw rock and leaving shallow grooves behind.

Carefully, experimentally, the monster pushed its huge hand in, claws rippling, but then it slowed. Stopped. Scorio had managed to slide in just outside its reach.

For a moment the beast simply stood there, contemplative. Scorio waited for a roar of fury, but none came. Instead, it tapped its claws upon the rocks, the sound rhythmic, then withdrew its arm.

It stood outside the crack for a spell, studying him with one baleful eye, and then it turned and was gone.

A trick? Definitely.

So he remained still. Waiting. Watching the crack, the darkness beyond that his moss lamp failed to illuminate.

His entire world reduced to its tight, radiant-blue confines.

Eventually, body growing stiff and sore, unsure if he’d been standing there an hour or three, he eased himself back toward the entrance. Stepped past the point where the beast’s claws could reach, slowed, and listened.

Nothing.

He moved forward again. Envisioned, over and over, the massive hand darting into the crack, claws sinking into his flesh, hooking him and hauling him out.

Saw again Havert’s legs dancing as the maw crunched down upon his body.

Nothing happened.

He reached the very edge of the crack. The glowing radiance of his moss lamp would have given his approach away. But when he finally risked a quick glance out into the tunnel, he saw that it was empty.

Scorio sagged with relief and rested his brow against the stone. The fiend was gone. So vividly had his imagination painted it in the hallway, hunched and ready to strike, that he could scarcely believe it had left. But eventually, he stepped out, shivering, and swung his lantern back and forth.

Should he return to the Brass Door and see if he could find the others? Or head in deeper by himself, without a pack, without water, and without a weapon?

He considered. It was feasible that he could return quietly. He’d taken a variety of turns, but he thought he could retrace his steps. And fetching a pack would go a long way toward improving his odds of survival.

But that would be pressing his luck. The monster had clearly opted to return to the Brass Door to feast on Hestia and Havert. It would no doubt be there now. And if it sensed Scorio creeping close, that would be it.

Scorio sighed. His odds of surviving alone down here with nothing but a lantern were dismal. But still slightly better than creeping back to the Brass Door, where other fiends would be drawn to with every passing minute.

So he turned, frowned at the extent of tunnel before him, and resumed walking.

The tunnel wound back and forth, narrowed, then widened to become a large, high-ceilinged cavern. The floor was interrupted by large stalagmites, slick and glistening in the mosslight, while massive fang-like stalactites descended from the shadowed ceiling.

Scorio picked a path between the columns, taking in the eldritch beauty of the stone formations, the way they glittered in the mosslight. He moved slowly, unsure as to where this meandering cavern’s exit was, only to pause at the sight of something sticking out of the floor.

It was a metal buckle, nearly swallowed up by silt, the iron badly rusted. Scorio crouched down to examine it, considered working it free, then sighed. Of what use would it prove?

Still, it was a sign that others had passed through here before. Raising his lantern, he stared all around.

A light scratching sound came from above. Scorio jerked the lantern up higher and stared into the dark depths between the stalactites. Was that movement? The whispery sound came again, but this time from various places across the ceiling.

He rose to his feet and turned in a circle, lantern raised high.

The darkness seethed, alive with hidden movements that he couldn’t quite make out.

Maybe there was a reason that a previous traveler had dropped his buckle here.

Hurrying now, Scorio strode on, rushing between the stalagmites, eyes raised as the sound followed him, seeming to track his passage in a great swathe across the ceiling. The very air was alive now with a terrible scritching and scratching, and Scorio was about to break into a run when he saw why.

Large insects. Hundreds of them, grub-white and with the long, angular legs of a grasshopper, each easily the size of a small dog, articulated feelers waving in the air, pincers as long as his forefinger opening and closing as if in anticipation.

Then Scorio did run, and as if that was the signal the insects had been waiting for, they sprang down after him.

The air filled with their falling bodies, several of them landing on him and clinging to his filthy white robes with the clawed tips of their feet.

They were light, as if hollow, and he beat them off, punching and waving them away. They tore great holes in his clothing as they fell, pincers working furiously, seeking his flesh.

Swinging his lantern about his head, he ran blindly toward the cave’s far side and saw that there was no far wall, but that rather the floor sloped down and away into darkness, damp and shining in the lantern light, smooth as if polished and interrupted here and there by slender stalagmites.

Pain lanced in his shoulder as one of the insects dug deep, and the air was alive with them now as they leaped after, bounding higher than his head, most missing him as he ran, but more and more landing on his shoulders, his back.

Scorio didn’t hesitate. The lantern failed to illuminate the depths, but staying up here was certain death. With a cry, he leaped forward to crash down on his back, crushing a number of the insects under his weight, and began to slide down.

The white death crickets leaped after him at first, but as he picked up speed, they ceased their pursuit.

The floor fell away quickly. His moss-lantern lit the low ceiling as it rushed by. He tried to catch hold of stalagmites as he passed, but their surfaces were too slick, too broad for him to do more than just slap them and turn onto his side.

The drop became nearly vertical. Down he flew, and then the floor dropped away altogether, and he fell.

Stomach plastered to his diaphragm, limbs swinging, he fell within the blue globe of his lantern light, certain that he was going to die, only to crash down onto a loose scree of rock.

It knocked the air right out of him, wrenched his left knee as his leg twisted, and shattered his moss lantern.

He lay there, dazed, staring up at the darkness that drank the faint blue light, and let out a low groan. Finally, he rolled onto his side, winced as pain flared from numerous cuts and scrapes, and sat up.

Only to realize just how lucky he’d been. Around him were dozens of stalagmites, their tips sharp enough to have impaled him through and through. If he’d fallen a little to his left, he’d have been impaled on one easily two yards high.

There was no telling the extent of the cavern. The mosslight was spilled all around, and by the soft glow he made out a shape draped across a stalagmite only a few yards away.

A corpse, held together by sinew and clothing and little else, the spear of rock jutting up through its chest.

Scorio crawled closer. It was impossible to tell much about the corpse. The scalp showed wisps of dark hair, the eyes were gone, the lips pulled away to reveal yellowed teeth.

Scorio grimaced. A moldy leather belt was wrapped around its waist with an empty dagger scabbard at the hip. Scorio raised his fistful of mosslight higher. A dagger lay amidst the remains of the skeletal hand.

They must have tried to arrest their fall by slamming the dagger into the rock. The tip was gone, after all.

A pack lay not too far away. Scorio edged over and saw that the leather was badly rotted from the damp. A buckle was missing from the flap, and with a sad shake of his head, he opened it to examine the contents.

The foodstuff was putrid and reduced to slime. There was a coil of rotted rope, a rotted blanket or bedroll, tightly rolled, a badly rusted tinder box, and—

Scorio froze at the sight of the miniature bridge. It was about six inches long, gently arched, and untouched by decay. Cunningly wrought, it lay lightly on his palm, innocuous and plain.

Scorio glanced back at the cadaver, then rummaged further in the rotten pack. He next drew out a steel rod, some eight inches wide and snug enough to fit in his hand. Turning it over and over, he found that it was inscribed with flowing runes, but nothing that he could understand or read.

Finally, he drew out a thick roll of oiled cloth, within which was a stick of chalk the size of his thumb.

Curious, hesitant, he leaned down and drew a slender line across the ground. The air above it immediately shimmered and undulated like haze caused by baking heat. Scorio extended his palm and pressed forward, only to be met with a cool and utterly solid form of resistance.

Scorio laughed, then ran his hand along the sheer pane of nothingness till he found its edge, which corresponded with the limit of the chalk line. Rising carefully to his feet, he reached up, and found that it extended beyond his ability to touch the top.

Sitting back down, he examined the chalk within the diffuse light of the moss, and saw that fresh scratch marks had registered upon its tip. A finite resource, then. It’d wear down eventually and be gone.

Trying to control his excitement, he wrapped the chalk up in its oiled cloth and took hold of the steel rod. Havert had said it would remain locked in place once activated, but he saw no means of doing so. Was the script perhaps an incantation? He pressed and prodded for a few minutes longer, then set it down and took up the miniature bridge.

There was no obvious means of activating its powers. No catch, no trigger, nothing that he could find.

Some of his excitement abated. One treasure out of three was still enormously good luck, but he still felt a little cheated by fate.

“You’ve my thanks,” he said, looking back at the corpse, but the sound of his own words unnerved him.

Carefully he gathered as much of the luminous moss as he could cup in his hands, and formed it into a rough pyramid, sufficiently removed that he didn’t need to gaze upon Radert’s remains. Then he sat cross-legged, back to the stalagmite that had nearly impaled him, and placed the treasures in his lap.

No food, no water, and a labyrinth of passages filled with fiends. A sufficiently deadly place that even so well-armed an explorer as Radert had fallen to his death.

The urge to hobble on, to let his desperation control him, was strong. Instead, Scorio settled himself, pursed his lips, and reviewed all that he knew.

Which wasn’t much.

Sal had said that you had to descend before you arose once more to the city of Bastion. Well, this drop could count as some of the descent already. But how to proceed? He’d need water soon enough. The humidity in the air teased him, but he’d yet to see a puddle or trickle he could drink from.

The treasures. They were his means of escape. Assuming they weren’t props used to trick Sal into doing whatever Radert wanted.

But say they were genuine. How might someone like Radert have used them? Gotten them to work? The chalk was simplicity itself, but the other two objects clearly required something more.

What?

A burning Igneous Heart? Had Radert progressed from Char? He’d entered the warren, not been cast into it, and carried this assortment of treasure with him, so it was likely that he’d powers of his own.

If having a burning Heart was required, then Scorio was out of luck. But he was a Great Soul, with the potential to grow in power and access… what exactly? He’d been told so little before being cast into the dark.

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to breathe slowly and think. The hanging chunk of obsidian within his breast was his Igneous Heart. There was a way to light it, but he’d yet to figure out how, and none of the other Red Listers in the warren had managed to do so even after years of imprisonment. Nothing obvious, then.

What else was there?

For a long time he simply sat, gently frowning as he searched his memories, and then, as if whispered to him from the memories of another life, Lianshi’s words returned to him: “A current of air passing around us.”

What had Asha called it? An invisible breeze. And said that it had been connected to the Heart, somehow.

Scorio raised his hand, eyes still closed, and strained to feel it once more. First, he concentrated on his palm, his skin, seeking to actually feel something, a physical sense of air. Nothing came. Then he sought to relax, to open his mind, to attempt to sense the breeze by not focusing on it directly.

He didn’t know for how long he sat there. The act caused his heart, or his spiritual core, his very sense of self, to ache painfully. Whatever Praximar had done to him, it had wounded him deeply in ways he couldn’t yet understand.

But Scorio had felt that invisible breeze once before, so he knew it could be done.

Resolute, he sat and focused, but it took eternities for his mind to quiet and lose that sense of urgency. Memories flickered against the inside of his eyelids, images of the recent past, but he let them go, tried not to engage them, to examine them closely.

He tried to sink deeper into his state of relaxation, hand still held before him, opening himself to the world, to the potential of what might be flowing around him even now.

Deeper he sank into his trance, his mind drifting, his back slowly bending, head lowering. Fatigue crept over him, and he entered a liminal state, half-awake, drifting toward an uncomfortable sleep. The pains that plagued his body grew numb and distant, and he thought he might lie back, just rest on the damp, gritty floor, to try again in a little while…

A prickle played across his palm and his eyelids fluttered. He fought back the surge of excitement and tried to focus on that sensation. A prickle? Not quite. More like a rough cloth being rubbed against his skin.

Gone now.

Taking a deep breath, he settled again.

Clutching at straws, he lowered his hand and instead focused inward. Sought to concentrate on his chest, on the darkness within it. Breathed slowly, in and out, trying to lower his awareness to that void, that great hollow within him which Praximar had so callously raided.

Slowly, painfully, it revealed itself, a dark mass, razor-edged, faceted, and gleaming in some subtle light.

Scorio fought to keep his mind still. To not force the moment. To drift, like a feather borne by idle currents, his focus coming closer, the image becoming clearer. Time had ceased to have meaning. The Igneous Heart hung before him, inert and cold.

How did one set stone on fire?

Thoughts began to crowd in, conjectures, and the heart faded from view, till he was left sitting alone once more.

Grimacing, he sat up straight, took a deep breath, held it, then slowly released. Sank back down into that void, seeking out the Heart, seeking to sink into his sense of self.

There. Gradually it appeared once more, and this time he thought it required a little less effort. He held it in his mind’s eye, and with it present, sought once more to sense that invisible breeze.

And this time, hovering in that dark space, he felt it quite easily. Like a cloud, amorphous, all around him, hovering in the air, ambient. But responsive, as well; his focus seemed to stir it to life, as if by concentrating he became some manner of vortex.

Scorio focused on the Igneous Heart, as if it were a handhold on a cliff face, and then, with part of his mind latched onto it, reached out to this ambient cloud, and sought to stir it.

It felt like clutching at fog. It was there now, a constant presence, but illusory, impossible to actually grasp. Instead, it twisted about him, evading capture, passing through him and around him, thick and heavy and cloying.

Scorio let out a gasp and opened his eyes. The pile of lantern-moss was growing a little dimmer. How long did he have before he was plunged into absolute darkness? Bottling up that fear, he stared down at the three treasures in his lap once more. Progress. He’d been able to envision the Heart and then sense the wind, both of which he’d been unable to do before.

Not that it had gotten him anywhere, but it was a beginning.

With a groan, he rose to his feet, and clutching the chalk in one hand and a fistful of moss in the other, he returned to Radert’s corpse to search it more carefully. He walked all the way around it, and this time he espied an old metal canteen affixed to the man’s belt. He untied it and gave it a shake; water sloshed within.

Fingers trembling, he unscrewed the cap and took a sip. The urge to gulp was overwhelming. The water tasted cool and fresh. He allowed himself three swallows before screwing the cap back on.

Until he found another source of water, he’d have to make this last.

Scorio returned to the treasures and sat once more. There had to be something he could do with his Heart and this wind. Something that would give him an edge in the darkness.

Closing his eyes, he sank deep into that trance-like state. He took his time, not rushing, allowing the gravitational pull of his dark core to gently pull him down. The Igneous Heart materialized before him, and once again he became aware of the ambient fog that filled the cavern.

Grasping at it had availed him nothing. There wasn’t anything to grasp with, anyways: his sense of reaching with an invisible hand was a heuristic tool that hurt him as much as helped.

It’s connected to my Heart. Somehow, I have to use that to draw it in.

The fog was all around him, but did not penetrate the inner sanctum in which the Heart hung. To affect his Heart he’d have to draw it in. He’d felt it pass through him back in the Gauntlet—perhaps he could do so purposefully, this time?

Again he focused on the Heart, and on that sensation of being a vortex. A void into which he’d draw the world.

The thick, cloying fog began to slowly whirl, its motion sluggish, resistant. Not knowing quite what he was doing, he focused on drawing it in, using the Igneous Heart as an anchor point, and stirred the fog with his mind, with his very being.

Around and around it went, drawing ever closer, pressing against him, and then, as if overcoming the slightest of resistances, it oozed into his interior space and continued to circle there, around his Heart.

And he could see it. Dimly, as if through smoked glass, but he could make out a black, choking cloud fitfully oozing around and around, like a miniature cyclone in slow motion.

Fierce excitement gripped him—was he on the verge of lighting his Heart? Unsure as to what else to do, he kept trying to draw the fog into this inner sanctum, seeking to pull ever more into that constricted space.

The fog grew ever so slightly more condensed, its movement more sluggish as it became thicker—but nothing else happened.

The Heart glittered with perilous beauty, inert and cold and still.

Scorio fought not to feel frustrated or impatient, but the extended bout of concentration was taking a toll on him. He gripped the steel rod in his lap tightly in one hand, the bridge in the other, and as he did so, he sensed them in a way that went beyond the physical.

They were—what, exactly? Funnels? Receptacles? In his mind’s eye, everything was choked with the thick, black fog, but the treasures exerted their own magnetic pull on him.

Scorio kept swirling the fog within his sanctum, not knowing what else to do, but felt his strength, his resilience growing weak. Unsure, growing desperate, he tried to move the pull of his vortex from the Igneous Heart to the steel bar in his lap.

He felt the choking fog wash over the treasure, pass through it.

Nothing happened.

Gritting his teeth, Scorio visualized the bar. Saw in his mind’s eye the swirling script. Imagined it a glass into which he was pouring water, a receptacle for the fog.

Felt the faintest breath of it enter the rod, sink into its essence, and there… bind? Conjoin? The black energy melded with the rod’s fabric. Scorio felt the enigmatic script blaze to life, and a portion of the sooty cloud simply burned away and was consumed.

Fierce joy surged within his breast, and he went to pump his fist into the air only to realize it was trapped, pressed tight against his thigh by the rod itself.

Scorio opened his eyes and stared in wonder. The rod was pinning his hand to his thigh. He yanked but it remained frozen in the air. The script was alive with a black flame, the lettering perfectly traced by an inner radiance.

He’d done it. He’d activated the bar.

Scorio drew his fingers free and then worked his leg out as well. The rod remained floating some six inches off the ground. Scorio wanted to laugh, to—in a fit of delirium—call out to Radert and tell him what he’d done.

Instead, he took hold of the rod and pulled. Stood, and stomped on it.

There was no give whatsoever.

His smile slowly faded. What if he couldn’t undo the activation? What if it was stuck there, and he’d have to leave it behind—?

The blue light from the script faded, and the steel bar fell to the stone ground with a clink.

Oh.

Scorio picked it up and turned it about in his hands, but the script was now barely visible. Had it burned through all the cloud essence he’d pushed inside it?

Again he sat and sank into that dark space where his Igneous Heart floated. Again he opened his perception to take in the heavy, ambient cloud that hung all around him, and this time he focused his attention on the rod in his hand.

Which felt like a funnel once more, its core empty, hungry.

Huh.

Taking measured breaths, Scorio set to swirling the cloud about himself, feeling like a man stirring a huge vat of mud with a wooden paddle, and again brought the cloud into his sanctum. Again he directed it down to the rod, focused on filling that hunger, on pushing as much of the black cloud into its core as he could.

It felt like trying to stuff cushions into a drinking cup.

He felt the script flare to life, and once again the rod froze in the air. This time Scorio didn’t stop; he kept stirring the sooty black cloud, swirling it about himself, and into the rod. But now it passed around and refused to enter, like falling leaves drifting down past a pole.

Scorio opened his eyes and set to counting as he stared at the rod. It hung at chest height, gleaming softly in the mosslight, the script illuminated. He watched carefully and had reached six seconds when the script dulled and died, and the rod fell into his waiting palm.

Tonguing his cheek thoughtfully, Scorio set the rod aside and took up the bridge. If it functioned in the same manner, directing the sooty cloud into its—funnel? He didn’t know what else to call it—would cause it to activate.

And having a bridge explode into full size in his lap was a precarious proposition.

Scorio set the bridge a good six feet away, placed so it would expand to his left and right, then returned to his seat.

Closing his eyes, he focused on bringing his Igneous Heart into view, then once more stirred the sluggish clouds into action. Were there fewer of them now? They felt as if they’d thinned out some. He formed that vortex-like pull around his heart, and when he had the clouds streaming about him as quickly as he could manage, he searched for the bridge’s own pull.

And could barely sense it. The faintest of pinpricks in the far distance. With sweat prickling his brow from effort, he tried a half-hearted attempt to direct the dark clouds toward that pull, but it was like casting sand into the waves. The moment the clouds left the space around his Heart, they stilled and became inert.

Eyes clenched tight, he crawled toward the bridge. The Heart slipped from his focus, but he brought it back through sheer determination, and reached out to the bridge, fumbling across the damp stone till he touched it.

There. The sense of its being a funnel became distinct. Drawing on the clouds once more, he channeled their darkness down and into the tiny bridge, seeking to fill it to the brim.

At first, nothing happened, but then the treasure must have passed a threshold, because it blazed in his mind’s eye, and he felt it jerk beneath his hand, crashing outward and jolting upward.

Startled, Scorio fell back, eyes snapping open, and he saw a large, arched bridge trapped between the stalagmites, turned half on its side, and rising into the air.

He marveled.

It was easily eight or ten yards long, perhaps two across, and built of stout timbers that were tightly lashed together with thick rope to reinforce the bolts driven through the beams. Railings rose on either side, and the planks were fitted closely together, making for a secure and smooth path from one end to the other.

Just as quickly as it had formed, the bridge shrank, sinking to where its far end touched the rocky ground, losing itself in the shadows.

Scooping up some moss, Scorio hurried over and picked it up. It had taken no damage despite bursting its way forth between the rocky spires.

He turned it over in his hands. It had extended away from the starting point, not out in both directions. Searching its miniature planks, he found a little metal triangle embedded in the left-most beam, its tip pointing across the rest of the bridge. The direction of expansion? And then it shrank down on the far side, which made sense. What use leaving your bridge behind on the wrong side of a chasm?

Cheered, he made his way back to his other belongings and considered them. Neither the bridge nor the bar lasted long—a handful of seconds at best. Curious, he went back to the chalky line he’d drawn and tested the air above it. Still firm. So at least that lasted a good amount of time.

They gave him options, though. A chance to escape this lethal labyrinth and out into Bastion.

At last, even his excitement proved unable to resist his exhaustion. Manipulating those dark clouds of energy had depleted him more than he’d expected. He lay down, propped his head on his arm, and closed his eyes. He slept uneasily and had no way of telling for how long he lay there. But Radert’s unmolested cadaver indicated this place wasn’t frequented by scavengers, so he allowed himself to feel a tenuous sense of confidence.

When he awoke, he was stiff and sore. His leg barely held his weight, and though he couldn’t see them, he knew he’d suffered cuts across his back and shoulders from the death crickets.

Taking a sip from his water, he gathered his meager belongings. The lamp-moss was now at half its previous radiance, limiting his sphere of vision to six or so yards before him, and even that was a ghostly half-light.

Not ideal.

But without any choice in the matter, he tucked it all inside his robe, held a large wad in one hand and Radert’s dagger in the other.

He paused by the cadaver, unsure what he should say or do. If Lianshi had been here, she’d no doubt have wanted to honor the dead. Feeling a connection to her through the memory, but unable to bury the body or say anything meaningful about the man, Scorio simply inclined his head in gratitude and respect and moved on.

The cavern was a bowl drained by narrow grooves he couldn’t fit into. He did a slow circumference of the chamber, and by holding up his moss got a sense of other tunnels opening in the walls high above. Was he in some manner of central drainage area?

The walls were slick, smooth, and utterly defied any attempts to be climbed. Instead, he spotted what seemed a promising ledge some six or seven yards above and set the bridge upon the ground. Gauging the angle carefully, he propped it up and aimed its far end into the air.

Scorio closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and summoned his Igneous Heart. The sooty clouds in the cave seemed to have replenished themselves while he slept, and with strong, muscular sweeps of his spirit, he stirred them about himself once more, around and around and then down into the treasure.

It filled and then jerked to life.

Snapping open his eyes, Scorio saw the bridge erupt upwards, the effect almost immediate, its far end disappearing into the darkness. He gave it a push, speeding its fall, and it dropped down to bounce against the ledge.

With only five or so seconds remaining, he had no time to waste. He scampered up the planks as quickly as he could, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg.

One, two… he did his best to count slowly, lunging up to grab at cracks in the timbers. Three, four…

There, the ledge. Not knowing how many seconds he had left, he surged up and to the side, leaving the bridge to catch hold of the rocky lip.

The bridge shuddered and contracted upwards, recoiling and then dropping down from the shadows to bounce upon the ledge.

Scorio levered himself up, and let out a defiant, “Ha!”

It’d worked! He’d used his… dark cloud manipulation abilities… to activate a treasure and accomplish the impossible!

Taking up the bridge, he limped into the oblique tunnel, a fistful of moss held high, heart pounding, and felt the first hint of confidence since being thrown through the Final Door.

Chapter 10

The next three waking cycles were a continuous exercise in defying probability by exploring the extreme limits of ingenuity.

The rough caverns weren’t exactly infested with fiends, but that almost made it worse. Scorio could climb and walk for hours without seeing another living thing, only to stumble into a gigantic leech whose innards contained mesmerizing star clusters that stupefied his mind and made it nearly impossible to think.

The longer he went without running into a monster, the greater his sense of dread; on some irrational level, he started to believe that the duration of solitude corresponded to the monster’s lethality, so that he was almost relieved to cross the path of a flame-breathing centipede twice his own length right after escaping the trap of a dog-sized antlion that sought to suck him into its trap.

The chalk proved to be his greatest defense, though he was increasingly loath to use it. His lantern-moss had nearly grown completely dark when he turned a corner and awoke a sleeping carpet of mushrooms that began to glow brightly, their gills emitting a green, noxious light, and which then released a cloud of spores into the air that began to float in his direction.

A step backward, a quick scrape of the chalk across the tunnel, and the gas and spores were held at bay.

He experimented with different techniques after realizing that closing off an entire tunnel was unnecessary. Thus, when he ran into a boulder-sized toad which sat in the center of a cavern, its smooth, eyeless sockets shadowed under peaked horns, he simply backed away. But when the toad began to shorten the ground between them, however, somehow compressing the distance so that Scorio felt as if he were falling toward the fiend, he simply drew a two-inch-wide line on the ground. This invisible pole smashed into the toad’s face, shattering its jaw and knocking it off its perch.

He considered different tactics as he climbed and rested. What if he drew a circle about himself? Would he remain trapped for hours, or eventually run out of air? What if he drew a line on a pebble, then turned the pebble over so that it faced an oncoming enemy—would the invisible wall turn into a lance, or a razor-sharp curtain on which his foe would impale himself?

That one was quick to test—the chalk wouldn’t mark any handheld object, and drawing the line on a pebble that lay on the ground nailed the pebble down as if it had melded with the floor.

When he was next in a larger cavern, he drew an inch-long line on the wall, with the result being an invisible pole that extended clear to the far side of the cave. Easily ten yards. Which didn’t mean it would extend forever, but gave him a sense of its flexibility. Nor was it particularly sharp—it felt like the rounded edge of a rod, perhaps half an inch thick.

His experiments were curtailed by his desire to conserve the chalk. Already he’d used a quarter of it escaping five different monsters, each distinct from the last. At the rate he was going, he guessed the chalk would last him another fifteen or so moderate applications, and then it would be gone forever.

The rod and bridge were much harder to use. They required focus, summoning an image of his Igneous Heart, and then tediously sweeping the dark clouds around and into each one that he wished to activate. Useful for crossing the innumerable chasms or scaling sheer rock faces, but far too slow to use in combat.

Not that he could think of how to use them to stop a charging foe.

The occasional stream or silty pool assuaged his thirst, but by the third day, his hunger pangs had faded away and left him in a state of lethargic stillness. Running caused him to grow dizzy, and he found it incredibly easy to just sit and do nothing, resting contentedly while feeling light and hollow.

But always he pulled himself back up to his feet. His wounds scabbed over and began to heal without signs of infection. The deep, sucking pain in his core that Praximar had dealt him also began to fade. He’d discarded the last of the lantern-moss for a glowing sapphire he’d stolen from a large nest while its occupant was gone, and not stuck around to see what might come back to complain.

On he went, climbing, struggling for the surface. Resting when he had to, pushing on until he reached an obstacle that he thought would be his last.

But between the bridge and the steel rod, his determination and the ability to create invisible rods with the chalk to grab hold of, he managed to keep climbing. Each hour a success. Each time he awoke unmolested from sleep upon some high hidden perch was another improbable victory.

Until at last, half-delirious, dragging his feet across the ground, he crested a sharp rise and saw a cavern saturated with a sulfurous yellow light. He froze, one hand clutching the now-dull dagger, the other already fumbling to put away the sapphire in exchange for his chalk, and stared into the pocket cavern, searching its confines until he saw the source of illumination: a ragged crack in the ceiling.

For a moment he thought it might lead into the Gauntlet, then realized that this was a different kind of light; not a hazy, apocalyptic orange glow, but rather a washed-out, dusty burn.

Scorio had learned the value of patience, of caution, so he remained still, just watching, waiting for some sign of danger or a trap to manifest. But after a long spell of immobility, he simply couldn’t restrain himself any longer.

He had to look through that ragged rent in the ceiling.

Had to see what lay beyond.

Exercising as much care as he could muster, he leaped silently over the crest and landed in a crouch. Watched the walls, expecting something awful to rush him at any moment, and crept to the spot where the yellow light was brightest. Stowed the sapphire in his robe and raised his hand to look up through his fingers.

After so many days spent in soft blue radiance, the cadmium yellow burn from above felt unnatural, felt wrong somehow. Yet, grimacing against the glare, he slowly began to distinguish a slender glowing wire stretching across the sky.

Scorio’s heart began to surge within his chest. The space outside was vast, a cylinder so huge he could barely grasp its enormity. He took one final glance around the cave, set the bridge upon the ground, and swept black wind into the treasure’s funnel.

The bridge sprang to life, arched up and out of the hole. Still squinting against the unaccustomed brightness, he climbed up, hand over hand, till at last, he was able to poke his head out and gaze at the world above.

Scorio gaped for precious seconds, only to remember at the very last moment that the bridge was about to contract. He scrambled out of the hole just in time. The bridge sprang up under the power of its own recoil and clattered down amid the rocks.

But for the first time since acquiring the treasure, Scorio didn’t immediately reach for it. Instead, he pulled himself out all the way, sat against a jutting rock, and stared.

The sun-wire, or source of light, or whatever it was, stretched like a filament of spun gold through the air above, a central axis around which the city of Bastion curved, its buildings set along the inside of a vast cylinder. Streets rose up on both sides to meet on the far side of the sun-wire, perhaps a dizzying four thousand feet above.

And what a sight. Craning his head he thought he could make out life playing out all around him and on the streets far above. Small dots moving that could have been pedestrians, the tops of vegetation, of buildings. Everybody was pulled toward the street beneath their feet, even if they walked directly overhead.

It made him feel vertigo. He couldn’t have stood up if he’d tried.

The sun-wire’s golden light filled the entire cylinder. Its glow washed out details, reduced shadows to dusty darkness and the rest to shades of yellow, orange, and amber. It was anchored at the left end of the cylinder to a vast, ornate protrusion of pale marble.

But as pristine and glorious as that anchor point seemed to be, the left-most part of Bastion that abutted it was in ruins. Ruins that had consumed a third of the city, ruins in whose periphery he now sat.

In them, he saw the vast, blocky remnants of scorched buildings, the streets between them having often collapsed into chasms whose depths glowed with fire or perhaps smoldering magma. Buildings whose sides had partially collapsed and spilled out into barren avenues, or whose grandiose features were mostly erased by the passage of time and rough erosion. Bridges arched out over the burning depths, some improbably slender and still holding, others having collapsed long ago so that each shattered end reached for the other like yearning lovers cruelly parted.

All the way around the ruins extended, from where Scorio sat, up both sides of the cylinder, to meet at the top. A belt of ruin and gray stone, of burning light from cavernous depths that competed with the sun-wire’s own refulgent glow. Endless city blocks, a cordon of desolation and dark stone. No greenery, no vegetation, no color but the charred remnants of once-grand buildings, their darkened windows, their ruined towers.

What had happened? How had a third of the city been allowed to fall into such disrepair? Was this the cause of the war of which the chancellor had spoken?

Tearing his gaze away, he examined the rest of the city. A large building to his right blocked his view of the cylinder’s other end where the sun-wire was no doubt attached to a similar anchor. But what he could see, however, was the same grand architecture, monumental and imposing, with bridges and broad avenues. These were alive, vibrant with activity, the buildings painted white and trimmed with colored accents, streets with strings of pennants hung across them, squares with purple and blue leaved trees, monuments gilded in gold and silver, and more detail than he could encompass. The buildings weren’t uniform in appearance either; here and there he spotted edifices that were clearly important, hulking over their neighbors, bedecked with flags and hung with monstrous banners depicting their arms or insignias.

There was a huge ring, set on the cylinder’s side so that from his vantage point Scorio could see a great arena within, while stadium seating descended from its high walls right down to the sands. There a great tower some ten stories high, there a ziggurat whose edges were limned in gold, its uppermost level a gorgeous garden whose vines hung down to the lower platforms.

It was too much. He could have sat there all day, taking it all in, and still had more to feast his eyes on. But with great reluctance, he tore his gaze away, found and pocketed his bridge, and rose shakily to his feet.

After so much time spent within the claustrophobic confines of the caverns, the sense of open air above him jellied his knees. It helped to lower his gaze and focus on the rubble right before him. He was in the final bounds of the ruined zone, a belt that bordered the closest inhabited buildings. Taking a deep breath, he set forth, without a plan but knowing that he had to eat, had to find people, had to take the next step and begin defining his new life.

“How hard will it be to hide out there?” he heard Nissa ask, her voice a whisper in his ear. “What kind of life are we going to live?”

The rock beneath his feet seemed to grow younger as he went; lighter, less splintered and shattered, and in growing variety. It was as if some great fire had consumed the ruined zone from the inside out, turning the very rock into brittle scoria, and as he left it the stone took on color again, regained its hardness and clean lines.

There were buildings around him, but these were hollowed out, windowless, the rooms within without furniture or reason to step inside. Husks and hollowed shells, most two or three stories tall. No signs of life but for strange, crimson creatures the length of his arm that tracked him from a distance, slipping smoothly over the sides of the buildings as if untethered from the forces of gravity.

Scorio crouched down and studied the closest one as it curled around a ruined column off to one side; it had four stubby little legs, and large, feather-like frills that swept back from the sides of its face and neck. Small, forward-facing eyes of perfect jet studied him, and a mobile little mouth seemed to be curved into an expression of genial amusement. Its sides were streamed with bands of different hues of red, peppered here and there by dark dots like freckles whose centers were a pale white.

“Can you understand what I’m saying?” he asked, voice hoarse, and then immediately felt foolish. The creature blinked but otherwise made no expression of having understood. After a moment Scorio resumed walking.

He went another block, trying to stick to shadows despite the ubiquity of the sun-wire’s dusty, yellow light. A dull, repetitive clinking sound and the murmur of voices came from ahead, so he slowed, considered his options, and then entered the last building. Slid in through a gaping window, then walked as quietly as he could through its shadowed interior to the far side, where he peered out a window at what looked to be a small market.

A huge patchwork awning was strung up over the intersection of two ancient avenues. Under its expanse were small stalls, most being little more than boards set atop rocks, though a few looked to be actual carts that had been unhitched and used to reveal meager wares.

A sparse crowd was moving leisurely through this ragged market, with most of the customers engaged in conversation with the stall owners, a few haggling half-heartedly, though without animosity. A gaggle of dirty children was clustered around a crude iron cage in which one of the crimson snake-salamanders was caught, laughing and poking at it with sticks, causing it to leap up into a miniature cyclone and give off sheets of red flame before falling back down to the cage’s floor.

There weren’t any guards, at least not any that were obviously on duty. To one side, a couple of women had staked out a spot, one standing with a fiddle propped upon her shoulder, the other playing a battered instrument consisting of a score of iron pipes of different lengths arrayed together so that they emitted beautiful, hollow sounds as she ran her metal-capped fingertips over them.

But Scorio’s attention was riveted to a stall that was little more than a charred grill set over a bed of white, dusty coals. A lantern-jawed man with greasy black hair was tending skewers of glistening meat, and basting them from a small pot with a thicky, syrupy liquid.

The savory-sweet smell caused Scorio’s stomach to cramp and his mouth to flood with spit. The urge to just clamber out of the window and run at him was near overwhelming, but he forced himself to swallow and stay still.

First, he’d no means to pay. Second, everyone in the little market appeared familiar with each other; the air was convivial, relaxed, and he’d no doubt stand out like the stranger he was.

Fading away from the window, he scrutinized himself. His white robe and golden belt were now so dirty and torn that they looked little better than rags. His thin sandals were falling apart, the left having nearly lost its sole. His hands were gray with dirt, his fingernails grimy, and moving his hand up to his face he felt four days’ worth of stubble. Hair? Dusty and tangled.

No. Emerging like this would cause a stir. People would demand to know who he was, and what would he say? Stumbling out of the ruins like that?

So Scorio ignored the tormented cramps in his stomach and moved cautiously back to the window.

The wares on sale were few. Most of the little stalls had a dozen items on display at best: one a bunch of withered roots, another a collection of bowls, clearly hand-carved, a third had just three small loaves, blackened and dusted with white flour. A fourth simply had a large stone wheel affixed to the side of a little cart, a pedal and series of straps turning it into some kind of contraption.

Not a lot of wealth here. The people themselves were soberly dressed, many of them in patched and threadbare robes. Faces were gaunt, but for the most part clean. The adults, he saw, had long scabbarded daggers affixed to their belts, the scabbards being brightly colored and adorned with beads, markings, and emblems he couldn’t understand. A marker of their identity? Clearly, they were important.

Was the light changing? It was subtle, but he thought it was—the dusty yellow was becoming a syrupy amber, the shadows more distinct, color stealing back into what had been washed out, everything with a lazy patina over it, as if the light were waxing the city into deeper hues.

The sun-wire had grown a trifle dimmer.

A few of the stalls began to close up. Some simply packed away their wares and hoisted their planks up under an arm. Others, after calling out their goodbyes, stored their wares within little cabinets in the body of their stalls then began to wheel away their carts.

A better-dressed child with a blue sash had shown up with a luxuriously fluffy pet in her scrawny arms, a six-legged cat-like creature that appeared to be all white down, with over-sized blue insectile eyes, moth-like antennae, and large, ivory-colored butterfly wings. The gaggle of children immediately encircled her, eager to pet the strange creature, then followed her away as she left the market.

Scorio wanted to go out amongst those people that remained. To introduce himself, to ask for a blackened loaf, a cup of fresh water. To explain that he was lost, knew nothing, needed help, charity, friendship.

But he stayed still, ignored his bitter hunger and drifting inability to focus. He was scraped and raw, hurt and exhausted. He didn’t trust his judgment, nor what the people out there might do to him.

So he waited, and the syrupy amber light turned honeyed, the shadows growing larger, their edges less distinct, and the last of the stalls closed up shop.

The skewer-man’s departure was particularly painful, but when the meat was out of sight, he found himself better able to think.

The pair of musicians were the last to give up the market. They played even as the final stall owners left, until the fiddler finally lowered her instrument with a frustrated grimace and gave a caustically mocking bow to the empty market.

Scorio watched them. They didn’t seem to be part of the communal tapestry; nobody had engaged them in conversation, and the few that did seemed to only thank them for their skillful playing before moving on.

The seated woman rolled her pipes into a tight parcel with measured, deliberate movements, tied a pair of thongs around it, and slung it over her shoulder as she stood.

Scorio watched, curious.

The fiddler picked up her cap, emptied some octagonal tokens into her hand, counted them, and then her square shoulders slumped.

The pair spoke in desultory tones as the fiddler stowed her instrument in a badly battered case. The conversation pricked the fiddler’s temper; she glared up from where she crouched to say something withering, and the other woman turned away, expression tightly controlled, jaw clenched.

The fiddler took up her case, and then to Scorio’s delight led the other musician not deeper into the hospitable section of Bastion, but down one of the deserted streets into the ruins.

Homeless, then, just like him.

Scorio slipped out of the building and did his best to trail after them, trying to figure out the best approach. In the end, he decided to be direct. Anything else would rightfully cause them to regard him with suspicion.

“Hello?” He raised a hand and stepped out into the middle of the rubble-strewn street. “Excuse me?”

Both women spun around as if expecting an attack. They were only a few blocks from the market, but clearly, they were ready for trouble. The pipe player placed a hand over the haft of a large mallet that hung from her hip, while the fiddler reached behind her back to ghost her fingers over the hilt of a short stabbing blade.

Scorio approached slowly, both hands raised, trying for a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of a better way of introducing myself, and this is already going terribly. Is there any way we could talk? You set the terms.”

The musicians exchanged a glance, and what passed between them was enough for the fiddler to lower her hands to her hips. She was tall, rangy, skin a deep bronze and with a thick brown braid with a crimson ribbon spiraling through it hanging down nearly to her waist.

“That’s close enough,” she said. “What do you want?”

“I need help, but don’t have any of those octagonal coins with which to buy supplies—”

Their expressions hardened, eyes narrowing, and he could practically read their thoughts: A beggar, wasting our time, trying to grift a pair of grifters—

“But I do have this,” he continued and drew out the glowing sapphire the size of his fist.

“The Imperators wept,” said the fiddler, face going slack, eyes opening wide.

“He must have stolen it,” said her companion, voice deeper, suspicious. “He’ll have people after him. Best we steer clear.”

“To starve in perfect grace by ourselves?” The fiddler’s wide lips broadened into a smile. “I’d rather a little trouble. Better than playing Elenor’s Fall to a bunch of halfwits. What’s your name, stranger?”

“Scorio.” He slipped the sapphire back into his robe. “May we talk?”

“I’m Helena,” said the fiddler, and her smile was predatory, her gaze alive with surmises and stratagems. “This grouch is my partner in crime, Feiyan. How’d you come across that gem?”

“Found it,” he said, then gave a low laugh. “Which, weirdly enough, is actually true. It was in a large nest underground. And I’ll be willing to discuss how I might be convinced to part with it in exchange for help.”

“This help,” said Helena, stepping toward him, moving warily as if afraid he might bolt and run. “What are we talking about?”

“We don’t have the octs to give you fair value,” said Feiyan. She was shorter than her partner, her black hair styled into a pompadour, vivid against her pale skin, her frame that of a blacksmith. “And I’d rather gut you than sleep with you.”

Which earned her a warning glower from Helena that she ignored with sublime indifference.

“Fair enough,” said Scorio. “I’m not looking for market value. I suffered a blow to the head while exploring underground, and lost most of my memories. All I ask for is some food, some answers, and perhaps some new robes so that I’ll look less like a murderous madman.”

“A blow to the head, eh?” Helena’s expressions were quicksilver, flickering from doubt to scrutiny to an encouraging smile. “That’s tragic. But of course, we’ll help. We can manage to feed another mouth for a night, can’t we, Feiyan?”

“We’re not idiots,” said her companion, crossing her arms deliberately over her chest. “Lost your memories? What do you remember?”

“Not much,” said Scorio. “My name, the name of the city, little more than that.”

“Not our business,” said Helena pointedly. “We’d be glad to help.”

“And get involved in Academy or House business? Not likely. We’re better off scraping by and staying alive than getting mixed up in your trouble.”

Helena’s smile grew stiff as she wheeled to face her friend. “How about we step aside to talk about this?”

“How about we tell this guy to find another pair of idiots to rope into his troubles?”

“Let’s talk. Excuse us, Master Scorio.” And Helena draped a tanned arm over her friend’s compact shoulders and forcefully steered her to the side of the street.

Scorio waited. Helena was clearly doing most of the talking. Feiyan stood with her arms crossed and stared off down the street, her expression set.

Helena threw up her hands, walked away five steps, turned back, hunched her shoulders, and held her hands out as if cupping a bowl, speaking rapidly, her tone insistent. Feiyan looked sidelong at her, eyebrow raised, gave a snort, looked away. Helena straightened, hands on hips, said something pointed. Feiyan started, glowered at her, to which Helena nodded slowly, as if affirming some bitter truth.

At last, Feiyan sighed, shook her head in bitter resignation, then gave the barest of nods.

Helena turned back to Scorio and beamed. “We’ve reached an agreement. Help in exchange for your gem. But our partnership will be of an extremely limited duration. We’ll get you a set of clean robes, a hot meal, answer any questions you may have, and then bid you goodbye. Deal?”

“Deal,” said Scorio mildly. He knew he was being cheated out of an enormous sum, but what good would the sapphire do him if he starved to death in the ruins, or was arrested by more respectable locals the moment he stepped into view?

“Excellent.” Helena strode up to him, and up close he saw that she wore metallic eyeshadow, bright yellow at the corners of her eyes which gradated to a rich crimson at the wings. “Let’s get this relationship off to a good start. The gem?”

“Here,” he said, patting his robe. “I’ll give it to you once I’ve had my meal and received the robes.”

“Sure you will,” said Feiyan, drifting up behind her partner. “Why would we ever doubt you?”

“My friend raises a good point,” said Helena. “How are we to trust you?”

“You can’t,” said Scorio. “But there’s got to be a little trust if this is going to work.”

“You armed?” asked Feiyan.

“A dagger.”

“Hand it over and you can hold onto the gem.”

“What’s to stop you from taking it from me by force if I do?”

Feiyan’s smile was darkly amused. “What’s to stop us from doing so now?”

“Trust,” said Helena, as if discovering the word for the first time. “Let’s try it. Come on. We’ve a glorious camp not too far from here. We can talk there.”

“Great,” said Feiyan. “This is getting better and better.”

Scorio smiled and inclined his head. “Lead on.”

They split, both walking just ahead and on opposite sides of him, glancing back as they led him down the darkening street.

“So, Scorio.” Helena’s tone was bright, curious, probing. “What do you want to know?”

“We’re not sharing anything personal,” warned Feiyan.

What did he want to know? Everything. But where to start? Scorio felt momentarily overwhelmed by the enormity of his ignorance. The sun-wire had now dimmed to a ruddy copper, and the light had changed accordingly. Slowly darkening toward—what?

His first question just popped into his mind. “Why is a third of the city ruined?”

The two women exchanged glances again. “Nobody knows,” said Helena. “Why does a plant wither in time? Why does hot passion one day run cold? Bastion’s dying.”

“So it’s a natural process? Not part of the war?”

“I didn’t say that.” She sounded almost irritated. “But if you’re going to ask those kinds of questions, we won’t be of much help. We’re just a pair of innocent troubadours and harvesters, you see? A couple of talented ladies trying to get by. Ignorant of such grand and, ah, metaphysical questions.”

Feiyan snorted.

“What?” asked Helena, grinning. “You know something I don’t?”

To which Feiyan just smiled and shook her head.

“All right. The Houses. One of them’s House Hydra, right?”

“That’s right,” said Helena.

Feiyan kicked a pebble and sent it skittering. “They the ones you stole the gem from?”

“What can you tell me about them?”

“Some, but not too much,” replied Helena. “Only what we’ve seen from our impoverished perspective, languishing on the streets.” They reached an intersection, and Feiyan turned without hesitation to the left, leading them down a narrower road. “There are four great Houses, with Hydra being the most prestigious, the most political of them.”

“Kraken is the most prestigious,” said Feiyan.

“No it’s not,” said Helena, clicking her tongue in annoyance. “It’s the richest. Money doesn’t equal prestige.”

Feiyan didn’t look convinced. “Does in my books.”

“And that’s why I love your little mercenary soul,” said Helena. “But anyways, Hydra’s where most of the ruling council comes from. So. House Hydra, House Kraken with their endless vaults of treasures and wealth, House Chimera, the youngest house—”

Feiyan stopped before a mostly demolished building, half of its face slurried down into the street, and moved to climb in through one of the dark windows. “Chimera’s been making a name for itself. Growing famous for deep-hell acquisitions.”

“Sure,” said Helena tolerantly. “And then there’s House Basilisk, the eldest and most nefarious.” She looked at Scorio speculatively. “Which, to be honest, is whom we’ll probably be selling your gem to.”

A light bloomed inside the building, and Feiyan appeared, holding a lantern aloft. “Hurry up, get inside. Light’ll attract trouble.”

“After you,” said Helena, with another mocking bow.

Scorio climbed inside. The room was barren and decrepit, the walls cracked, the floor covered in detritus. Nothing that would cause him to enter if he’d looked into it while passing by.

Feiyan had stepped away from him, hand resting on the head of her hammer, and watched him closely. He raised both palms, but her studiedly neutral expression remained unchanged.

Helena vaulted lithely inside, and Feiyan led the way deeper into the building, to a central room with no windows. A stairwell led down into the dark, but instead of descending, Feiyan set the lantern on a ledge and stared at Helena. “We can talk here.”

“Smart.” Helena sighed, unshouldered her pack and fiddle, then bent down to touch her toes. “Though not as comfortable.”

More to show that he wasn’t going to be a threat, Scorio sat with his back to the wall. He felt light-headed with hunger, but instinct told him to be patient. “These Houses. They run things in Bastion, then?”

“Yes,” said Feiyan.

“Mostly. Kind of. Depends what you mean,” said Helena, sitting across the room from him, her long arms resting atop her knees. “They haven’t been doing such a great job of late, what with the failed prophecy, the riots, the rise of the Deniers, the calls for equality, you know.” She gave an airy wave of her hand. “The Academy’s its own thing, of course, from where the Houses try to recruit as many new Great Souls as they can. Supposed to offer new graduates all kinds of wealth and power. Most of the leadership in each House is a Great Soul as a result.”

“You two aren’t…?” Scorio cut himself off.

“What?” asked Helena, arching an eyebrow, her eyeshadow glinting in the lantern light. “Great Souls?”

“Sure,” he said, deciding it was too late to retract the obvious.

“No,” said Feiyan, tone deadpan. “We’re not. Are you?”

His exhaustion and hunger dulled his wits, so that for a moment he simply stared at her, trying to think of a convincing denial.

“Let’s not get personal!” said Helena, voice rich with false cheer. “That was the agreement, wasn’t it?”

“Right,” said Scorio. “It was. So Great Souls run things around here?”

“That they do,” said Helena. “Though most of them end up leaving Bastion to go deeper into hell. To LastRock, or the Fiery Shoals, or Red Keep. Only the ones content to run the Houses end up sticking around.”

LastRock. He’d heard that name. Jova Spike had been from there. “So when you die, you don’t come back?”

Both women stared at him.

“What?” He leaned his head back against the wall. “I’m too tired and hungry to pretend to know things I don’t.”

“We don’t come back here,” said Feiyan, tone short, her words sounding as if she were repeating a stock phrase. “We’ll be reborn back in Ettera, having served a lifetime assisting the heroes of Bastion.”

Scorio stared at her blankly. “Ettera. That’s our homeworld.”

“Somebody give him a prize,” said Feiyan, tone growing irritable.

“You said no metaphysical questions,” said Scorio, ignoring her. “But why did we come here? As a people? Why build Bastion?”

Helena stared at her fingernails as she cleaned dirt out from under one of them. “I mean, that’s the question of the hour, isn’t it? We’re all told from birth that it was to stop hell from coming back to Ettera. Now, is that true? Who can tell? But the fact is, the portal home’s been closed for as long as anyone can remember. If it really even ever was a portal.”

“You know what I think?” asked Feiyan, dark eyes glittering. “I think the Deniers are speaking a whole lot of sense. All of that’s a story made up by the Great Souls to justify the way they treat us—”

“Feiyan,” protested Helena.

“To justify the way they’ve set up Bastion, the order of things, the systems of oppression that keep us poor and servile.” Feiyan’s stare could have bored holes in the Brass Door. “We’ve all these stories, but nobody knows if they’re true. Even the Great Souls. Even the leaders of the bloody Houses. Nobody knows. There’s no proof. All this time we were told to look to their damned Empyreal Prophecy, and look how that turned out. A humiliation.” She leaned forward. “You want to know what’s really going on? We’re born into Bastion, we serve for as long as we’re useful, and then we die. Unless you’re a Great Soul, and then you live a life of privilege and get to come back. Which isn’t the honor it’s made out to be. In fact, I think it’s the worst form of punishment I can think of.”

“Great,” said Helena, tone resigned. “You going to give him revolution pamphlets while you’re at it?”

“Nah,” said Feiyan, looking away at last and recrossing her arms.

“Thank you,” said Helena, and summoned a smile. “So! What else you want to ask?”

Scorio frowned, looking from one woman to the next. “I don’t know. What do you think I should ask?”

“Oh, tricky. I like it.” Helena leaned forward and roped her arms around her knees again. “You’re going to want to lay low, not draw attention, and find a means to make octs. Which means working with House Basilisk, most likely. Bastion’s too small, too provincial for you to try and get a job without raising eyebrows.”

“Neither of you seems provincial or local.”

“That’s because we’re fabulous,” said Helena with a grin. “And clearly know how the world works and don’t ask stupid questions. But even we have a tough time of it. Sure, there’s a small part of society that doesn’t want to work the way their parents work, that wants something more like freedom, to get out of the system. But we can make that work because we know the rules and when to break them. A little singing here, harvesting Black Star petals there, knowing when to move on to the next Ward—we get by. You? You’ll just break them and get caught. Probably without even knowing what you did.”

“But working for House Basilisk will change that?”

“It’s your best bet.” Helena considered him. “All the Houses struggle against each other, but Basilisk, they’re the most willing to undertake, how should I put it, ah—nefarious tactics. You know. Like stealing shipments coming into the city, or hitting other Houses for their goods.”

Feiyan nodded reluctantly. “Which means they’ll hire anyone desperate enough to risk taking part in one of their schemes.”

Scorio frowned. “But what’s to stop the other Houses from infiltrating them with their own agents?”

“Who’s to say it doesn’t happen?” asked Helena. “But Bastion’s not big enough for true anonymity. The crews that’ll hire out are known quantities. They operate knowing they risk being killed if they’re caught. But nobody takes it personally. One month they might hire out to Basilisk, the next to Chimera. Long as you don’t get caught.”

“So why should I approach Basilisk?” asked Scorio.

“Because they’ll realize you’re trouble and not care,” said Feiyan flatly. “And they’ll give you a job. One that will probably get you killed, sure, but it’ll be better than nothing.”

“Or you could try begging,” said Helena, shrugging one rangy shoulder. “Learn enough to avoid being noticed, and spend the rest of your life on the verge of starvation, moving around, making no friends so you can’t be betrayed…”

“You’d love it,” said Feiyan with a dark smile.

“Sounds great. What about going into the caves? Finding more treasure like that sunphire?”

“Sure,” said Feiyan, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. “A fine way to be rich for a year and then get yourself killed. The deeper you go into the ruins, the more dangerous it is. Fiends, horrors, the Nightmare Lady…”

“A Great Soul could do it,” said Helena thoughtfully.

“But why would a Great Soul be scavenging in the first place?” asked Feiyan.

“Point,” agreed Helena.

“Plus I’m not a Great Soul,” said Scorio, half in jest, half in protest.

They both simply stared at him.

“So work for Basilisk, then,” he said, sitting up. “They pay well?”

“No,” said Feiyan. “But they do pay. If you’re good, it can be a living.”

“And I won’t stand out?”

“You’ll stand out,” continued Feiyan. “But you’ll be known as a Basilisk operative, and folks will give you wide berth. You’ll find your place in society. Not in the cracks like we live, or under everyone’s feet like a beggar, but…” She trailed off, glanced at Helena.

“But as someone everyone will be willing to take octs from,” continued the fiddler. “Right up till you make a mistake and die. Which is what everyone will be counting on. A problem that’ll take care of itself.”

“Charming,” said Scorio.

Feiyan smirked. “Welcome to Bastion.”

“But you’ll have to be careful with your questions,” said Helena.

“Even if I work for Basilisk?”

“Especially if you work for Basilisk. Your best bet will be to just keep your trap shut. Even if you don’t know what’s going on. Just pretend you do. And eventually, you will.”

“Won’t work,” said Feiyan. “You’re doomed.”

“Oh, stop,” said Helena, half-heartedly throwing a pebble at her. “Can’t you even pretend to be nice?”

“No,” said Feiyan, turning away so the pebble missed her.

“It’s not likely to work,” said Helena, turning back to him. “But what choice do you have?”

“Can you introduce me to some Basilisk people?” asked Scorio.

Helena pursed her wide lips and looked to Feiyan. They seemed to communicate a lot in that one glance. Finally, Feiyan sighed. “Sure. Fine. I guess.”

Helena beamed. “That’s so nice of you.”

“Watch it. But after that, nothing more. An introduction and you’re on your own.”

“Fine,” said Scorio, then felt his stomach cramp as it gurgled audibly. “About that food you promised me?”

“Stay up here,” said Feiyan, picking up her belongings. “Helena will bring it up when it’s ready.”

“I will?” asked Helena, climbing to her feet.

“You will,” said Feiyan, moving down the steps. “And Scorio.” She paused to level a flat stare at him. “If you come down these stairs for any reason? Any reason at all? I’ll cave in your head with my hammer.”

“She’s so nice,” said Helena.

Scorio raised both hands appeasingly. “Understood.”

Feiyan studied him a moment longer, then grunted and descended out of view, taking the lantern with her. The room darkened immediately, so that he could barely make out Helena standing at the head of the steps, dimly lit from below.

Helena flipped her thick braid behind her back and took up her fiddle case. “We’ll be just a moment. And don’t run away with that sapphire, all right?”

“No worries there.”

Helena studied him through narrowed eyes a moment longer, then smiled, a broad, easy smile that was so charismatic it almost seemed unforced, her teeth pale in the gloom. “Great. I’m glad we met you, Scorio. This is going to prove immensely profitable for the both of us.”

“I’ll settle for a hot meal and clean robes,” said Scorio, smiling back.

She winked at him. “That’s the spirit.”

And fiddle case in hand, she descended after her friend, leaving him in the dark.

Exhaustion threatened to steal over him. But before allowing himself to rest, he rose and crept out of the room. Finding another chamber that was partially collapsed, with great care he buried the sapphire under a heavy rock, piling ash and grit over it to obscure its light.

That done, he returned and sat against the wall. Sat there, listening to the gentle murmur of the musicians’ voices from below, and eventually smelled something savory being heated up.

But he was too tired to hold on. The stone floor was indescribably comfortable, and the wall the perfect pillow. Closing his eyes, Scorio felt his thoughts begin to drift, to sink.

His last thoughts were of Leonis and Lianshi. He wondered what they were doing. How they fared. Did they think of him at all? And then his eyes closed, and he thought no more.

Chapter 11

Scorio awoke to a boot nudging him in the ribs.

“Wake up, stinky stranger, your food’s getting cold.”

Bleary-eyed, he sat up, He felt as if half his joints had calcified, and a good part of his musculature cramped up for good measure. “Ow. That stone floor’s hard.”

“You figure that out all by yourself?” Helena crouched down before him, hands dangling between her knees, her expression somewhere between sympathetic and contemptuous. “Pretty impressive. There’s hope for you yet.”

A bowl of steaming something or other was set before him, a wooden spoon dunked into its center. Giving up the chance at a rejoinder, he ate a spoonful and had to fight back a groan of pleasure.

“Feiyan makes a wicked soup,” said Helena as he started shoveling it into his maw. It was hot and savory, made of partially dissolved roots and strands of fatty meat seasoned with a hearty spice. She watched, head cocked, then continued innocently, “It’s pretty amazing what you can do with four-day-old dead rat.”

Scorio froze, then hocked his mouthful back into his bowl. Helena threw her head back and guffawed. “I jest! No dead rat. Aw, c’mon. Don’t look all upset like that. You never know in this city when your next bowl really will be mostly carrion-based.”

“Ha, ha,” said Scorio flatly, staring down at the soup. “Way to taunt the starving man.”

“I need to get my amusement somewhere.” She stepped away to lean against the wall, arms and ankles crossed. “Feiyan’s out. Went to see about your Basilisk contact.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Scorio around another mouthful of food. “She’d never leave you here alone with me.”

“You’re right. Normally. But in this case, her desire to get rid of you outweighed her natural caution. Plus, I’m pretty sure I could gut you with my long knife before you even managed to look at me funny.” She shrugged a shoulder. “You wouldn’t be the first. Or tenth, even.”

Scorio stared at her through one eye, chewing ruminatively, and decided he believed her. Rangy as she was, there was a sinewy strength to her frame, and something about her expression, something hard and unyielding beneath her easy smile, that assured him she could use her blade just as she said.

“What’s Feiyan’s connection to Basilisk, then?” he asked.

“We’re not supposed to talk personal stuff,” said Helena, “but fine. She used to work for them, not long ago. It’s how we met. Which I’m also not supposed to talk about. But suffice to say she had a pretty dangerous reputation when I convinced her to try the romantic lifestyle of a wandering musician.”

“So she’s done with those kinds of jobs?”

“Has been for three years. Depraved and wicked as I am, somehow, I ended up being the good influence. Go figure. But she’s still got connections. Should be able to figure something out.”

Scorio nodded and focused on eating. His entire being clamored for sustenance. For her part, Helena contented herself with just watching him wolf it down. When he was almost finished—it was a generously-sized bowl—she canted her head to the other side.

“So, what’s it like, being a Great Soul?”

Again he choked, but this time he managed to swallow instead of spitting. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and stared at her again. “Who said I was?”

“Really? We going to pretend?”

“People lose their memories all the time.”

“Sure. And then emerge from the ruins with a sunphire the size of your fist. With no family, no connections, and dressed in what look to be authentic Academy robes. Happens all the time.”

Scorio stared down in dismay at his once-white robe, the grimy golden belt, then sighed. “Damn it. These that distinctive?”

“Sure,” said Helena. “There was a whole fashion phase a few years back where street toughs took to wearing robes cut in a similar manner, you know, different colored ropes denoting different ranks and whatnot. Died out after a year though. And with what’s happening in the streets these days? Nobody would be caught dead wearing them now.”

“Good thing I’m getting new robes then.”

“Yeah. So. What’s it like?”

“Being a Great Soul? Why do you want to know?”

Helena rolled her eyes. “Because every child born in Bastion spends their youth dreaming they’ll receive a special summons to the Academy and be put on a path to glory, riches, and fame?”

“They do?”

“Some of them,” she said, and kicked a rock skittering across the room. “I wouldn’t have minded a call myself.”

“Well. I don’t really know how to answer. I mean, they—ah—I left pretty quickly upon waking up. Nobody’s shown me how any of this is meant to work.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You left, huh?”

“Sure.” He met her gaze with greater confidence and poise. “Decided I wanted to spend some quality time in the ruins.”

“Uh-huh. Well. You got an Igneous Heart?”

“You know about that?”

“Come on,” she said. “Bastion’s supposed to be—what—a thousand years old? And we’ve spent that whole time focused on your kind, your paths, your legends? What do you think the rest of us talk about?”

“Sure, I guess. And yes. I’ve got one. As much good as it does me.”

“You’ve not ignited it yet?”

He set the bowl down. “No. You know how I can?”

“Me?” She laughed. “Hardly. I just know Great Souls ignite their Hearts, then go through the Four Trials before becoming legends.”

“Four Trials?”

“Yeah, wow, they really didn’t tell you much.” She frowned at him. “How long were you in there, anyway? Ten minutes?”

“Just about. What are these Four Trials?”

“I don’t know. You’re just supposed to pass one to progress to your next level. First, you ignite your Heart and become a Cinder. Then you take your first trial, and if you pass it, you make Emberling. And so on until you reach Dread Blaze, where most of you guys stop.”

“Why’s that?”

She shrugged a shoulder again. “Lack of motivation? I don’t know. Just that most Great Souls don’t make it past Dread Blaze.”

“What about a Blood Baron?” he asked. “How far up the ranking is that?”

“Blood Baron?” She looked at him curiously. “Why d’you ask?”

“Just curious. Heard the term somewhere.”

“It’s pretty powerful. Pyre Lord is what you get after Dread Blaze, and after that, you get your Blood Barons. Not that they stay in Bastion. By that point, all the Great Souls are further on into hell.”

“They leave?” Scorio thought of the chancellor. He’d claimed to be a Pyre Lord. “Why not stay here and rule Bastion?”

“It’s a big ol’ hell out there,” she said. “They say that the greatest heroes are drawn to the Pit from which all evil stems. That’s what all the living legends are trying to reach, so as to destroy it forever. The one who does will become the Infernarch, it’s said, and open the way home to Ettera. Hard to do that from Bastion.”

He nodded slowly. So many questions. He’d made Blood Baron, but Jova Spike had made Charnel Duke, which had to be even higher. Guess that made her even more impressive.

Helena canted her head to one side. “What are you thinking?”

“Just trying to piece things together.”

“You know, you should just try to get back into the Academy.” She sounded almost sympathetic. “Life for regular folk is hard. Even working for Basilisk isn’t anywhere close to as glamorous or fun or rewarding as being a Great Soul.”

“Oh yeah? Well, maybe I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

She took her thick braid in both hands and began to tighten the crimson ribbon that spiraled through it, tugging here, tugging there. “You did something, didn’t you? Got yourself kicked out.”

“I thought we weren’t getting personal.”

“I knew it. What did you do? Must have been pretty bad. But fine, don’t tell me. None of my business.” She pursed her lips and focused on her braid. Scorio counted to eight before she glanced up at him from under her expressive brows and grinned. “Unless you really want to tell me.”

He couldn’t help it—he laughed. “You’re dangerous. Ten more minutes with you and I’ll have told you my deepest, darkest secrets.”

She pushed her braid aside so that it bounced off her shoulder. “What’s it like in the Academy? Is it true Great Souls are given condensed mana pills every morning with breakfast? That’s been our main source of income, selling Black Star flowers for pills… Oh—did you do the Gauntlet? You have to have, right? Every Great Soul is supposed to run it before waking up. What was it like? Did you get far?”

“How do you know all this?” he asked, bewildered.

“Told you. Great Souls are the aristocracy of our city. Most folks have nothing to look forward to but lives of drudgery and work. All our stories, most of our entertainment, are focused on your kind. I know a hundred ballads about Great Souls. They’re the most popular requests, despite how much everyone says they hate them now.”

“Great Souls are hated?”

Helena’s gaze was pitying. “The privileged are always hated by the less fortunate.”

“Fair enough. But I’m only technically a Great Soul. You know more about it than I do.”

“What a tragedy,” she said, shoulders slumping. “I finally corner one and they’re more ignorant than a pile of bricks.”

“If you were hoping to write your own ballad based on my experiences, it’d be a very short, very depressing song.”

“Bah,” she said, pushing with her shoulders off the wall. “Fair enough. Anyways, here’s your clothing.” And she scooped up a folded set of clothing from beside the stairwell and tossed it to him.

It was a threadbare robe, once green but now washed so many times it was the lightest of milky jades. “The color or cut mean anything?”

“That faded? Just that you’re five years out of fashion and don’t care much about clothing.”

“All true. Thank you.”

“No, thank you. That sunphire is our ticket out of this life. Speaking of which. Where’d you put it?”

Scorio raised an eyebrow.

“What?” She affected mock surprise, putting one hand to her chest. “You think I went through your clothing while you lay there snoring, insensate to the world?”

He didn’t answer.

“Fine,” she said, blowing out a deep sigh. “I might have nudged your robe with the toe of my boot to see if it would accidentally roll out. Which it didn’t. Can’t blame you for stashing it, though. Wise.”

“It’s safe. And close. But with this meal and robe, we’re almost even. No worries.” He slowly stood. “The last thing I plan to do is double-cross the first people who’ve been fair with me.”

“Glad to hear it. For your sake. Feiyan’s a real terror with that hammer.”

“I can imagine. If you’ll excuse me?” Scorio stepped into a satellite chamber to change out of his filthy robe. He dropped it and the rope to the ground, and found himself wishing for a shower, a stream, anything in which to rinse himself clean.

Instead, he pulled on the old robes, finding them both clean and too short for him. He tied the belt off tightly, placed his treasures inside the fold, and frowned down at the ruins of his old sandals.

“Hey,” he said, poking his head back around the corner, and saw that the room was empty. He picked up his things, entered the chamber, and crouched down to wait for Helena to come back up.

Instead, Feiyan appeared in the archway leading to the windowed room. She wore a faded black overrobe with exaggerated shoulders, and her thick, shoulder-length hair was swept back so that her pompadour was even more prominent, with only a single black lock of hair curling down between her brows.

Her hand rested lightly on the head of her hammer. “Where’s Helena?”

“Downstairs,” said Scorio, resisting the urge to raise both hands in a gesture of peace. Something about her quiet confidence, the way she stood there, her eyes narrowed as she studied him, convinced Scorio that Helena had told him the truth. He could easily imagine her working for a shady outfit, and carving out a bleak reputation for herself.

“Helena?” she called out, not taking her eyes off him.

“Here!” The voice was muffled from below. “I’m not dead so relax already.”

Feiyan allowed her hand to drift away from the hammer, but that was the extent of it. “I’ve arranged for you to meet with Dola. She’ll decide whether you’re worth bringing into her crew. They’ve a job in a few days and could use an extra pair of hands.”

“Thank you.” Scorio wondered if there was anything he could do other than leaving to help Feiyan relax. Probably not. “Anything you can tell me about her?”

“Dola?” Feiyan moved casually around the room toward the stairs, never showing him less than a three-quarters profile. “She’s a tough lady. Don’t lie to her, because she’ll see right through you. Don’t talk more than you have to. Don’t do anything you’re not told to, but if she gives you a command, obey it to the letter. And if she starts being nice to you? Disappear. She’s only nice to people she’s about to expend.”

“Expend?” asked Scorio.

Feiyan peered down the stairs, then back to Scorio. She crossed her arms. Her nails were painted black, the hue vivid against the faded robe. “Some roles on a job are more dangerous than others. Sometimes a job requires sacrifices. Dola’s nice to the folks she’s about to screw over. I think that’s how she processes her guilt. Not that she feels much.”

“Got it,” said Scorio. “So as long as she’s treating me badly, I’m good?”

Feiyan smirked. “Something like that.”

Helena came up the steps with a pair of thong sandals in hand. “Here.” She tossed them at Scorio’s feet. “An old pair of mine. They won’t last you long, but I think we have the same foot size.”

“Thanks,” he said, glad to get rid of his ruined pair. “Careful though. You’re going to start making me think you’re doing more than we bargained for.”

Feiyan snorted. “Don’t worry on that account. Now, you’ve eaten.” It wasn’t a question. “We’ve given you a clean robe and pair of sandals. Set up a meeting with a crew that’ll give you work. That means we’ve done our part of the bargain.”

“That’s right,” said Helena, her expression turning flinty. “So. Where’s the sunphire?”

Scorio pulled the sandals on. They actually fit, though Helena’s assessment had been right: a week’s hard use and they’d snap. “Coming right up.”

He stepped into the side room where he’d hidden the gem, and sensed more than saw Feiyan moving to keep him in her field of vision. Hauling the rock aside, he dug out the sapphire—sunphire, as they called it—and hefted it in his palm.

Its glow was undiminished, and cast eldritch cerulean hues and glimmers dancing across the room.

“Here.” He walked back and held the gem out. “With thanks.”

“Craziest deal I ever made,” said Helena, shaking her head in wonder as Feiyan took the gem. “A sunphire for some old robes and a pair of sandals.”

Feiyan bounced the gem in her hand, then held it up, turning it slowly as she felt across its lines and facets. “This is it, Lena. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

Helena reached out and took Feiyan’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You know who you’re going to sell it to?”

“We can talk details later.” Feiyan dropped the gem into a pouch, and like a knife drawn across a throat, the room went dark. “Let’s say goodbye to our guest first.”

Helena nodded and beamed at Scorio. “If you happen to stumble upon any other sunphires, look us up. Though we’ll probably be living in a much nicer place by then.”

“We won’t be here,” said Feiyan, tone flat. “So don’t bother coming back to find us.”

“Fair enough,” said Scorio. “Ladies. It’s been a pleasure.”

Feiyan simply stared at him, while Helena gave a mocking bow. “So long, Scorio. Stay sharp out there.”

“I intend to. How do I meet up with Dola?”

“Time and place. Head into the city and ask for a watering hole called the Double. It’s not well known, so you won’t attract too much attention asking for directions. Dola will be there at Second Clay.”

“Second Clay. What’s that?”

To which Feiyan could only shake her head pityingly.

“You know,” said Helena, raising her expressive eyebrows, “the sun-wire—the line of light that stretches from Dead Portal to Hell’s Door?”

Scorio nodded.

“It lightens and darkens through distinct phases. Clay is the darkest, what we call dawn. Second Clay is the last, what we call dusk. It goes from Clay to Rust to Bronze to Amber, which is the middle of the light cycle. Then darkens through Second Bronze, Second Rust, and finally to Second Clay. Then darkness, which lasts for the equivalent of four cycles.”

“Sure,” said Scorio, the terms forming a blur. “What is it now?”

“Second Bronze,” answered Feiyan. “You’ve slept through most of the day.”

“Second Bronze. So I’ve… a cycle in which to find Dola before Second Clay sets in.”

Feiyan’s smile was hard. “You’d best hurry.”

“Thank you. Again.” Scorio hesitated, then gave them his best roguish smile. “I hope that sunphire treats you well.”

Helena’s was excited, genuine, and she glanced at Feiyan who remained stoic. “It will,” she said. “No more playing third-rate market squares for us. Good luck, Scorio.”

He nodded and left the room, moving carefully over the rubble and loose rocks to the window. He peered up and down the deserted street before climbing out onto the shattered pavement.

The air was filled with the sun-wire’s bright, bronze light; it had that dusty, flattening feel to it, muting shadows and washing out colors. He considered the wire, then focused on the rest of Bastion arching high overhead. Turning in a slow circle, he took in the ruins that dominated a third of the entire cylinder, and studied once more where the sun-wire connected to the cylinder’s end, that raised plug of white marble, ornate and complex and—apparently—a portal to a home world.

Ettera.

It meant nothing to him. An empty conceit. He still didn’t have the right vantage point to see the wire’s far end. He’d need to climb to a rooftop to see Hell’s Door.

But first, he had to find the Double. Tugging at his new robes, which felt stiff and rough after the silken pliability of his old white ones, he set off, heading back in the direction of the market.

The sun-wire darkened a fraction as he went, losing luminosity and going from its bright bronze light to a ruddier glow, the shadows gaining depth, the dusty pervasiveness of the golden light retreating to a more somber cast.

Second Rust.

Moving quicker, he reached the space where the market had been but found it empty now, the stalls gone, only the occasional stone stand showing where planks would be placed the next time on which to display wares.

It felt eerie, stepping out into the open, and Scorio felt painfully self-conscious. He restrained himself from smoothing down his robes or walking with artificial stiffness as he crossed through the market space. He pressed on, leaving the ruins behind to enter a lively neighborhood of two- and three-story buildings that were tightly packed together, the paint flaking off their walls, the air above the narrow streets crisscrossed with clothes lines, people sitting on stoops or watching from windows.

He was obviously an object of interest, but not in a particularly alarming way; eyes tracked him, conversations stilled, but nobody cried out in alarm, nobody stepped up to challenge him.

The area was clearly impoverished. But there was a sense of dignity to the squalor—each doorstep swept clean, with planters hanging outside most windows spilling a gray ivy, whose tendrils blossomed with luscious, purple flowers. They gave off a powerful and lush scent, rich and heavy, so that he felt as if he walked from island to island of redolent smells, the spaces between arid and dusty.

The buildings were blocky, flat-roofed, the ground floors painted a rusty red that was uniformly flaked and chipped to reveal the gray stone beneath. A few were abandoned, and he heard the sounds of conversation and laughter from hidden rooftops, along with the occasional strain of music, a flute playing a plaintive melody, a voice raised in artless song.

Scorio entered a small square dominated by a broad-bowled and shallow fountain. A line ten deep stood before it, the people holding buckets as they chatted quietly amongst themselves.

Suddenly thirsty, Scorio moved to the back of the line, and ignored the surreptitious stares that were cast his way.

He’d not had a chance to take stock since speaking with Feiyan and Helena. To assess everything they’d told him. To make sure this was something he actually wished to do.

Work for Dola. Join her crew, and—what—steal from the other Houses?

The very idea of theft made his stomach turn. He could recall nothing of his past, but still the thought of taking what wasn’t his felt galling.

The whispers around him were building up. He wanted to stay in line, but simply standing there in plain sight was beginning to garner more attention than he was comfortable with. Ducking his head, he slunk away and left the small square, picking a street at random to get lost in.

Damn the chancellor. He couldn’t even fetch a cup of water without being viewed with suspicion. Had to barter rare gems for threadbare robes and worn-out sandals. Neither Feiyan nor Helena had thought he had any choice but to work for Dola and her Basilisk masters.

Scorio drew up short and stared out into the middle distance, not caring for the moment how traffic had to flow around him.

He’d not asked for any of this. He’d not asked to be reborn as a Red Lister. To be cast through the Final Door. So now he was being forced to take back from the very Houses that had stolen everything from him. Wasn’t there a bitter fairness to that? They’d thrust him into this situation—what was he supposed to do, squat in the ruins and starve to death?

Scorio blinked and resumed walking. He’d speak to Dola, at the very least, and see what manner of work she offered him. He wouldn’t accept any mission from her. But if she afforded him a chance to redress the balance with the Houses and the likes of Praximar?

Then he’d take it.

First, though, he had to find his way to the Double.

He stopped a respectful distance from a couple of men standing at a street corner, both smoking from delicately arched pipes, their free hand tucked comfortably into their ocher robes.

“Excuse me. Could you direct me to the Double?”

Both men eyed him speculatively, in no rush to respond. They were slightly older, grizzled and worn, their hands swollen and callused from hard labor.

Scorio was about to nod respectfully and move on when one of them finally answered, his reluctance obvious.

“The Double?” Another long pause, another exhalation of greasy, iridescent smoke. “Bit of a ways. Head axially north three blocks, then radially west some five, maybe six.”

“That’ll take him through the Narrows,” said the second man, eyes squinted against the smoke.

“What of it?” The first studied his friend frankly. “Anyone headed to the Double should feel right at home there.”

The second man only shrugged and looked away.

“Three blocks axially north, then six blocks radially west. Thank you.” Scorio inclined his head and moved on, aware that he might be walking in the wrong direction, but not wanting to ask for clarifications and arouse more suspicion.

Instead, he stopped again once the two men were out of sight before a small crowd of kids who were kicking a leather ball around the street. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

The boys eyed each other, amused and cagey at the same time.

A stocky boy with a black eye sniffed at him. “What’s the problem?”

“Simple question is all. Which way is axially north?”

They all glanced at each other again and then stared at him suspiciously.

“Axially north?”

“Right. Just point it out.”

Slowly, as if suspecting a trick, ready to snatch his hand back, the boy pointed toward the sun-wire’s hidden end.

“And radially west?”

“What is this?”

“Stupid questions, that’s all. Humor me, will you?”

This time the boy pointed up one side of Bastion’s curving wall.

Scorio pointed his own thumb in the opposite direction, over his shoulder. “So that’s radially east?”

The boy looked at him with growing annoyance. “And your mother’s a drippy tramp!”

The whole pack of them took off, laughing raucously.

Scorio snorted, looked about himself once more, and continued walking. He’d come a block axially north by luck. Another couple more and he’d turn to the left.

On he went, drinking in the details of the neighborhood as he walked on. A small square featured a long line of people awaiting their turn at another clamshell fountain set against a wall, each carrying an pail with them, everybody relaxed and chatting.

Here and there, he espied the red, snake-like creatures with fins growing from their necks, twining their way high about the rooftops or the branches of thorn trees whose canopies were horizontal planes of dull green, like a series of serried clouds that provided shade below.

The atmosphere on the streets, however, was tense; people eyed him suspiciously, others stood in tight knots speaking earnestly amongst themselves, while others hurried past, intent on reaching their destinations as quickly as possible.

Scorio reached his intersection. The street running radially west proved to be quite narrow. More of a shadowed alley than anything else, with cloth awnings slung out over its breadth.

“Great,” he muttered to himself, and plunged in.

Within a few blocks, he noticed the change. Windows were shuttered, and there was an absence of the gray vined planters. The rust-colored paint was almost completely gone from the ground floors, and the streets were in poor repair, cracked and fragmented and strewn with withered vines and trash.

People were still in evidence, but these watched him with a different kind of curiosity. More evaluating, sizing him up.

Scorio squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and marched on as if he owned the place. Still, he wasn’t surprised when a small crowd of men detached themselves from the shadowed side of a building to ease their way into the street and block his path.

Their leader was a lean, pale-skinned, one-eyed man with a stripe of white through his otherwise greasy black hair. A rolled-up cheroot jutted out of the corner of his mouth, unlit, and danced when he spoke without unclenching his jaws.

“You lost, my friend?”

“Not lost,” said Scorio, “and not your friend.” Three of the men drifted slowly around to cut off his retreat. Eight all told. All of them looking hard-bitten, their expressions ranging from amused to stoic. “Just heading to the Double.”

“The Double, is it?” The man’s sole eye widened in mock surprise. “An upstanding lord like yourself?”

Scorio allowed himself a small smile, but he felt a welcome flush of heat spread through his body. “I’m no lord. Step aside.”

Not the most diplomatic way to proceed, but Scorio realized that he was relishing this confrontation. After all the fear, the frustration, the anguish, and pain, he wanted someone to provoke him.

The man moved his head from one side to another, as if taking in all of Scorio’s angles. “Let me do you a favor. Steer clear of the Double. It’s not the right place for the likes of you.”

“I didn’t ask for advice.” Had his voice deepened? He opened and closed his hands, aware of the men around him but focused on their leader.

“The advice wasn’t free, my lord.” The man’s lips curled back to reveal yellowed teeth. “Why don’t you share what you’ve got with the rest of us to show your gratitude?”

Scorio smiled, the expression apparently unnerving the other man. “Oh my. I seem to have forgotten what I’ve got on my person. Why don’t you come check for me?”

“Doesn’t need to be like this,” said the leader. “Just hand over your goods and you can be on your way.”

“Hmm.” Scorio stared down the length of his nose at the man, his heart pounding, his muscles quivering. “Your mother’s a drippy tramp.”

A couple of the men sniggered, but the leader flushed. “Well, if you want it that way, fine—”

Scorio pulled the chalk out of his robes, bent, and raked a curving line behind him. The movement was sudden, sure, and confused the men, who startled, hands going up, but stared instead of reacting.

“All right,” said Scorio, rising to his feet. “Let’s get to work.”

And he lunged forward to slam his shin across the leader’s thigh. The huge muscle snarled up, the man let out a cry of shock, and then Scorio’s second blow connected: a vicious head-butt right into the fellow’s nose.

Cartilage crunched and the man collapsed backward.

The other seven let out hoarse shouts of outrage and rushed him. Only three of them slammed into the invisible barrier at full tilt and staggered back in shock.

Reaching down, Scorio raked a line of chalk down his left, sealing off two other men, and then exploded upward and into the remaining three, tackling the man in the center about the waist and lifting him clear off the ground. The man roared in anger, slammed an elbow down onto Scorio’s back, then cried out as they crashed into the wall.

Scorio dropped the man, caught hold of his robes as he landed on his feet, and spun, hurling him into the other two.

And came right after, fists swinging, teeth bared, practically growling as he tumbled into them, bludgeoning jaws and elbowing them across the throat. The other five were losing precious seconds as they explored the invisible barrier before them, but then one found the edge and let out a shout.

Scorio took a punch to the ear, stepped away, swayed back from a clumsy haymaker, then clobbered his opponent with a hasty punch to the mouth. Lips split, the man reeled, then Scorio saw three men charging at him from the side, coming at him in a line.

He tore out the iron rod, summoned his Igneous Heart as he backed away, and desperately swept just a fraction of the thick, cloying black clouds into it.

The script flared and the rod stuck, frozen in mid-air.

The lead man crashed into it, hitting the bar with his sternum. The others piled in behind, all of them shouting in alarm as they fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

A punch glanced off Scorio’s shoulder and then a staff cracked across his back. Raising his arms, Scorio wheeled about, saw the staff swinging right at his head. He pressed his arm tight to the side of his face, bicep bulging over his ear, and took the blow full on. His head rocked over, but his arm absorbed the blow, then he caught the staff, pinned it to his ribs, and yanked the man into a thunderous cross that dropped him to the ground.

Everything was happening at once. Men were climbing to their feet, others were backing away warily, some bumping into invisible lines of force, others staring in horrified fascination at the floating steel rod.

Scorio wanted to go after them. His fury was a white, tremulous force that made it impossible for him to catch his breath. He wanted to stomp each of them down to the ground, to hear bones break, to redress the imbalanced scales of justice with their pain.

Instead, he rose out of his combat crouch, tossed aside the staff, and collected the rod. “What are your names? I want to make sure Dola knows who waylaid me.”

The men froze.

“You’re… you’re meeting with Dola?” The leader with the white stripe of hair was picking himself back up, hand pressed to his bleeding nose.

Scorio made no response.

The one-eyed man glanced nervously at his companions, then limped aside. “Damn it. We didn’t know. You should have said as much. Double’s straight ahead. Two more blocks. Stairs leading down to a lower landing, red door. You’ll see it right enough.”

Scorio’s smile was cold, a thin veneer of courtesy over his still raging desire to throw himself at the men. “Thanks. And your name?”

The man’s smile didn’t touch his one eye. “No need for formalities. I’m, ah, just an altruistic local, doing his civic duty.”

“Right you are,” said Scorio, and stepped through the sparse crowd and out the far side. He didn’t look back, didn’t walk quickly. Just strode along as before, calm and composed, for all that his heart was pounding and his knuckles stinging.

The entrance to the Double was just as the altruistic local had described. A flight of stairs leading down to a basement level, a slender crimson door almost innocuous in the deep trench.

There was nobody around, so Scorio walked down, hesitated, then simply pushed the door open.

Within was a long, narrow room, rays of bloody bronze light filtering in through the shuttered slats that ran down the length of the wall high up by the ceiling. The heavily waxed bar gleamed. A low murmur of conversation paused as a dozen patrons turned to examine him, most puffing on arched pipes, then turned away as he closed the door.

Scorio stepped up to the bar. Candles sunken deep within thick glass holders caused pools of green light to shimmer across its top, and a line of upside-down clay mugs was set along its length.

An older woman with long, gray hair pushed away from a conversation and walked over, her expression skeptical. She wore mustard-colored robes that were sufficiently open at the front to reveal an intricate tattoo on her chest, and she had a powerful frame to go with her relaxed confidence.

“Think you’re in the wrong place,” she said.

“I’m here to meet with Dola. She’s expecting me at the start of Second Clay.”

“Second Clay, is it?” Mild interest quickened her expression, her brows lowering as she looked him up and down. “You’re early. But then again, Dola’s already here. Let me go check out your story. Name?”

“Scorio. Feiyan set this up.”

“Feiyan?” There was obvious recognition at the name. “Well, that’s something. Hold on.”

She strode back down the length of the bar, unhurried, out and around the far end to dip through the curtain of beads.

Scorio stood at his ease, not looking around, arms crossed, aware of the covert glances being directed his way. His back ached. His knuckles were raw. But he felt alive, refreshed because of the fight, purposeful and deliberate. Anyone who wanted to was more than welcome to step over and cause problems.

Soon enough the bartender emerged, caught his eye, and gave a sharp nod back over her shoulder.

Beyond the beads was a small, comfortable room, windowless and lit by three lanterns with their wicks trimmed short, each shedding a soft, roseate glow. The three walls featured deeply recessed alcoves, each with its own broad, cushioned bench, and a circular table in the center boasted three ornate water pipes, their intricately painted surfaces making them objects of art.

A subtle, honeyed incense lingered in the air, with a musky scent beneath that. Scorio stood in the doorway, but though each alcove featured a small group of guests, he had no difficulty picking out Dola.

She stood out even amongst this tough crew like a battle-ax amongst paring knives. Older, large, with powerful sloping shoulders and a trim waist, she looked hard enough to have taken on the entire gang that had challenged Scorio outside. Her skin was near-black, her ivory hair shorn all the way around except the very top, from which slender braids flowed back and down about her shoulders, nearly to her waist. Painted lips, slender, arching brows, and strong, striking features all made her appear to have twice the personality of anyone else present, four times the presence, and infinitely more command.

“Scorio,” she said, voice rich and full, not a question.

He stepped up to her alcove. A young man, bare-chested, his hair spiked and with a ring through one nostril, slid off the cushioned bench and faded away into the depths of the room.

“Dola.” Was he missing an honorific? The direct approach seemed best.

She took her time eyeing him up and down, her expression inscrutable. Finally, “Feiyan says you need work. Why should I give it to you?”

“Why not? I’m strong, willing, and without any loyalty to the Houses.”

“All good prerequisites, but that also describes half the fools that enter the Double. Do better.”

Had Feiyan told her he was a Great Soul? Was she fishing for a confession? He decided not to give one. “Feiyan’s no fool. She vouched for me.”

“She didn’t vouch for you. She simply said you needed work. I respect her, hence this opportunity to impress me. Which you’ve yet to do.”

Scorio nodded, sucking on his teeth. Reveal one of his treasures? Boast about his accomplishments beneath the ruins?

No. Dola’s gaze was halfway between stern and dismissive. He got the impression that the more he pleaded, the less impressed she’d be.

So he shrugged. “I bet you’ve already made up your mind. If you’re not going to offer me the job, let’s end this.”

She leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “Oh ho. Ultimatums? A curious interview strategy.”

“Feiyan got you curious. You can tell I’m no fool. Arrogant, maybe. But I’m my own man. If I work for you, I’ll work hard and I’ll work smart. But if you’ve already decided I’m not what you’re looking for, then let's stop wasting time.”

She pursed her lips, causing deep dimples to appear below her cheeks, though the expression failed to soften her face. “I see your approach. Old robe, cheap sandals, looking like you rolled in a coal pit before you got dressed. You’ve got nothing, and nothing more to offer. So you hold hostage the one thing you do have—your own desire to work.” Her smile was predatory. “Retreating from me to make me curious, provoking me into giving chase.”

“And?” asked Scorio. “Is it working?”

She let out a bark of laughter. “It’s not not working. Take a seat.”

He did, though only on the edge of the bench.

“You look like you can fight.”

“Sure.”

“Any qualms about taking things that don’t belong to you?”

Scorio felt his gut twist. “Would I be here if I did?”

Her eyes gleamed. “Formalities, my dear. Answer the question.”

Scorio thought of Praximar and forced down his distaste. “No problems there.”

“Got family?”

“None.”

“Debts?”

“Nope.”

“Addictions? Flywrap, rustspark, dancing bear?”

He’d no idea what any of those were but simply shook his head.

“Hands.”

He held them out. She examined his nails carefully, then ran a thumb over his palms. “Where are your calluses?”

“I take good care of my hands.”

She snorted, dropped them, and reached toward his face. He held still. She pressed a broad thumb to each cheek and pulled down his lower eyelids. Scrutinized him, then let go. “Well, no obvious problems. Would you be willing to kill a child to get the job done?”

Scorio blanched. “Kill a child?”

Dola watched him carefully, her expression hard. “Uh-huh.”

“No.” He stood up. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Sit your ass down, you passed the test. I don’t want any monsters on my crew.”

He hesitated, his heart pounding, then awkwardly sat down once more. “You’ve got morals, then?”

“What do you take me for?”

“You do Basilisk’s dirty work.”

“Sometimes. But I need people with smarts and enough morality to not create unnecessary problems. I’m not above killing if it’s needed, but only as a last resort. People with overly fluid views on right and wrong cause more trouble than they’re worth.”

“All right. What else? Want me to fight someone? Walk a highwire?”

She scoffed. “You think you’re going to be the star of the show? No, I just need an extra pair of eyes for this job, and you seem capable of that. But there’s something off about you, Scorio.”

He forced himself to relax a fraction, to lean back against the alcove’s wall. “Why do you say that?”

“You’ve not asked about the pay.” Her eyes narrowed. “The only folks who go this long without asking are moles or thrill-seekers. You don’t strike me as a thrill-seeker.”

“You think I’m working for another House?” He allowed his genuine surprise to show through.

“No calluses. Clear eyes, clear nails. Nothing on your breath. Smart, sharp, and not uneasy to talk to. No family, no debts, no history, and somehow you get Feiyan of all people to walk back through my door.” She smiled grimly. “Doesn’t take a fool to add all that up. And given the unrest on the street…”

“I don’t work for another House.”

“Funny. That’s what a mole would say.”

Tension flowed through the room like a cold current, and a half-dozen men and women slowly uncoiled from their alcoves, rising to their feet, making no overt threatening gestures, but staring at him with the promise of brutality in their eyes.

“You think Feiyan would betray you like this?”

“I already told you. You’re going to have to do better than leaning on her reputation.”

Scorio spread his hands. “Tell me what it’ll take to convince you.”

“That’s on you.” Through all this, Dola remained cool, calm, relaxed. “You’re running out of time.”

The crowd began to close in.

Scorio resisted the urge to stand and forced himself to appear as calm as Dola seemed. His thoughts scrambled, tripping over each other. Dola held his gaze with flinty equanimity.

“If I were an agent for another House, I’d have come in here with a better cover story.”

“Interesting.” Dola considered. “Or it could mean you’re just arrogant and lazy.”

Now Scorio did stand. The others were closing in inexorably. He saw hands closing into fists. A few drew long knives from their ornamental scabbards.

There was no way he could fight his way out of here without someone getting in a lucky cut. The way to the exit was blocked.

“Attack me, and I will defend myself,” he heard himself say.

Dola leaned back, the leather cushions beneath her creaking. “That’d be interesting to see. You defend yourself against this lot, and we can continue our conversation.”

A deep breath. The stench of foul intent was heavy in the air. They weren’t just going to toss him out on his ear.

Scorio drew out his steel rod from where he’d tucked it through his robe. Dola narrowed her eyes.

“See this?” He held it vertically before him, and with a deep breath, he summoned a vision of his Igneous Heart. For a second it escaped him, but then it was there, gloriously indifferent to his plight, cold and gleaming and suspended in the void.

“A bar of metal,” said Dola, nonplussed.

He reached for the black, sooty clouds, and to his surprise found them to be lighter here, tinted reddish-brown. They responded more energetically to his will, sweeping around him once, twice, and then into the treasure.

He felt it activate.

Six seconds to go.

“Look,” he said, and released it.

The bar remained suspended in the air.

The crowd froze, their expressions betraying surprise and confusion.

“And then here is a little bridge,” he said, drawing out the second treasure. “Cunningly made, right?”

He set the bridge’s edge against the bar. Again he stirred the coppery clouds which were as thick and responsive as before. He swept them around his Igneous Heart, urgency giving him focus, and into the bridge.

It burst forth, exploding into its full size, anchored by the bar’s impossible fixity, smashing its forward beam straight into the crowd, knocking men and women flying, breaking bones, eliciting screams in an explosion of kinetic power.

Dola gaped. The bridge filled the room, the thunderous sound of masonry smashing outward into the next chamber accompanied by billows of dust that rolled in, fragments of stone falling as cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling. The bridge leaned drunkenly at an angle, then shrank rapidly, contracting to fall amongst the distant rubble in its miniaturized form, just as the steel bar fell with a satisfying thwap into Scorio’s palm.

The crowd was scattered, tossed about, several of them unconscious, half of them sitting up, cradling broken limbs and clutching at their sides.

Scorio slid his steel bar into his belt and sat back down. He felt panicked, exposed, and cursed at the necessity that had forced him to betray his true nature. But events were what they were, and now he had to play his hand all the way.

“So,” he said, looking at where Dola had remained seated. “Ready to continue our conversation?”

“You…” She dragged her gaze back to him. “You’re a Great Soul?”

“Kind of.” He waggled his head from side to side. “Not really. But I know some tricks. And I’m interested in working for you.”

The gray-haired bartender appeared in the doorway, her frown melting into an open-mouthed gape at the huge hole in the far wall, the men and women strewn across the floor. But she gathered her wits with remarkable speed. “Problem?”

Dola relaxed, her features composed once more. “No problem, Kayla.”

Scorio and Dola sat in silence as Kayla and several others helped the wounded rise or simply carried the unconscious out through the bead curtain. A look from Dola assured the bartender, who finally retreated and left the pair of them alone.

“Nice tricks,” said Dola at last.

“Not bad,” allowed Scorio, leaning back, affecting nonchalance. “They’ve proven useful.”

“You willing to part with those treasures?”

“Not yet,” he said.

“Wise. But now I understand your story even less. Why work for a handful of octs when you’re carting around wealth like that?”

“Check out the sandals,” he said, lifting one foot. “And from what I hear, this robe I’m wearing isn’t the latest cut.”

“So you’re asset rich, cash poor.”

“Essentially.”

The older woman pursed her lips, considering him. “There’s no way you could activate those treasures without manipulating mana. Which means you’re a Great Soul. But you’re down on your luck. Which means you’re on the outs with all four Houses.”

“I won’t confirm or deny it.”

“That makes hiring you on a high-risk move on my part.”

“I thought high-risk moves were your trade.”

Her smile was humorless. “Those that I actively choose after careful evaluation. You’re an unknown element with who knows what baggage.”

Scorio stayed silent.

“The Academy after you? One of the Houses?”

“No,” he said. “That I can swear to you. Nobody knows I’m here or alive.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

Scorio smiled at her. “Honest ones, too, for that matter.”

“Hmm. So you say.”

He leaned forward. “We already know you’re hiring me on. Now we just need to settle the terms.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I’m still sitting here.”

“I’m interested. What rank are you?”

“Rank?” He thought briefly about bluffing, but decided Dola was just too experienced and smart to fool. “Char. I got out early.”

“Char. So you’ve got your tricks and that’s it.”

“Like you said, they’re nice tricks.”

“That they are.” Again she pursed her lips, those deep dimples appearing, her eyes narrowing. “We’ll stick to the original job. Ten octs for successfully executing the mission. You do well, and we can talk about fast-tracking you to more interesting opportunities, giving you more responsibility.”

“Seeing as I’m a Great Soul.”

“Seeing as you’re a Great Soul in training,” she said. Her gaze had become speculative, predatory, hungry. “If you play fair with me, if you do your part, you could do well.”

“That’s my intention.”

“But know this, Scorio. My crew will keep their mouth shut about what happened here today. But you mess up, you set yourself against me, and we’ll see to it that the wrong people at the very top hear about you.”

“Some judicious blackmail to square the deal,” said Scorio, his smile widening. “Oddly comforting. Fine. I take it that means you trust me now?”

Dola laughed. “No. But you don’t get where I am without knowing when to take a bet. I’m not important enough to warrant a Great Soul coming after me down here in the Narrows. Which means, strange as you are, you’re no mole. So let’s try each other on for size. One mission. Depending on how it goes, we’ll talk.”

“Fair. Thank you for the opportunity.”

Dola leaned back, hiking one knee up to plant a boot on the bench and drape an arm over her knee. “Oh, you’re most welcome, Scorio. I’ve a feeling things are going to start changing for the better around here. And if we play our cards right, our little outfit might be heading to the top.”

Chapter 12

If one was feeling generous, they could call the plan audacious. The object was simple: to switch a small crate filled with valuable imports for a replica, and make away with the real deal before anyone noticed. The complication was that the only place where that was an even feasible operation was inside the actual skycrane yard on the border with hell.

Scorio marched along with the rest of the team, a band of surly, focused youths all dressed in House Chimera greens, the badge that depicted the lion and goat-headed monster with a snake for a tail large and clear over their hearts.

The uniforms felt authentic, and the way folks in the streets gave them a wide berth indicated others felt so as well.

“C’mon,” said Skarx, their leader, a bronze-skinned man with hair pleated back in tight rows over his scalp. “Cycle’s nearly over. We’re going to be late.”

The band picked up their speed, breaking into a dignified jog, six in all, three rows deep. The buildings had grown progressively more ostentatious and imposing the closer they got to Hell’s Door, and when the terminus of the vast cylinder finally broke into view, Scorio stared.

The sun-wire extended to another ivory projection, ornate and intricately carved as the other end, but this circle was circumscribed by searing blue. For a moment, Scorio thought he was staring at huge panels of glowing sunphire, but then he realized they were holes. Massive gaps that looked out into hell. To a cerulean blue sky, across which floated wisps of white cloud.

Four vast ivory beams secured the central circle to the perimeter, each broad enough for three carriages to ride down, side by side.

“Those are the skies of hell?” he asked the man at his side, but the fellow grunted noncommittally and kept jogging.

The avenue up which they were running speared straight toward one of the monstrous blue gaps, the one owned ostensibly by House Chimera. The streets here were in pristine condition, the paving blocks broad and smooth, the buildings freshly painted, the fountains pouring forth crystal clear water every other block. Verdant trees rose from street corners, and wealthy citizens walked along the sidewalks, arm in arm, each dressed in a more ostentatious robe than the last.

Members of House Chimera were everywhere. Dressed in their slate greens, they appeared severe and regal, disdainful to the point of aloofness. Each member moved with a purpose, often in pairs, or guided caravans laden with goods down the center of the avenue, crying out with peremptory authority at anyone who got in their way.

But Scorio couldn’t tear his gaze away from those blue skies. The sense of depth. As if all of Bastion peered out through them at an azure void.

“Look sharpish now,” said Skarx. “Nobody breathe a word without my permission.”

Up ahead the avenue terminated in a great gate through which traffic bogged down to a crawl, empty wagons and carts lined up one side to enter the great skycrane yard, others heavily laden with goods creaking and swaying as they exited. All were checked for accurate documentation, and House Chimera guards were everywhere, walking up and down the lines, gathered at the main gate, peering down from guard towers that loomed overhead.

Skarx strode up to a side gate embedded in one of the towers, and there came to attention with admirable precision, snapping out a salute as an officer on duty looked up from a sheaf of papers to frown at him.

“Early for your shift, Sergeant?”

Skarx stared straight ahead. “Priority shipment coming in, Captain. Was told to be here before Second Rust.”

The captain glanced up at the sun-wire. “Then you’re cutting it close.”

Without being prompted, Skarx presented his badge, unclipping it from his chest, and the captain glanced at it, turning it around to read something on the back before nodding and handing it back. “On your way then.”

Through the tower they went, a series of square rooms filled with weaponry, desks, and irate House Chimera guards. Skarx stared ahead fixedly, and a moment later they stepped out into the skycrane yard proper.

Scorio had been warned not to gape. A great expanse of flat ground was piled high with crates, baskets, bales, and boxes, while an intricate dance was orchestrated by Chimera operatives with flags, who blew whistles and directed carts and wagons in a complex interweaving, somehow keeping everyone moving and preventing accidents at the same time.

But it was the wall of machinery that edged the blue sky that drew his attention. House Chimera owned a dozen skycranes, each twenty yards tall and anchored by huge counterweights to the very edge of the city. Huge gears turned, teeth interlocking, causing the skycranes to revolve and reach out into the void, where he saw them mirrored by other cranes lowering goods into their clutching maws.

Each of the other three blue segments boasted their own complement of cranes. It seemed importing goods was of prime importance to ever House.

Bastion, he’d learned, was a cylinder buried like a well in the Rascor Plains, the first and largest expanse of hell. Gravity pulled those within the city toward the curving sides, but once you emerged into hell proper, gravity would pull you down in the direction of the Dead Portal. Stepping out over the lip was an extremely disorienting experience, and an inexperienced traveler could find themselves trapped at the forty-five-degree angle, pulled in both directions, but having lost momentum, unable to break free until rescued.

Hence the skycranes.

Even as they marched through the busy yard, Scorio watched one of the massive, ungainly machines reach out into the void and close its huge mouth around a large bundle of barrels that were netted together and lowered down by a sister skycrane mounted over the edge. The skycrane secured its grip on the cargo, the other released and retracted its long neck. The Bastion-side crane then drew back, rotated, and lowered the barrels onto a loading bay.

It was disorienting just to watch, much less to imagine crossing over.

“Here we go,” said Skarx, voice pitched low for them alone. “Try and look halfway alive.”

An inside team had prepared the groundwork for them, setting a crate just large enough for a full-grown man to curl up inside by a wall, two carrying poles stacked upon it. Skarx stood facing outward, hands on his hips, as four of their team took up the poles and slid them through the hoops mounted atop the crate. They lifted the poles to their shoulders, and then set out after Skarx toward the loading bay.

Audacity would see them through, Skarx had explained. “Expensive goods are taken straight from the loading bay to high-security warehouses by teams of ten. Unless you’re willing to start an open war in the streets, there’s no way of taking Chimera’s prize goods once they leave the loading bay.”

The bay itself was raised a good six yards above the yard, fenced off and dominated by the skycrane, which was operated by a team of engineers. These stood on a platform and called out instructions to a large team of men who goaded massive oxen into turning a driving gear, while others operated the levers that managed the maws.

Skarx led their team through the broad gate into the private confines of the loading bay. It was fairly crowded, but everyone here was dressed in House Chimera greens. Recently off-loaded goods were being carted out by house porters, and the action was thick enough that Skarx was able to lead them to one side of the bay and there stand at the ready, ignored by everyone who seemed to stare right through them.

Affording Scorio ample time to stare out at those broad blue skies. Clouds a mile away drifted past, wispy and dreamlike, and he fought the urge to break ranks and move right to the rim, to peer out and down at the Rascor Plains.

“Here it is,” said Skarx. “On my mark, move in fast to retrieve the target.”

A large crate was being lowered to the stone bay by the skycrane, whose huge, clutching head opened once it had settled. Porters stepped in with crowbars and efficiently popped out one end, revealing tightly packed contents. Immediately a line of men began to empty out the goods, moving some here, others there, until at last their target was revealed.

A small crate, two feet wide, and marked on the top with the official House Chimera crest. Paperwork was checked, and the small box was carried to a priority area where it was deposited on a large, red-painted square.

Scorio tensed at the sight of the crate. Not because it was their target, but due to some intangible reaction to its presence. It called to him, somehow.

“Watch for the factotum,” Skarx hissed at Scorio, and marched up to the guards overseeing the priority area, saluted, and without asking moved to retrieve the crate.

Scorio scanned the crowd for the official. The one man who’d cry foul if he spotted them taking hold of the crate. Chimera greens, he’d been told, with a green sash across his chest.

He wasn’t in sight.

“The trick,” Skarx had explained, “is to try and steal something valuable but not too valuable. Something worth the effort, but not so important as to be truly guarded.”

Which this box wasn’t, it seemed. Skarx hefted it and brought it back to their team.

They immediately popped open their own crate and removed an identical box from its interior, an exact duplicate of the one they were going to steal.

One of their team moved the box back into the red zone while their target was placed inside the larger crate and sealed up.

“You do anything with enough confidence in the yards,” Skarx had said, grinning widely at them all only hours ago, “and nobody will bat an eyelid. Look bored, look purposeful, look the part, and everyone’ll assume you know what you’re about. Easy.”

The four men lifted the carrying poles to their shoulders and began marching out of the loading bay, down the broad ramp to the yard below.

Everyone swirled around them, purposeful, focused, bored. How many of them were imposters like their team? Any or all of them.

They got as far as the security fence around the foot of the loading bay when someone shouted the alarm.

“Fast trot lads,” said Skarx through gritted teeth. “Only sprint if I say so. And don’t look back.”

Their team began to hustle through the suddenly turgid crowd, spearing toward the distant gate which suddenly seemed a mile away.

“There!” The voice was pitched in outrage. “Those men! Stop those men!”

“All right,” called out Skarx, “let’s try that sprint.”

They barreled forward, but Scorio knew they were done for. The crowd scattered before them, alarmed and confused by their uniforms, but the guards at the main gate were turning to look, faces closing in anger, and there were far too many of them to simply shove their way through.

Scorio heard men coming pounding up behind them. He glanced back, saw a dozen Chimera guards in green running through the loading bay gate after them.

Shouts of alarm and screams of panic began to spread through the crowd, which drew back, most of them confused, nobody seeming to understand what was going on.

Scorio’s second job was to buy the team time if this worst-case scenario took place. How he was then supposed to get out after hadn’t been specified.

Skarx stumbled to a halt, the rest of the men crowding in behind him, and Scorio saw a large contingent of guards coming their way.

“We’re done for!” shouted one of the men, and unshouldered his pole to tear off into the crowd.

The crate listed to the side, half-slid down the rear pole as one end dropped to the ground, and then completely unbalanced and crashed to the ground.

Scorio had moments in which to act. He could tackle the guards, try to hold them off, and no doubt be swarmed immediately. Or—

He stepped up beside the toppled crate. The impact had jarred it open. Kicking the lid off, he crouched down and wrenched off the smaller crate’s top.

A black velvet purse was held suspended in a mass of stuffed straw.

It wasn’t the sight of it that hit him like a punch to the chest. It was the blast of desire and hunger that arose within him, a need to possess the pouch, an avarice he didn’t understand.

Scorio grabbed it, heard Skarx scream, then threw himself into a backward roll just as a blade slashed down where he’d been a second ago.

He came up on his feet, backed away from the three guards who wheeled around to chase him, then sprinted toward the closest wall. He made sure to pick a stretch with no doorways, no goods piled up against it, and as fast as he could, Helena’s sandals flapping against his feet. Don’t snap, don’t snap, don’t—

The guards chasing him slowed, as he’d hoped. He had nowhere to go, had foolishly run right into what was effectively a dead end. The wall was four yards high, thick and weathered, its sides rough but defying any easy attempt to be climbed.

Scorio pulled out the bridge and fought to summon an image of his Igneous Heart.

Doing so while running proved impossible. His breath burned in his throat, his pulse pounded, his senses were raw, and his back itched in anticipation of a stab at any second.

He couldn’t do it. The image bounced before his eyes but failed to coalesce.

Five yards from the base of the wall he skidded to a stop, turned, and saw the three guards stop as well, grins plastered over their faces, blades held competently in their fists. They began to spread out, cutting off his avenues of escape.

“You made a serious miscalculation,” said one, his voice rich with triumph. “Surrender now, and who knows? Maybe the House will go easy on you.”

“You’re right,” said Scorio, fighting to regain his breath. “I surrender.” And he closed his eyes and raised his hands.

Fought for an image of his Igneous Heart. Heard the guards approach, their slow footsteps betraying their confidence.

There. Sharp-edged, its facets gleaming darkly. The air was saturated with heavy gray smoke, not coppery as in Dola’s chamber, not sooty black like that underground, but soft and iron-hued, rich and resistant to his will.

Without time to question, he swirled it with enormous effort about his Heart once, twice, and then directed a stream deep into the bridge, just as he bent down to prop it against the floor.

The bridge burst outward, exploding up and arching over the top of the wall almost instantly. The guards froze with shocked expressions on their faces.

Taking his chalk, he slashed a quick line before the base of the bridge, then raced up the steeply angled slats.

Shouts of alarm, of outrage, and then a cry of pain and shock. Scorio risked a glance—the guards had slammed full tilt into the chalk’s invisible wall.

Up he ran, half-climbing, black velvet purse in hand, then leaped off the bridge onto the top of the wall.

Six seconds had passed, but still, the bridge remained in place. He froze, not wanting to abandon it. Guards were closing in, and some of them raised bows, nocking arrows to their strings.

Still the bridge refused to shrink, obstinate, massive, and Scorio ducked behind its rearing upper end as the arrows came hissing in, bouncing off the timbers instead of sinking into the wood.

Only then did the bridge contract, springing up into the air and dropping into Scorio’s palm.

It was a five-yard drop to the stone street on the other side. Pulling out his iron rod, he closed his eyes, summoned his Igneous Heart, and leaped.

And as he fell, he swept the iron-hued clouds into the rod.

It froze with a jerk, mid-air.

He nearly lost his grip as he was yanked to a stop, and there swung, hanging from the rod only two yards off the ground. He held on tight, waiting for the rod to release, but like the bridge, it hung suspended far longer than it should have.

Grimacing in annoyance, Scorio fell into a crouch. Shouts came from the gate, nearly fifty yards along the wall, and he saw guards rush out into view. They saw him immediately and began running in his direction.

“Come on!” he shouted at the rod, which hung serenely in the air above him. He kept glancing at the guards as they drew closer, tried to gauge the very last moment he could wait, and just as he was about to take off the rod dropped out of the sky.

He caught it neatly, burst across the street, and dove into an alleyway. The sun-wire overhead was growing darker, Second Rust, and the shadows were rich and welcoming.

But the guards were tenacious. They kept after him, no matter how many side streets and alleyways he ducked into.

Gasping for breath, with no idea as to where he was, he spilled out into a blind courtyard where a small crowd of young women in brightly colored dresses was lined up and rehearsing a dance before a gray-bearded man. Their formation collapsed into disarray as he crashed through their ranks, apologizing loudly as he went, but when he reached the far side, he saw there was nowhere to go. Just closed front doors, balconies that were too high up to be leaped at, and shuttered windows.

The music came to an abrupt end, and the old man yelled in outrage as the Chimera guards rushed into the courtyard.

Scorio closed his eyes, dropped to his knees, and sought his Igneous Heart. He felt swirling coppery-red clouds around him, and with enormous effort wrenched them into the bridge once more. The effort cost him; there was plenty of cloud matter in the air, but his very being felt exhausted, numb from too much exertion.

Someone grabbed his shoulder just as the bridge activated.

Scorio clasped the upper edge as it did so and was torn upward with the expanding bridge to be hurled into the air.

The guard’s grip fell away. Scorio opened his eyes as he hurtled up, the bridge massive beneath him, arching up the face of the building to crash against its facade, just shy of the flat roof. He flew over the edge and fell among large clay pots filled with ferns, to roll across a carpet and fetch up before a wizened old woman sitting cross-legged upon a thick cushion, a massively curled pipe in one hand.

“Ah,” said the old woman, staring clear through him with a beatific smile. “You have returned, my naughty dove.”

Scorio leaped to his feet, ran back, and leaned out over the retaining wall in time to see the bridge contract and start to fall. He snatched at it with a convulsive sweep and stuffed it into his robe.

Why had it lasted for less time?

No time to ponder the question. Five Chimera guards were staring up at him in perplexity, the crowd of dancers gaping behind them, their dancing master still shouting curses at everyone.

Scorio backed away and checked the black velvet pouch. There was a single slender object within it. Taking a deep breath, ignoring the seated old woman who was giggling into her hand and waving coyly at him, Scorio took off across the rooftop, dodging around large pots, and gaining enough speed to leap over the intervening gulf onto the next building over.

He kept running, ignoring protests, angry cries, the shrieks of children and everyone else he disturbed until at last, he jumped onto a roof with an obvious stairwell leading down the side to the street.

Gulping for air, covered in sweat, he tore off the Chimera overrobe, leaving him in Feiyan’s faded set, and forced himself to walk slowly into the crowd, there melding into the flow of foot traffic and walking toward the ruins until he was convinced he wasn’t being followed.

Scorio walked till his heart ceased pounding. Only then did he step into an alleyway whose narrow depths were choked in gray ivy and purple flowers to hold up the black velvet pouch in the dim, roseate light of Second Rust and see what it was within that called to him so.

Chapter 13

Scorio unbuckled a slender leather strap and pulled the pouch open. The whole of it was folded several times around its contents, buffering them with multiple layers from potential damage. Crouching down, unfolding the wrapping across one knee, Scorio finally revealed two stoppered vials, each thicker than his thumb and six inches long.

His breath caught in his throat. Within each swirled a metallic blue smoke, shot through with glittering flecks of mica. They were indescribably beautiful, endlessly curling through a variety of hues, revealing dark, sapphire depths and lightening to brilliant azure at the raised ridges.

But more than the sight of them was the pull they had on his spirit. Scorio couldn’t fathom why he felt such a desire for the blue smoke. Drawing the vials forth, he held them up and stared into their depths. What were they? The smoke seemed too solid, almost an endlessly swirling fluid, or…

But he wanted it. Like a starving man might crave a grilled slice of meat, fat and juices dripping from the seared exterior, he yearned to devour their contents in some manner.

Scorio stared, transfixed. The corks were sealed with thick crimson wax, with a symbol pressed onto their heads as if by a signet ring. A chimera, a cruder version of the one carefully stenciled on the badge he’d discarded.

It would be child’s play to break the seal and pop a cork. But then what? Drink it? Try to swirl it around his Heart… but to what end?

With great reluctance, he slid them back into their velvet loops and folded the pouch closed, buckling it tight. No. Given his ignorance, he’d just waste this treasure. And the only thing worse than not consuming it would be watching it disperse into the air while he flailed like an angry child after it.

Frowning, he stared at the alley mouth where pedestrians strode by, flashing into his line of view before disappearing after two steps.

Return to Dola? Hand over the pouch? This mission had been riskier than even she’d warned. Sure, there had been people on the inside setting things up for them, but their disguise had been flimsy, the security too tight. Was that Dola’s fault? No; she’d made the risks very clear. But she’d been all too willing to gamble their lives away at the slim prospect of acquiring these vials.

Would the next job be better? Dola would never stop trying to profit off his abilities. She’d ride his successes till he died.

Mood turning dour, prickled to mercurial anger by the pull of the vials, he remained crouched in the gloom, the burnished light of Second Bronze bathing Bastion in its unceasing glow.

He felt uneasy, felt trapped. Biting the inside of his cheek, he considered the black pouch, then sighed and rolled his neck till it popped. Had he overlooked other options? Feiyan and Helena had made it seem otherwise. Was Dola his only recourse? He thought of the guards chasing after him. They’d just been doing their jobs, and now would pay for their failure to guard this treasure. The thought made him feel queasy.

Turning, he sat against the wall, shoulders slumped. He simply didn’t know enough about this world to make educated decisions. Everything was so complex, the city, its people, the politics, the tension that filled the streets. He’d emerged from the ruins searching blindly for direction, guided by anger and resentment. What were his goals? What was he trying to achieve? To just live as an operative for Dola, earning a handful of octs after each successful heist?

No.

He’d convinced himself it was fitting to rob from the Houses, but now that he’d actually done it, he realized it wasn’t for him. He didn’t want to be sent blindly into another suicide mission. To die or be apprehended like Skarx, a rustspark addict desperately trying to just make it through another day.

He ran his thumb slowly over the velvet pouch. For better or worse, he was a Great Soul. He had within him illimitable potential if he could just harness it. Helena, Feiyan, even Dola had been aware of that primal difference between him and them. Questions of fairness or merit aside, he had a chance to make something of himself.

But again, to what end? Praximar had closed all the doors. Even if he overcame those obstacles, forged a fake identity for himself, what would he achieve? Did he wish to simply embed himself in one of the four Houses, to walk around in a uniform, giving orders and living off the labor of others? That had no appeal.

What if he became powerful enough to strike out into hell itself, to leave Bastion and its problems behind to explore the lands under those blue skies? That felt better, but still felt… hollow.

There was too much he didn’t understand. He had to grow, to learn, to figure out his place in this strange world. Which meant, more than anything else, he had to continue wrestling with his Igneous Heart, with his latent powers. Leonis and Lianshi were no doubt blossoming under the guidance of the Academy instructors, but he had to figure it out by himself.

And these vials might be a means to achieve a breakthrough.

He’d not be giving them back to Dola.

Scorio grimaced and rose to his feet. Which meant, in turn, that he was making a very powerful enemy.

He thought of Dola. Powerful, white-haired, grim-faced, looming over the Narrows like a shadowy titan, her reach sufficiently pervasive to penetrate even House Chimera’s skycrane yard.

Not an enemy to make lightly.

Then again, she could only ever be the worst kind of friend.

Carefully placing the velvet pouch inside his robes, he took a moment to adjust his numerous treasures, tightened his belt, then stepped up to the alley’s mouth. He looked up and down the broad street at the sparse crowd rushing back and forth. Each person carried behind their inscrutable faces a world of purpose, desires, hopes, and frustrations. All of them belonged to Bastion, understood it in their own nuanced way, navigated its corridors of power, strove to do just a little better, to parlay their luck and talent and dreams into an improvement of some kind.

Was he any different?

Not really. But fate had gifted him the means to realize a wholly different level of power. To attain goals beyond even his own imagining.

Stepping out, hands linked behind his back, he walked axially south, tracing the long road beneath the sun-wire toward the distant ruins.

He’d been a Blood Baron once. He, Scorio. Reborn within the Academy, on a jeweled bier. Had that past-life version of him also been cast through the Final Door? If so, it meant he’d overcome these challenges. He’d asked the same questions, faced the same foes, and won through.

Scorio took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the city that arched overhead. The disparate neighborhoods, all of them bathed in the sun-wire’s ruddy glow. He’d walked these streets centuries before. He’d ignited his Heart, had passed his Four Trials, had broken through the bottleneck of being a Dread Blaze, had become a Pyre Lord, and then a Blood Baron.

He studied the strange city as he walked, lips pursed. If he’d done it once, he could do it again. Perhaps in this life, he’d rise higher. Reach Charnel Duke like Jova Spike had done.

But to what end?

The question gnawed at him. He felt, as deeply as he did the pull of the vials, a hidden imperative. A reason to fight. A cause. A primal drive to overcome and grow.

To spurn the Academy, and show the chancellor that he’d excelled without their help? That felt a hollow and petty motivation. Power for its own sake? To satisfy his curiosity about what it was he could do?

Intriguing, but insufficient.

The sun-wire began to dim, the light turning a sultry brown, a soft benediction, shadows creeping forth to meld, colors fading, a dusky burn that promised true darkness. Great streams of mist began to rise from the city, arching their way up toward the sun-wire and there set to coiling around its livid filament.

He’d have to find a place to bed down. Where? Helena and Feiyan would have vacated their basement by now. It had obviously proven safe enough for them to use for a spell. There was no reason it wouldn’t work just as well for him.

On he walked, the neighborhoods changing, the differences in their character subtle, but all tending toward greater impoverishment the closer he got to the ruins. It was still Second Rust when he finally reached the edge of civilization, pausing to stare out over the maze of scorched rock, gutted buildings, and rubble-strewn streets.

He glanced behind him at the slum he’d just passed through, already decrepit and clearly in the process of being consumed by the decay. What was going on? How fast were the ruins advancing? Where would the people of Bastion go when the city was consumed? What were they doing to try and mitigate the damage?

Fruitless questions.

Taking a rough guess at his location, he set off radially west, picking his way carefully along the margins of the slums, walking constantly up a subtle curve of the city, avoiding attention by dipping into the ruins when necessary, skirting impoverished camps, knots of humanity trying to survive on the outskirts of the city, children laughing and chasing each other, the gray ivy claiming everything right up to the edge of the ruins proper.

Here and there he saw the crimson-bodied salamanders, long as his arm, sinuous and playful as they rippled over shattered walls or dove into dark holes. Once he espied a moth-rabbit, pale and luminous like a pearl, flitting overhead on its great, dappled wings, rising and falling in erratic dips that made it look barely in control of its own flight.

Finally, he reached the market, which appeared unfamiliar in the chestnut light, empty again of its stalls and vendors.

He entered the ruins, followed the broken street a couple of blocks, then turned radially east and made his way through the rich gloom, searching for the right building. He passed it by a block, realized he’d gone too far, and returned slowly till he saw the familiar window. He glanced up and down the street to make sure nobody was watching, and then prepared to climb into the dark interior.

Only to pause, one foot raised, at the sight of a languid gleam running along the windowsill.

A slender thread.

He followed its length to the window’s side, then leaned his head in to trace its path up to a collection of battered metal pans, hung precariously off an ingeniously rigged hook.

Scorio frowned, considered. An alarm. Feiyan seemed the type, but would she have set it after leaving? There hadn’t been one when they’d returned together from the market. Perhaps she only set it when they were home?

He stood there, indecisive, and then caught the faint scent of cooking from the building’s interior.

His stomach gurgled plaintively.

A subtle sound from across the street caused him to whirl just in time to see movement on the far rooftop, too quick and now gone for him to make out.

One of those salamanders?

Acting on a hunch, he took off at a stooped jog, hurrying back toward the broader avenue, and there dropped behind a pile of rocks and went still.

The sun-wire overhead was darkening, the end of Second Rust coming fast.

A shape came racing down the avenue, fleet of foot and intent on leaving the ruins. A young, dusky-skinned boy, clad in ragged robes, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, the sides of his scalp shorn clean.

Timing it just right, Scorio took out the bridge, set it on its side, base against the closest large rock, then activated it.

The bridge exploded outward across the avenue, four feet high and forming a low wall. The youth stumbled to a halt, eyes wide, but then Scorio was on him, bolting across the avenue to grab a fistful of his robe and haul him around.

Only to receive a painful stomp across his foot and a hard elbow into his gut.

Hissing in pain, he yanked the kid in closer, wrapped an arm around his neck, and squeezed till the boy stopped struggling.

“Nice and easy now,” he said, the bridge popping back into its diminutive shape and dropping to the ground. “I don’t kill kids, so relax.”

“Let me go,” hissed the boy, both hands gripping Scorio’s forearm where it pressed against his neck. “I didn’t do nothing, let me go!”

“Sure, all in good time. Let’s take a little walk first.” He dragged the boy over to the bridge, scooped it up awkwardly, then bent the boy’s arm behind his back and escorted him back down the street to the musicians’ home.

The boy whined the whole way, struggled and twisted, and reminded Scorio of how Instructor Helminth had escorted him to the holding cell. Scorio frowned, thrust away the memory, and stopped before the window.

“Hey!” His voice echoed within. “Helena? Feiyan? Come on out for a moment.”

Realizing he wasn’t going to get away, the boy relaxed. Only to throw himself sideways with all his strength and nearly break free of Scorio’s grip.

“Sit,” said Scorio, shoving the boy down, and then positioning himself over him. “Stay.”

“What are you doing here?” Feiyan had appeared in the window, hammer resting over her shoulder, making no attempt to mask her anger.

“Scorio!” Helena’s stepped into view behind her, her smile easy and warm. “You’re in real trouble.”

“Saw this kid watching your place,” said Scorio. “He took off, but I grabbed him. Thought you might like to know.”

Feiyan glanced down at the boy, who had turned away sullenly, arms wrapped around his knees. Her gaze flicked back up at him. “Doesn’t explain what you’re doing here in the first place.”

“You told me you were clearing out,” he said. “I thought I’d use your place for the night.”

Feiyan’s frown deepened. “Damn it. That was supposed to keep you away.”

“Why we being watched?” asked Helena, moving up alongside Feiyan and peering down at the boy. “Hey, kid. Why were you watching our place?”

“Not going to talk,” he grumbled.

“We both know you are.” Feiyan’s voice was low and serious. “One way or another. So be reasonable. There’s no need to have your legs bent the wrong way before you tell us what we want to know.”

Scorio stared at Feiyan. Her face was impassive, her heavy brows lowered, her lips set. Would she really…?

The kid sure thought so. He stared up at her, terrified, and then raised both hands disarmingly. “Dola sent me. She thought Scorio might come back here.”

“Uh oh,” said Helena.

Feiyan’s gaze traveled with painful slowness from the boy’s face to Scorio’s own. “Dola sent him. To watch our place. What have you gotten us mixed up with?”

“You said you’d be gone,” said Scorio again.

“Answer the question,” growled Feiyan.

“I did a job for her. Didn’t like how it went down and decided to keep the goods for myself.” Scorio placed his hands on his hips. “Simple enough.”

“Fool. You’re a dead man.” Feiyan blew the lock of curled hair away from between her eyes and stared up at the darkening sun-wire. “We need to go straight to Dola and tell her we’re not involved.”

“Won’t work.” Helena crossed her arms and leaned against the side of the window. “You know what she’ll ask you.”

“True.” Feiyan grimaced. “We’ll need to bring you with us.”

“That’s not happening,” said Scorio. “Sorry.”

Helena jutted out her chin and scratched the length of her jaw. “Impasse.”

“We can take him,” said Feiyan.

“Yeah, probably,” allowed Helena. “But I don’t want to.”

Feiyan turned to stare at her partner. “Dola will string us up if we don’t.”

Helena inhaled deeply, her broad, thin lips pursed in thought, the metallic eyeshadow catching the very last glimmers of the sun-wire. Scorio and the other two watched her, waiting, till she let out a controlled exhale.

“All I’ve wanted since I met you was to leave this life behind. Find a way to live somewhere nice, where we can be our better selves. Or just a chance to figure out who we could be. And now? We actually have a way out. Thanks to Scorio. And what did we give him in return? A set of robes, a pair of sandals I’m amazed haven’t broken yet, and an introduction to the worst lady on this side of town. Doesn’t that rub you the wrong way, at least a little?”

“Sure,” said Feiyan. “But nobody ever said this world was fair.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Helena impatiently. “But it doesn’t mean we have to drag him broken and bleeding to Dola, either. Let’s head north. Right now. Just grab our stuff and go. We can change the meeting spot. Go where Dola’s not welcome, and then—I don’t know—send her an apology that’ll more than make up for this.” She pushed off the wall and looked down at Feiyan, her expression solemn. “I don’t want our last memory of this old life to be throwing the man who helped us to the wolves.”

Feiyan's face contorted into a silent snarl as she stared up at Helena, and then her gaze cut sidelong to where Scorio stood. She clenched her jaw, then pressed the base of her palm between her brows, scowling. “Idiots. We’re complete idiots.”

Helena wrapped a long, tanned arm around Feiyan’s stocky shoulders and squeezed her tight. “Gorgeous, insanely talented, and free idiots.”

Feiyan’s shoulders slumped, and she shook her head wearily, then looked up with a rueful smile at Helena. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

Helena beamed at her and turned to Scorio. “So. Looks like you’re off the hook.”

“I owe you one,” he said.

“Probably, yeah. Or maybe we’re about even.”

“Dola won’t let you go,” said Feiyan, tone grim once more. “She’ll hunt you down wherever you go. She can’t afford not to.”

“There’s got to be some place her influence doesn’t reach,” said Scorio.

“Sure. Lots of places. But you can’t get into them either.”

“Then… fine. I’ll stay in the ruins. Go deeper, even, till I figure things out.”

Helena peered at him. The darkness was growing murky, the last of the browns and oranges fading to shadow. Overhead, the clouds were spiraling swiftly around the sun-wire, causing a wind to pick up, fresh and humid. “You going to work on your, ah, special talents?”

“Something like that.”

She nodded approvingly. “Best thing you can do. Probably the only way you can make yourself untouchable.”

“Good. Any pointers on where in the ruins I should go?”

Feiyan scrunched up her lips, peered down both sides of the street in thought. “It’s all pretty rough out there. The gruel and water fountains are non-operational. Fiends come up from below when it gets dark. You’ll need to find yourself a safe room you can defend.”

“And avoid the area around the really tall tower,” said Helena. “That’s Nightmare Lady territory. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Nightmare Lady?” asked Scorio.

“Bad news. Don’t know if she’s a fiend or what, but… yeah. Just take my word for it. Steer clear.”

“Got it.”

“Can I go?” The youth rose to his knees. “You’re not going to kill me, and I, ah, can walk slowly back to Dola’s.”

“What are you going to tell her?” asked Feiyan, leaning out the window to pin the boy with her glare.

“That—that I saw him come by here… and…” The boy’s mind was clearly racing.

“And we kicked him out,” said Feiyan. “He set off this trap”—and she plucked gently at the windowsill string—“and we came and told him to clear out. Which he did. We didn’t talk. He didn’t catch you. Then you went to tell her everything. Right?”

“Right,” said the boy uncertainly.

Feiyan narrowed her eyes. “You know who I am?”

The boy gave a jerky nod.

“Dola’s trouble, but I’m not much better. I find out you told a different story, you won’t see me coming.”

“And when you think about it,” put in Helena, “you’re still basically telling the truth. We’re telling Scorio to get lost, and want nothing to do with him.”

“True,” said the boy.

“So get out of here,” said Feiyan. “Walk slow, think it over.”

The boy climbed to his feet and backed away warily. “All right. Thank you.” And then he turned and ran off into the gloom.

“And you.” Feiyan raised her chin at him. “We’re not friends. We don’t like you—”

“I kind of like him,” said Helena.

“—and we don’t want you looking us up again. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” said Scorio. “Mind if I wish you luck with your new life?”

Feiyan snorted, but Helena wrapped a long arm around her friend’s shoulders again and pulled her into a tight hug. “Go right ahead.”

“Best of luck to the both of you. I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble. It wasn’t my intent. I hope the sunphire gets you everything you’ve been wanting, and more.”

“That was so nice!” Helena turned to beam down at Feiyan. “You hear that? Tell me that wasn’t nice.”

“Yeah, real sweet,” grouched Feiyan. “Now come on. We need to pack up and get going.”

“Take care of yourself, Scorio.” Helena extended her hand out the window to him. “And watch your back.”

He shook her long-fingered hand. “I will. Bye.”

Feiyan turned and disappeared into the house, Helena following right behind, and even as Scorio turned to walk away, he heard Feiyan say something low and grouchy, which caused Helena to laugh, the sound echoing faintly down the ruined street.

The sun-wire darkened to a cherry-red streak, barely visible through the revolving cylinder of clouds, and a strong gust of wind tore down the street as a light rain began to fall, pattering over the shattered rocks as night fell over the city.

Scorio fought off a sense of bleak disappointment. Had he thought Helena and Feiyan might become actual friends?

He should have known better.

Again he thought of Leonis and Lianshi. The rain plastered his hair down, soaked into his robes, the drops fat and warm. Were his friends inside somewhere, eating dinner? Comfortable, clean, and learning how to wield their power?

He sure hoped so.

Scorio walked deeper into the ruins, into the rainy night. No matter. He was still walking, still alive, and now he had two vials worth more than he could fathom tucked into his robe.

It was time to get to work.

Chapter 14

The next few weeks were spent in a state of constant hunger and paranoia. Scorio found himself a wretched home on the fourth story of a half-collapsed building deep into the ruined zone, the streets blasted out and cracked, the chasm depths showing a fiery red and wafting up eerie heat that caused the air to shimmer.

By day he focused on his Igneous Heart, sought to draw closer to it, to manipulate it, to crack it open, to set it on fire. It defied his every attempt. He worked on the sooty black clouds that had returned, and which he began to associate with the ruins. Sought to become more adept at manipulating them, swirling them about his Heart, envisioning a huge paddle with which he strained against their blackmass.

It was hard work, and ultimately dispiriting. For no matter how hard he strained, he felt little improvement; the breakthroughs he’d enjoyed in the depths of the earth were what he enjoyed now, and despite ceaselessly working at triggering his treasures, here in the ruins he was barely able to make them last longer than the original six seconds.

He constructed theories and abandoned them. The bridge had lasted nearly thirty seconds in the skycrane yard because of that silky, iron-hued smoke. No; it had been his fear for his life that had caused him to imbue the bridge with such durability. Perhaps a combination of both—perhaps neither.

He toiled until he could bear it no longer, and then would leap up to climb to the broken roof and there lie on his back, gazing up at the distant ruins that revolved around Bastion’s interior, watching for movement, for flocks of bat-winged shadows that occasionally flew down the dark corridors during First and Second Clay. Came to know the curious, benign attention of the fiery salamanders, that seemed unceasingly curious about his presence.

Learned to avoid the blocks to his left, where an elongated, six-legged panther with eyes that burned the deepest amethyst prowled the ruins.

Discovered numerous vents that allowed him access to the underworld, but which he shunned for fear of never returning.

Twice he returned to Bastion proper, as he’d come to think of the civilized two-thirds of the city, and hunted for food, not daring to enter in conversation with anyone or even to beg. Instead, he watched, he waited, and when the lines were shortest stepped in to wait and fill one of his large buckets with dark, chunky green gruel that was dispensed by large, ponderous fountains that spewed the thick liquid into a huge basin from which countless people drew sustenance. The lines were continuous and at all hours, such that the basin never filled more than an inch at its base.

After that, it was easy to fashion a cowl from a stolen sheet hung out to dry, and enter in line, head bowed, a stolen bucket in hand. Nobody questioned him, though he caught more than one curious glance sent his way.

The water fountains were similarly busy, and after finishing his gruel, he’d swing by them to wash the remains of his meal down his gullet before heading back into the ruins by means of a tortuously circuitous route, buckets of water and gruel sloshing by his side, pausing frequently to hide and watch to see if he was followed.

He wasn’t.

And at night, lying in his dark room on his stolen sheet, he would hold up one of the blue vials and allow its light to play softly over the walls. For its siren call to tug at his soul, begging him to pop the cork, to inhale its pelagic substance, to risk it all out of desperation and wild hope.

He’d reason—what if this was exactly what he needed to progress? What if he was wasting his time laboring with his dead Heart, when the means to ignition lay at hand? He’d hold the vial, his thumb pressed to the stopper, poised to flick it open, and stare down at its swirling beauty for ages, frowning, arguing with himself, going back and forth, until at last caution won out and he’d put it back.

There was always tomorrow. Always another day in which he could open the vial if he made no progress. But if he did so now? He might lose its potency forever.

Fifteen days. He’d dedicate himself to his barren Heart for fifteen days, and if by then he’d achieved nothing, he’d open the vial.

The days came and went. He became familiar with his little neck of the ruins. The strange court filled with toppled statues, their cracked bodies and stylized faces strangely haunting. The hall whose ceiling still bore traces of a startlingly vivid fresco, one which depicted heroes in battle against a huge, squid-like monster descending from the skies, its form wreathed in black clouds, lightning bolts flying from its eye, easily the size of a city. Narrow streets choked with huge mussels, their shells shiny and tightly shut, but which opened in concert at random times to extend wavering feelers into the air. A small chamber in a random home in which a wooden cradle had survived the years, the wood sere and pale. He’d considered breaking it up for kindling, but some vague sense of pity stayed his hand.

And every day he wrestled with his impatience, his ambition, his need to ignite his Heart, and his constant failure to do so.

Until one night, as he lay in his room, a vial of swirling blue in hand, he had a visitor.

The sun-wire had darkened the equivalent of two cycles ago. The ruins outside were silent. The sun-wire never truly darkened, but instead reduced its glow to a smoky-red refulgence that did little to hold back the night other than faintly illumine outlines and cast the faintest of blood-hued light across the world.

Silence, darkness but for his vial, and a bank of frustration from another day without noticeable progress. Solitude, perfect and still.

And then somebody was there.

The awareness prickled at the edge of his senses, a vague intuition that caused him to glance aside without turning his head, and there crouched in the window was a dark shadow.

Fear slid into his chest like a clear, razor-sharp blade, and he jerked up, almost dropping the precious vial to the stone floor, hand snatching up his chalk as he stared, wide-eyed, at the figure who stepped slowly down into his room.

A woman, possibly. A massive, skeletal tail floated about her, looking to be made of ebon vertebrae, its tip ending in a foot-long triangular blade. She was tall but stood hunched over, as if ready to leap. In the darkness, it was hard to make out what was wrong with her head, but it appeared elongated, perhaps horned, her eyes burning with a noxious, inner green light. Her legs were reverse jointed like those of a wolf, and black hair hung in long, greasy locks about her hidden visage.

His breath locked up in his chest; he couldn’t move, couldn’t scrawl a line of chalk in the stone before him.

He could only watch as she twitched her head to one side and then the other, like a bird examining its prey, and approached slowly, her movements dream-like, her tail gently probing at the air as if knitting an invisible skein.

“Who are you?” Her voice was shockingly normal; that of a young woman, harsh perhaps from disuse, accusing and stern. “What are you doing here?”

Scorio blinked, some of his sense returning. “Scorio. I… I’m not doing anything. Just hiding. What… who are you?”

Her head ticked over, her burning green eyes never looking away. “That vial. Give it to me.”

Scorio closed his fist about the blue light. “It’s mine.”

“Give it to me and I won’t cut you to bloody ribbons.”

Scorio reached back without looking away from the… thing… and took up the velvet satchel. Sliding the vial home, he looped the satchel closed, then placed it inside his robe. He drew forth the chalk and bridge as he removed his hand, and held them at the ready.

“It’s mine,” he said again. “I won’t let you have it.”

“Are they worth dying for?” And with this she took a sudden step forward, causing him to jerk back, chalk held at the ready. “It’s of no use to you. Give it to me. Live.”

He licked his dry lips. Her voice. That of a sullen young woman. It was so at odds with her horrific appearance.

“Who are you?” he asked, playing for time.

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped, temper flaring. “I’ve been merciful thus far. Asked nicely. But try me and I’ll just take what I want.”

“And I already told you,” said Scorio softly, climbing up into a crouch. “I’m not giving it away.”

Her eyes narrowed, the twin green flames turning into slits, the huge tail growing more agitated. “Fool.”

And she leaped at him.

Scorio had been desperately envisioning his Igneous Heart, and now reached for the turgid black smoke, but there was none in the air; it was as if he’d been activating the bridge and steel rod all day and used it all up.

Still, there was barely enough to catch up, a wisp of darkness, and this he hurled into the bridge even as he aimed it up and at her.

He didn’t need the bridge to last six seconds. Just one would suffice.

It burst outward toward the leaping fiend, swelling to its full size in a second.

Yet somehow the creature pulled herself up onto the ceiling, evading the bridge’s destructive expansion, her talons sinking into the stone, burning green eyes opened wide.

“How did you do that?”

Scorio drew forth the iron rod. Began to retreat to the opposite door. “Just a trick I know.”

Again her head canted to one side, the movement almost mechanical. “I don’t sense any power in you. Yet… are you a Char?”

He paused, steel rod raised in the air, ready to activate it and run, though that would mean abandoning both it and the bridge. “What if I am?”

She shoved off the ceiling at an oblique angle and leaped to the far wall. Scorio turned with her, trying to keep up, but she shoved off that with impossible speed to blur in behind him, the huge tail wrapping around to place its bladed tip at his stomach, pricking the skin.

He couldn’t see her, but felt her breath on his ear as she leaned in close. “Answer the question before I decide I’m not really all that curious.”

“Yes,” he said, sweat prickling his brow, his steel rod still held uselessly in his hand. “Sure. I’m a Char.”

One of her talons tapped thoughtfully against his shoulder, delicately slashing open his robe with each flick. “A Char. Out here. With vials of Sapphire mana and toys beside. Scorio.”

“That’s my name, right.” He fought to keep his breath calm. “You never shared yours.”

“That’s right, I didn’t.”

Her hand slid across his body, dipped into his robe, and emerged clutching the black pouch. “Drop everything you’re holding.”

Scorio scowled, but there was no way he could evade her bladed tail with its wicked point already drawing blood.

He opened his hands, and the steel rod and chalk fell to the floor.

One of the long talons curled around to rest lightly against the side of his throat. “I must admit I’m curious. How did a Char come to hide out here with such wealth?”

“You’re the Nightmare Lady,” he said. “But you’re not a fiend. You’re a Great Soul like me.”

“Not like you,” she whispered, her voice throaty, amused. “I’m an Emberling, Scorio, while you’re a pitiful nothing.”

“Emberling. Wait. Not even a Dread Blaze?” The rankings came back to him as he worked it out. “You’re just one level above a Cinder?”

The talon’s edge pressed against the side of his neck, cutting his humor short.

“An Emberling, yes.” Her voice was a dark hiss. “But that’s more than enough. I could kill you, you know. Here in the dark. Cut you into red chunks so quickly you wouldn’t even realize you were dead as you fell to the floor. And nobody would know. The scavengers would eat your remains and then that would be it for Scorio, the Char with the big mouth and a lethal lack of common sense.”

Even though her words were chilling, there was something to her tone, to how she phrased her threat, that made him think that beneath the murderous intent there might be a twisted, dark sense of humor.

“Must be lonely, out here, with nothing but your fearsome reputation to keep you company.”

“I’ve no complaints.”

“But you still haven’t killed me. When’s the last time you had a conversation?”

The tail-blade stirred restlessly against his stomach and rose to his chest, further slashing his robes, but the movement seemed almost absent-minded.

“How about this,” he said. “We’ll make a deal. I’ll sit against one wall, you against the other, and I’ll tell you my story. But on one condition.”

“Conditions?” More of that dark amusement. “Oh, you’re a bold one.”

“You sit against the other wall in your natural form. Your human form.”

Her voice grew sharp. “Why?”

“You’re a scary-looking lady. I’m not sure I’ll be able to focus with you looking like that, all glowing green eyes and weird killer tail.”

There was a pause, and he wasn’t sure his gamble had paid off till she laughed, the sound low and husky; then she pushed him away, the tail undulating as if through water as it retracted.

Slowly, cautiously, he turned around, palms raised, and saw that the monstrous figure was gone, shrunken down to a shadow against the deeper dark. Together, step by step, they retreated to opposite walls, and then simultaneously slid down to sitting.

“There,” he said, crossing his legs and resting his palms on his knees. “This is practically civilized.”

“For now.” And it was surreal how her voice remained the same. “But don’t get ambitious. I can change back faster than you can blink.”

“Must be nice to be an Emberling,” he said. “It takes me about ten minutes to just get my Heart to notice me.”

Was that sharp inhale a snort of laughter? “You poor, poor Char. So go on, Scorio. Tell me your story. The longer you entertain me, the longer you’ll live.”

“You planning to kill me when we’re done?”

Her tone grew indolent. “Right now, yes. But we’ll see.”

“But… why? I’m not bothering you. You’re going to take my vials. Why kill me as well?”

“Keep asking annoying questions and we’ll cut to the chase.” And somehow, despite her frame having shrunken and lost its wicked tail, the woman managed to remain just as intimidating. “Now. How does a no-account Char end up in the ruins with treasures like these?”

So he told her. Hid nothing. About awakening in the Gauntlet, about how far he managed to progress, and then awakening in the Academy’s basilica.

“You made it to the Chamber of Balance?” There was mild skepticism in her voice, but not an outright challenge.

“Sure. Barely. How far did you get?”

“This is your story. So you awoke in the basilica and Praximar gave you his welcome speech.”

“Right. Began calling up those who did best at the Gauntlet. I was something like the eighteenth to be called up.”

“And that is when your fate was sealed. What did it reveal about you?”

Scorio hesitated. “That I was a Red Lister.”

No reaction, or at least, nothing he could make out in the shadowy murk. “No details? For shame. My patience shortens.”

“Sure. I was Scorio, once known as The Scourer, Unmaker of Joy, the Abhorred, Master of Ash and other such things.”

“Impressive list of titles.” Her amusement was back. “You must have been busy during your original life.”

“You seem strangely nonchalant about it.”

A sense of a shrug. “I’m known as the Nightmare Lady and live out in the ruins by choice. Did you expect me to be faint in horror?”

“Ha, no, all right. Anyway, the highest rank I’d ever attained was Blood Baron. And… the weirdest part—to me, anyway—was the fact that it had been over two centuries since I’d last lived. And that I’d only been reborn six times.”

He heard her shift her weight, lean forward. “Now that is interesting. If you’re telling me the truth.”

“I am.”

“Which is of course what you’d say. But regardless, it makes for an interesting tale. Let us assume you’re not lying. I’ve never heard of the like either. Not two centuries, at any rate.”

“Everyone else seemed to have been reborn within five or so years of dying. Why do you think it took me so long?”

“Your tale, remember?”

“If you’re going to kill me, at least satisfy that one curiosity.”

A pensive silence. “The Archspire calls bound souls back into service. They explained that much to you?”

“Something like that. And siphons off some of their power in the process which it then gives to those who did best at the Gauntlet.”

“Making the strong even stronger, yes.” Another pensive pause, but this one seemed almost hesitant, as if she were deciding how much to share. “I’ve heard it said that the mightier the soul, the more they can resist the Archspire’s summons, if they so desire.”

Scorio leaned forward. “So—wait. If you are reborn within a year of your death, you’re weak?”

“Or simply willing. It takes strength and desire both to refuse the call. Supposedly.”

“What about you? Were you a Red Lister?”

“Continue your story, Scorio the Abhorred. You may once have been a Blood Baron, but right now you’re nothing.”

“Right, sure.” He leaned back against the wall. “Praximar had me thrown into a holding cell, where he… well.” Scorio’s throat tightened up. “He took my strength, or something, then had me thrown through the Final Door.”

“Sounds just like that bastard.” Her voice was hard, but he couldn’t tell if there was sympathy in it. “So how did you escape?”

“There were some others in there. They’d been working on an escape plan. It… didn’t go well, at least, not for everyone involved, but I managed to get out of the warrens—that’s what they called the tunnels just outside the Final Door—and into the caverns beneath the ruins.”

“You’re skipping intriguing details.”

So he told her. About Havert and Hestia, Sal and Nissa. Their cave, their plan, the contraption made of ropes and wheels that had allowed them to haul open the Brass Door, and the fiend that had come through.

“A purple mox,” she said. “I can see how that would tear through a bunch of Chars.”

“Because you’d have been able to stop it?”

Her amused silence was all the answer he received.

So he continued with his tale, but when he reached the part involving Radert’s corpse, he didn’t mention the chalk. Just omitted that one detail and kept going, right up to the point where he emerged into Bastion and saw the sun-wire for the first time.

“Your whole story is ridiculously improbable,” said the woman. “And that you accomplished all that as a Char? You’ve been blessed with equally ridiculous luck.”

“Are you saying I was lucky to survive my bad luck?”

“Precisely so.” Again that sense of amusement. “But all right. So how did you come across these vials?”

He moved quickly through the rest of the story, and she made no further comment, not as he spoke of following Helena and Feiyan, of his meeting with Dola, and his ill-fated mission in the skycrane yard. How he chose to retreat to the ruins and focus on trying to ignite his Igneous Heart.

“It hasn’t been going well, has it?” she asked.

“No,” said Scorio, shifting his weight uneasily on the stone floor. “Not yet, at any rate. I had hopes of managing it soon, however, right up till you showed up.”

“Tragic.” Her tone made it clear she thought it was anything but. “But unsurprising, despite your obvious luck and talent. You can’t ignite a Heart without knowing what you’re doing.”

“Then tell me,” he said, leaning forward. “How is it done?”

She rose smoothly to her feet, and in the depths of darkness, her form shifted, growing taller, more angular, skeletal, and terrifying. “Alas,” she whispered. “We’re out of time. Thank you for the entertainment. Perhaps we’ll meet again in a few centuries’ time.”

“Wait,” said Scorio, climbing to his feet. “You don’t need to do this. I can leave the area, I can go into the city proper.”

“You’re right. I don’t need to do this. But I’ve a reputation to maintain. If I start letting people go, people will start thinking I’m really not all that dangerous. And where would that leave me?”

“I’ll obviously keep my mouth shut.”

“Sure you would. No. It’s been… surprisingly enjoyable to meet you, Scorio the Abhorred. But all good things must come to an end.”

“Then—a proposal.”

She paused.

His mind raced. “I’m just a Char, right? You’re a mighty Emberling?”

“Watch your tone.”

“Oh, I am.” He rubbed his sweaty palms on his hips. “You’re bored. Don’t deny it. So, a little more entertainment. A challenge.”

He could barely make out her massive tail as it swayed languorously through the air, and realized almost too late that her silence was permission to speak on. “You’ve got your territory, don’t you? I’m sure it’s a secure location. You know the alleys, the hidey holes. My challenge is this: I’ll take you down within the next three days. And if I do, you’ll agree to teach me how to ignite my Igneous Heart.”

She scoffed. “You’ll simply run the moment I leave.”

“Run where? To do what? I told you, I want nothing from the Dola’s of this world. I want to ignite my Igneous Heart, and you just said it can’t be done without instruction. I need what you know. So I’ll fight you for it.”

“You.” She paused. “Will defeat me.” Not a question. A repetition, as if she were tasting the words, trying them on for size.

“Within three nights. If I’ve failed by the end of the third night, just hunt me down and kill me.”

She straightened from her crouch. “Intriguing. More amazing still, I believe you mean it. Though were I in your position, I’d probably be willing to do the same. All right. Three nights. I’ll be waiting for you, Scorio. And this will be the last game you play.”

“Great.” He fought the urge to exhale in relief. “Then I’ll be seeing you around, Nightmare Lady.”

“Sooner than you think.” And she drifted through the room, a dark, angular mass, and disappeared back out through the window.

For long, aching moments Scorio just stood there, heart pounding, then he hurried to the center of the room and dropped to his knees. He felt around and picked up the chalk.

The bridge and steel bar, however, were gone.

Chapter 15

The next morning Scorio took his buckets into town, spent a couple of hours surreptitiously lining up for gruel and water, and then made his way carefully back into the ruins.

He returned to Feiyan and Helena’s old hideout, then turned to face the direction they’d warned him to steer clear of.

Nightmare Lady’s territory.

How big a space was it?

Wanting a better vantage, he made his way to the tallest building close by, a tower leaning drunkenly over to one side, and carefully climbed to the top, using the mostly collapsed interior stairwell that went round and round the tower’s hollow curvature. It took him a good hour to make it to the top, and despite the fact that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get back down, he settled with his back against a shard-pitted, gray stone wall that was all that remained of the highest floor and stared out over the ruins.

It was well into First Clay at this point, and the sun-wire’s bronzed light limned the craggy buildings. The deep ravines that had consumed some of the avenues burned on, their fiery depths speaking to hellish mysteries contained deep within the earth. The buildings were monumental in nature, their architecture brutal and blocky and without ornamentation. Some were so large he couldn’t guess at how they had been built, towering ten, twelve, fourteen stories tall. Great slab-like bridges extended over roads, others merely jutted out a half-dozen yards before ending raggedly.

All made from the same gray, shale-like rock, cracked and flaking.

Had the city been built, or carved out? Studying the scope of the ruins, shorn of all the decorations and disguises of civilization, Scorio began to suspect the latter.

Leaning forward, he stared at the area Feiyan had indicated belonged to the Nightmare Lady. It looked to be in the worst condition, yet also the most striking. Entire segments had given way to the depths, so that passage through it had to be done mostly across brutal bridges that jutted out over crimson and orange-hued chasms. Some of the buildings appeared to be completely hollow, shells standing over those infernal depths, for their windows glowed from within with a faint, burning smolder.

And above them all reared a huge tower, perhaps the tallest building in this section of the ruins, listing slightly to the side and pointing at the sun-wire like an accusing finger.

Scorio tapped his chin, considering.

Nightmare was an Emberling. That was just one level above a Cinder, which meant… what exactly? She couldn’t have too many powers. Perhaps she could only change into her monstrous form.

But that was already an insurmountable challenge. In her nightmare form, she had incredible mobility, impossible reflexes, and a tail that would impale him before he got close enough to fight her.

He had to use his chalk to trap her, which meant being inside a building. There was no way he’d have enough time to encircle her outside. Better to close off doors and windows.

He frowned, dissatisfied.

That required figuring out where she slept and having the ability to chalk off her exits without alerting her to his presence. And since she knew she was being hunted, she’d be cagey, sleep in places that could only be accessed in her agility-enhanced form.

Scorio let out a sigh and fought not to feel discouraged.

What advantages did he have? The chalk. She’d not picked up on its power, and wouldn’t expect or account for its abilities. Her arrogance. She was amused by him, but gave him absolutely no chance of succeeding. And time. Time in which to strategize, to gather his resources.

He considered reaching out to Feiyan and Helena, then immediately discarded the idea. He could return to Dola and… what? Get his throat cut? What of Leonis and Lianshi?

That idea gave him pause.

He hadn’t sworn to not get help.

Could he reach Leonis and Lianshi? He hadn’t even considered it before, assumed they were locked up tight within the Academy. But even if he could, would they help him? Come out into the ruins to fight an Emberling for his sake?

Scorio rubbed at his chin, considering. Say that they did agree. Was it responsible of him to embroil them? Nightmare Lady wouldn’t hesitate to gut him, much less two other Chars who meddled in their contest.

Was defeating his opponent worth losing Lianshi or Leonis over? Scorio grimaced. Tried to imagine Lianshi impaled upon Nightmare Lady’s tail blade.

No.

He said it with extreme reluctance. Even if they agreed to help—and some part of him hoped they would, thought there was a chance—he couldn’t bring them into such a dangerous situation. One with so very little hope.

He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he won at the cost of a friend.

So it was back to tackling it alone.

He took a deep breath and considered. She’d visited him in the middle of the night. Could he assume she was most active when the sun-wire was dim? Made sense. Nightmares happened when you slept. Perhaps the central cycle of Amber was when she rested.

Unless of course she purposefully changed things these next three days, guessing that he’d make those assumptions.

But she’d only change her patterns if she thought there was a chance he could surprise her, and he knew she didn’t. She was a cat, playing with its food, enjoying the futile struggle.

So no. If assumptions had to be made, then he’d guess she’d not bother to change up her habits. Which meant activity in the dark, and rest when the day was brightest.

Even this minor act of reasoning managed to buoy his spirits. Gave him an illusory sense of progress.

But how would he find her? He gazed out over the wasteland of gray stone and fire, then shook his head.

He couldn’t. His very attempts would alert her to his presence as he fumbled around the ruins.

So then he wouldn’t try.

The realization made him sit back, no longer seeing the blasted city but instead staring out at nothing.

They’d made a date. At the end of the third night, she’d come to end his life.

That meant he just had to set up the perfect ambush and let her walk into it.

With a grin, Scorio rose to his feet and began the treacherous descent.

* * *

Scorio sat with his back to the wall, a lantern burning at its lowest wick by his side. Absolutely no light filtered into the ruined hallway from the sun-wire, but First Clay had to have begun, the sun-wire incandescing after its long cycle of darkness.

He stared at the distant square in the ceiling. She’d want to talk to him when she arrived. Express her disappointment. But would attack the moment he moved in a way she didn’t understand.

The chalk’s lines only lasted for about an hour. In the heat of combat that seemed a lifetime, but sitting here in the aching silence, it felt gallingly insufficient. What if she didn’t come after him right away? What if she waited till the next night cycle? How often should he refresh the lines?

The moments dragged by with insufferable silence. The walls were cold, the floor uncomfortable, but even if he’d sat in the most resplendent chair he’d have shifted and stirred with disquiet.

He rose to his feet, stretched. It had been a long night. A long test of his every assumption, and the fact that he still lived proved at least some of them had been correct.

But now all he wished was for her to show. For an end to this torturous waiting.

There wasn’t enough room to pace, and he didn’t dare walk to the hallway’s end beneath the trapdoor. He sat back down and resumed watching the hole in the ceiling at the end of the narrow hall.

Time seemed to have no meaning. The lantern’s light was just dim enough to see by but sufficient to last all day.

He didn’t want to think about what he’d do if she didn’t come soon enough. If his light died out. If he ran out of chalk.

Nor did he want to think about how he’d try to survive if he were forced out of this blind corridor.

He fidgeted, then forced himself to stop, then inevitably began to fidget once more. Was First Clay over? Could it be First Rust by now? She preferred the darkness. What if she decided to wait? What if—

He grimaced, rose, took deep breaths, and watched the square, moving his chalk from one sweaty hand to the other.

What if she couldn’t find him here? What if she were looking for him right now, but unable to detect him down in this hole? She’d found him the first time due to the vials. What if without it she was blind, and forced to scour the ruins?

Or worse yet, what if she decided not to bother, and simply kill him the next time she ran into him?

Scorio bit his lower lip, glared at the square, demanded silently that she appear.

She’d come. Something told him she’d take his failure to appear personally. That she’d be insulted by his not even trying to hunt her. She’d be annoyed, at herself more than anything, for believing he might prove interesting.

She’d want vengeance.

It had taken him two days to find this corridor. Ten yards in the bowels of a ruin, both ends blocked by collapsed masonry. Narrow enough that he could touch each wall by simply extending his arms. Ten yards by one. A simple, plain, brutal rectangle. With an entrance in the ceiling at the far end, a square a couple of feet wide. If he leaped, he could grab the edge, pull himself out.

Just like a tomb.

Or a womb, as Leonis might have put it.

He smiled in the soft glow of the lantern, tried to distract himself with thoughts of his friends. What would they be doing in the Academy? Did they think of him? Had they lit their Igneous Hearts yet? What powers might they have manifested?

A deep breath. His heart was beating rapidly, though nothing had happened for hours. It had to be Second Rust.

Where was she?

He’d explored all manner of elaborate set-ups. Some easier to find than others. He’d worried endlessly about whether he should leave a note for her in his old room, or a trail to ensure she’d find him.

In the end he’d opted to leave nothing.

If he wanted her to believe he was truly hiding, then he had to make it hard for her.

But what if he’d made it too hard?

Scorio pressed his knuckles to his temples and grimaced. His thoughts were driving him wild. But he couldn’t afford to sit and attempt to meditate, to focus on his Igneous Heart. He had to be ready to act the moment she appeared, the very second.

So he watched, unable to even pace the length of the hallway, trapped in place at its very end, breathing powerfully, waiting.

Trapped.

More time passed. The silence was maddening. Perhaps he should scout outside. Just take a look. Refresh his trail, as it were. He was considering this possibility when instinct bade him freeze.

Nothing had changed. The darkness was still velvety and thick beyond the soft radius of the lamp. The square in the ceiling was utterly still. The silence suffocating.

But still, he froze, thoughts going quiet, eyes locked on that impenetrably dark opening.

“Scorio…” The voice had an almost singsong cadence to it, lilting and amused. But it didn’t hide the sheer menace that caused goosebumps to race along the back of his arms and caused the hair on the nape of his neck to prickle.

“Scorio…” Closer now, and then, at long last, movement.

Her tail.

It dipped in through the hole, and he caught his first vivid sight of its maleficent awfulness. The blade at its tip was a long, off-kilter triangle, dull black in hue and grooved down the center. Easily the length of his forearm, its edges seemed to disappear into the air, as if so sharp it gradated into nothing instead of simply ending.

It hung from a sinuous line of black vertebrae, segmented and gleaming as if dipped in oil, its power obvious in how easily it manipulated the massive blade.

“You didn’t come find me,” crooned Nightmare Lady, her tail rippling out across the ceiling as if gravity was inverted for it alone. “Left me by myself, wondering, growing sad, feeling lonely. Until at last, I decided I’d misjudged you altogether…”

Claws rippled into view, talons as long as his finger emerging from the tips of alien fingers that appeared to be all sinew and bone, gleaming and jet black just like the tail.

Scorio stared, unable to breathe, transfixed, until at last her head descended into view.

Her face truly was a nightmarish visage, her cheeks planes of upswept bone that melded with her brow to rush back into a mass of ridged horns, her hair falling in a greasy black waterfall into the hallway. Two cracks in the bone carapace of the upper half of her face revealed her eyes, both burning their fulminous green, bright and noxious and penetrating.

“Scorio,” she said, sweetly, softly. “There you are. My little coward. My deal-breaker. My latest disappointment.”

“Nightmare Lady,” he managed, allowing his fear to show. She’d expect it. Become suspicious if he showed too much bravado. “How about we talk? Perhaps new terms?”

Her smile pulled into a caustic smile, and with lithe, unnatural grace she dropped through the hole to land on all fours at the end of the hallway, a mere ten yards from where he stood, tail poised over one shoulder, its tip aimed unerringly at his face.

“Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re going to beg. I couldn’t stand to be so utterly mistaken about you.”

Quick as he could, he bent down and scratched a white line across the breadth of the corridor, and the air above the chalk immediately began to shimmer.

Her burning eyes narrowed, her head canted to one side, and then her tail exploded forward, launched with impossible speed, clearing the space between them faster than he could blink.

Only to crash against the invisible wall and bounce off violently.

Scorio didn’t wait but reached up and scrawled a second line horizontally across the top of the wall.

The air just below the ceiling immediately began to shimmer, extending from where he stood all the way to the hall’s end.

“What is that?” she hissed, sinking deeper into her crouch. Her whole body was twisted, warped by her transformation, skin a gleaming black, her flesh ridged and fluted, impossibly emaciated yet somehow looking utterly lethal at the same time.

“This?” Scorio still didn’t dare believe his plan had worked. He bounced the chalk in the palm of his hand. “Something you overlooked the last time we spoke.”

She snarled and leaped up, only to crash against the invisible barrier that now blocked the trapdoor.

Down she fell, only to race toward him the moment her feet hit the ground, tail slamming into the wall of force before him, its tip stabbing again and again, faster than he could follow, a dozen times in less than a couple of seconds, and then she was upon it, clawing at the shimmering air, talons raking down and across, a cyclone of rage, screaming as she sought to break through.

Scorio pressed back against the stone wall and prayed that she wouldn’t overwhelm the chalk.

For a solid thirty seconds, she battered and stabbed at the wall, only to finally fall back, shoulders heaving, tail whipping about her. Turned slowly, she examined the corridor with greater care, then sent the blade of her tail slicing down along the ceiling, probing at the invisible barrier. She walked away, running her talons along both walls, sending a flurry of stone chips flying until she reached the cave-in at the far end.

Pausing, she considered it, then placed a foot upon the largest rock, her prehensile and talon-tipped toes closing about its face.

She pulled, and when the rock didn’t stir, she turned at last to gaze at him over her ridged shoulder.

“So. You have me trapped.”

“Yes,” he breathed, hardly daring to relax. He licked his dry lips and forced his shoulders to settle.

“But trapped does not mean defeated. We are at an impasse.” She turned to face him fully. “And we are past the deadline. You lost.”

“The competition, sure. But you’re in my power now. We’ll strike a new deal, or you’ll die.”

Her lip writhed back from her fangs. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. “You think to renegotiate?”

Scorio gauged where she stood, reached around, and made a mark upon the wall, followed immediately by a second a foot away.

Each mark was no wider than an inch.

Immediately beams of shimmering air appeared as if they’d simply always been there, one on each side of her torso, pressing in tight.

The Nightmare Lady hissed, wrenched against them in surprise, and gave Scorio the second he needed to make a third mark, and then after a moment’s hesitation, a fourth.

Two more beams appeared. The third sliced in between her legs, nearly severing her tail, while the fourth cut in just over her left shoulder.

She exploded into a frenzy, jerking and hurling herself about, constrained by the four beams, hemmed in at crucial angles. But it wasn’t perfect. The second she realized that all she had to do was relax, lie back and slip out, she’d escape.

Scorio didn’t intend to give her the chance.

Carefully, watching as the beam extended, he drew a fifth line down at an oblique angle, arching his arm over the fourth, drawing it slowly till the shimmering wall pressed down upon her. She screamed, bent before it, but was held in place by the beam over her hip and lying across her other shoulder.

Not lifting the chalk, he continued to draw the line down, forcing her to constrict into an ever-smaller space, till at last, he had her head trapped, tilted back, the chalk’s line pressing right into her neck.

“It’s not sharp,” he said, “at least, not sharp enough to cut through flesh. But it can constrict you just fine. I make this line a little longer and I’ll crush your neck.”

To which she simply screamed at him and thrashed within her confines once more.

“Enough!” His bark echoed within the hallway. “I don’t want to do this. Talk with me and we can figure something out.”

He saw the moment when she realized that she was only pinned while facing him full-on, and how that by lying back and narrowing her profile she might be able to escape; but it was too late, and the shimmering walls now held her too tightly, her neck squeezed between two vise-like beams, her head too large, the ridged horns preventing her from wriggling free.

Again she screamed and slashed at the beams with her talons, whacked at them with her tail blade as a maddened man might hack at tree trunk with an ax.

But finally, she relented, sagged, and stood there, heaving for breath.

Pinned.

Trapped.

Defeated.

“I win,” said Scorio, making his words deliberate. “Doesn’t matter that we’re outside the competition. I win because I can kill you and you can’t stop me and that by any definition makes me the victor of this encounter.”

“Cheater,” she hissed.

“Not quite. I chose to lose our challenge so as to win overall. Now. Will you speak with me, or shall I end this?”

Again she struggled, but this time it was half-hearted. Her body was contorted between the beams, and though her tail lashed back and forth, Scorio knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

They’d talk whether she wanted to or not.

But he hoped to reach an agreement before the chalk walls faded away and she came at him again.

If she was that murderous, that obstinate, then she could wait him out, force him to expend all of his chalk, and eventually, perhaps not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but eventually—force him to kill her or risk her tearing him apart.

“You think I’ll teach you everything I know after this?”

“Just hear me out.” He took a deep breath, held it, then sat. He studied her for a spell until she seemed to have mastered herself, then continued. “I’ve dedicated every waking moment since we last spoke to figuring out how I could defeat you. This was literally the only way I could think of. Everything else resulted in my complete and utter defeat.”

“Base trickery.”

“Sure. But it worked. And the reason I was willing to go this far was that I can’t express how important it was for me to impress you. To show you that I could rise to this challenge, in one way or another. To demonstrate that I was willing to do anything to get your attention, and force you to see me as other than prey.”

Her tail lashed angrily, and he could almost feel the insults that she was biting back.

“I didn’t set this up to kill you. To ridicule you. To take advantage of you. I did this because I wanted your attention. I wanted you to stop and actually see me. The man who reached the Chamber of Balance. Who once rose to Blood Baron. Who escaped through the Brass Door. And who found it within himself a way to trap the Nightmare Lady against all odds.”

Her tail ceased its angry lashing, the movements becoming pensive.

“And why? Because I’m out here in the dark. I’ve no friends. No allies. No resources. No way of figuring out who I am, what I can do, or what I’m meant to do. And it’s killing me. I want power. I want to figure out who I was. What mattered to me. Why I was called The Abhorred. I don’t feel like a monster, but clearly, I did something—or a lot of somethings—that earned me those titles. Why?”

He definitely had her attention now.

“You’re the only one who can help me. But I know you never will while you see me as prey, as weak, as another moment’s entertainment. This was meant to show you otherwise. To stop you in your tracks and make you look at me. See me. Hear me.”

He paused, chest tight, the upswell of emotion making it hard to continue.

Her green eyes had narrowed once more. His words had hit home.

“So help me. It won’t cost you anything. You’ve already taken my vials, my bridge, my steel rod. So in that way you’ve profited. You’re out here in these ruins by yourself. What do you have if not time? Give me a week. Get me started. Then I’ll go. You need never see me again. But I need you. I can’t do this without you. So please. Help me.”

The silence between them stretched out, and in the dim light of the lamp, her stillness seemed to cause her to meld into the darkness.

With a crack, she smashed her tail blade against one of the beams, again to no effect.

“Fine.” She was still clearly angry but working to rein it in. “What else do you expect me to say?”

“I didn’t have much by ways of expectations,” he said. “Especially as I know you’re liable to cut me down the moment you’re freed. I can’t stop you once these walls are down. But I want to trust you.”

“You need to trust me,” she said.

“True. One week. That’s all. One week and I’ll walk.”

For a long, long time she said nothing. Didn’t struggle, didn’t lash her tail, didn’t glare at him. Simply watched him, pensive, still.

And then, at last, she began to change. Slowly at first, and then all at once, her tail retracted, her talons faded away, her emaciated and stretched-out body shrank and filled out, and her horns melded with her brow. Robes coalesced around her as if emerging from mist, and her eyes lost their green burn, and lips filled out to cover her teeth.

The only aspect of her that remained the same was her luxurious mane of black hair, which hung thick and heavy about her face as she stared at him from under lowered brows, her irises a rich hazel rimmed with dark borders.

“Fine,” she said, tone terse, words clipped with smoldering annoyance. “You’ve got one week, Scorio the Abhorred. You’d best make the most of it.”

Interlude - Lianshi

The light of Amber streamed in through the rose window and played over the ancient desk, upon the dozen journals scattered across its scuffed surface and the pearl inlaid tray of half-eaten lunch shoved off to one side. Lianshi sat back in the heavy leather chair, her legs stretched across what little table surface remained, her dove-gray calf-skin boots crossed at the ankles. Across her lap lay one of the purple-bound tomes she’d recovered from her private locker, one of over a hundred and fifty, the faded lettering across the pages already so painfully familiar.

One of her journals, chosen at random, written over the course of the ninety-seven lives she’d lived.

Eighthday of Third Month, 456 AE

What a wondrous sight. My soul still thrills at the memory of riding the Black Whale into the Fiery Shoals’ air dock, rounding its burning promontory as the city celebrated the Festival of Lanterns. It’s a sight I’ll never forget, at least, not till I am reborn once more. Countless white plumes of smoke arose from the sluggish lava that oozed in hundreds of rivulets to the cliff’s edge, and there fell like a cataract of roses to the sea miles below. The pink blossoms of the flame trees that grow so improbably upon the cliff’s edge were gentle beacons that guided us in, even as the thousands of lanterns arose like the ghosts of fireflies within the rising clouds of smoke.

Captain Marhab pretended to be indifferent to the view, but he didn’t fool me. He’s redeemed himself countless times now since our horrific first encounter, and I daresay I consider him a friend. At the very least, I now consider the Black Whale a worthy vessel; I’ve grown fond of its old, aerite bones, its vaunting skull and the eerie manner in which it swims through the air. The reservoir of Silver mana in the great bladder is nearly depleted and looks like a vestigial organ clutched within the vast ribcage, but the dozen black sails yet catch the breeze and propel us forward, diving through the currents—

Lianshi brushed a lock of hair across her nose, then sighed and raised her gaze. The silence and isolation of this studying nook, which had once been so alluring, now grated; her gaze roamed over the shelves within the arched stone alcove before her, across the myriad books, scrolls, boxes, and bottles, each just asking to be pulled down and examined. The wall opposite the rose window was hidden behind towers of tottering tomes, and from the ceiling hung lamps of spun lead, the glass panes tinted gold.

The perfect retreat. The perfect place to ponder and reflect on all her past lives.

So why couldn’t she concentrate?

Lunch hour was almost over. Soon she’d have to hurry to Mana Manipulation, to focus under Instructor Hera’s watchful gaze as she strove to saturate her Heart and begin the painful process of making Emberling. But for now. These idle, precious minutes. How they slipped away, drifting unchecked like grains of sand between her fingers.

Scorio.

She summoned his handsome face, that impossible smile, and saw him again in the Gauntlet, somehow forcing himself to stand tall when everything was pain and horror. She felt again that pang of guilt.

Had she truly explored every possible way to help him? Had she overlooked something? Petitioning the chancellor had availed her and Leonis nothing but admonitions. Surreptitious scouting trips at night had revealed a tight cordon of guards who never abandoned their posts. They’d both asked their instructors for more information, and been warned to silence.

A wild, restless fury surged within her. Three weeks had passed. Was he dead? What had awaited him beyond the door? She’d debated endlessly with Leonis as to what they could do, and both had agreed that if anyone could survive against impossible odds it was Scorio.

But three weeks?

She bit her lower lip and then sighed. Trying to learn about Red Listers had resulted in another dead-end; all books and materials relating to such were restricted to higher-level Great Souls.

Reaching out to her lunch tray, she took up the Sublime Purification pill, as large as the tip of her thumb and gleaming like polished jade. She’d won it after an improbable victory in the initial round of the tournament. An incredible treasure, but one she’d immediately set aside for Scorio.

So that he’d be able to catch up when he finally returned.

Was it a futile resolution? She studied the pill. Where was he?

Dead, a cold voice whispered from the depths of her soul. He’s three weeks beyond the Final Door. How do you think he’s doing?

Her chest tightened, and what little hunger still gnawed at her disappeared.

There had to be a way to help him.

She just couldn’t think of one.

Eat the pill, Lianshi, that same voice whispered. Stop being a child.

Blinking rapidly, she picked up another journal, a newer iteration, and turned the pages till she came to another of the mysterious torn-out sections. The next page was written in her looping, elegant hand:

Now I understand. Always I break this same oath: to put down in clear language everything pertaining to the First Trial, what I saw, how I passed it, and what it did to me. What mockery, to repeat the same mistake, over and over, and then be forced to correct it once I gain more understanding. Dear future self: do not be irate. And spare yourself this chagrin. Don’t make the same oath to finally break the cycle and write down the truth. I swear to you—and this is the only oath you and I inevitably keep—you’ll break it.

Like I just did.

Those pages are cinders now in my hearth. A cold wind blows through LastRock, and I can hear the howls of the Termin Beauties, which chill me more than the gale. How I loathe this place, with its hollowed-out granite hallways, its echoing stark beauty, and inhuman scale. It’s all too easy to remember the Academy on nights like these, my two fitful, glorious, painful years treading its halls, and the youthful vows I made and have failed to keep.

I wonder where Juniper is. What I’d say to her if I could see her now. Would she talk to me? Forgive me? Would I accept that forgiveness if freely offered?

Or would she seek her revenge and draw my blood?

Old thoughts. Old memories. Old wounds.

Lianshi sighed and closed the journal. She’d need a lifetime to read them all, and a room filled with scholars to correlate and make sense of every allusion, every reference, every name and location.

But one thing had become painfully evident: the hell outside Bastion was endlessly vast and varied. At times that prospect delighted her, awoke an itch to get out there and explore. At others, like now, she felt defeated, wearied by the prospect of revisiting locales that she had seen countless times before in previous lives.

She opened her journal to the last page.

The assault on Aegik tomorrow is doomed. I know this in my soul. Were I braver, I would abandon my friends, but alas, loyalty has always been a unique flaw of mine. No matter. It has been a joy discovering the hells with them. Brave Previc, delightful Mewui, and the ever enigmatic and brooding Rombelier. I pray that we reincarnate together again, dear friends! For one truth has become self-evident: all the wonders of hell are as nothing if you don’t have boon companions with which to enjoy them. Farewell, dear journal. I’m sending you back to Bastion by eel-sprite. Next I write in you, I’ll be a nauseatingly naive and eager Char once more.

~ Pyre Lord Lianshi, Thirdday of Eighth Month, 699 AE

Lianshi stared down at the faded ink, heart thudding, and for reasons she couldn’t explain to herself, her eyes prickled with tears and a terrible, lurching emotion arose within her chest. How to balance wonder with futility? How to check the cynicism that leached off these pages so that they didn’t sour her nascent joy?

She read again that salient line: All the wonders of hell are as nothing if you don’t have boon companions with which to enjoy them.

Her heart quavered, and she closed the book with a snap. The golden lanterns overhead flickered, indicating the end of the lunch hour.

Time to get back to class.

She rose, stashed the dozen journals into her pack, and took up the Sublime Purification pill once more. Held it up to the light so that it glimmered with fey power, and then dropped it into her side pouch.

She’d save it for Scorio.

A bubbling sense of relief arose within her, and with a smile that felt fatuous but which she couldn’t deny, she strode away from the studying nook with its rose window and perfect lighting, to rush to Mana Manipulation.

She’d see him again.

She just knew it.

Chapter 16

“Temper your expectations,” said Naomi, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Scorio’s chamber.

It was the following night cycle. She’d left him the moment the chalk’s barriers had fallen, promising to return, but clearly needing to collect herself before imparting any wisdom.

So he’d spent the remaining day pacing, collecting gruel, alternating between bouts of exhilaration and fear that she’d break her promise and murder him.

Second Rust had faded into Second Clay, and as the sun-wire had dulled to a burnished wire that did nothing to illuminate the city and sheets of spiraling rain had fallen across the ruins, Scorio had settled down to wait, staring out of the sole large window in his room over the ruins and the fiery glow that emanated from their depths here and there.

To sit and wait, willing the Nightmare Lady to return, or Naomi, as she’d reluctantly introduced herself before quitting his trapped corridor. Seeking through sheer determination to overwhelm any reservations she might harbor and compel her to appear.

When finally she appeared in his window, having scaled the massive blocks of stone that formed a natural staircase from the street below, she was still in her human form, a dark silhouette against the night’s velvety darkness.

And seeing her there, almost shockingly short after her gaunt monstrous form, her wet, dark hair framing her pale face, Scorio felt a sweet thrill of affirmation. She was going to uphold her end of the bargain.

“Given that I fully expected to die just this morning, I’d say they’re pretty damn tempered,” said Scorio, forcing himself to not smile.

Naomi frowned, her expression somewhere north of sullen anger and west of petulant resentment, then sighed and gathered her thick hair in both hands, twisting it into a wet rope and thrusting it back over a shoulder.

“I know very little.” Her tone was creeping toward defensive. “I’m not some illustrious trainer from the Academy, with a wealth of elixirs and pills and treasures at my disposal. I can reveal the basics as I understand them, and then you’re on your own.”

“Which will be infinitely more than I know now,” said Scorio, rubbing his palms on his knees, moving to sit cross-legged before her.

“The path you want to walk is a brutal one,” she said, glaring at him. “You’re asking for a lifetime of pain and frustration, with no guarantees that you’ll make it far.”

“Sure,” said Scorio, tone easy, accepting. “That much has been made abundantly clear to me. But I’m ready to work. To learn.”

She frowned as if disappointed that he’d not immediately given up, then sighed. “Fine. A deal is a deal. You can see your Heart?”

Scorio narrowed his eyes as he stared into the middle distance and summoned the glittering hunk of black stone.

“Yes. It’s about the size of my fist and hangs in darkness. It’s made of a black stone, maybe obsidian?”

“That’s right. Can you sense the mana in the air?”

“The mana.” He ran his tongue over his dry bottom lip. “You mean the black clouds?”

“Sure.”

“Yes.” And there they were, fulminous and heavy, all around them but invisible to the eye unless he focused on his Heart first. “I see them. Why were they metallic grey in the skycrane yard, and a reddish-brown elsewhere? Does—?”

“Can you move the mana with your will?”

Scorio bit back his questions and nodded, still envisioning the Heart before him, the black clouds all around. “Yes. Slowly. I—ah—imagine I’m holding a huge wooden paddle and stir it around my heart till the clouds—the mana—begins to respond.”

“A huge wooden paddle,” she said, and for the first time, he heard something other than bitterness or annoyance in her voice. “That’s adorable. You’ll need to work on that technique, but for now, fine. Grab your paddle. But don’t just swirl the mana about your heart. Direct the mana into your heart.”

“Into it?” He blinked, lost sight of the Heart and black clouds both. “Like, as I did with the treasures?”

“It’s amazing that you managed to activate these.” She reached into her black, ragged robes and pulled out the bridge and steel bar.

“Not that hard. I worked the clouds till they were really moving, then poured them into the treasures, as if they were a funnel.”

Naomi studied him skeptically.

“What?” Scorio sat up straighter. “You don’t believe me?”

“Of course I believe you. It’s just… improbable, that you’d be able to do that before igniting your Heart. But yes. It’s a similar technique. But these treasures are inert, they’re not part of you. Your Heart is. And thus you can pull the mana into your Heart just as much as you can direct it with your huge wooden paddle.”

“All right, I didn’t mean that it was that big,” said Scorio. “Like, a normal-sized wooden paddle.” Naomi raised an eyebrow at him, and he flushed. “Fine. I’ll try that.”

Scorio summoned his Heart once more, focused on the heavy, sooty clouds, and began to stir them, to swing them about his Heart with great, laborious sweeps of his invisible… paddle. The clouds responded sluggishly as always but gradually picked up speed.

It was strange, working thus, while Naomi stared at him. Her gaze was direct, neutral, gauging him. He avoided her eyes and focused on the clouds. When they were moving at a good clip, he inhaled deeply and sought to guide them into his Heart.

And failed.

The clouds simply continued to swoop around it.

Scorio frowned. “It’s not working.”

“Are you pulling?”

“Pulling on what? The Heart’s just hanging there.”

“Release the mana.”

He did so, gratefully.

“Focus on your Heart. Get as close to it as you can.”

Scorio did so. He saw his Heart again, faceted and sharp-edged, hanging in nothingness. Brought himself closer to it, or it closer to him—he wasn’t sure which. Slowly it grew larger, and he saw with greater clarity its shape, studied how the edges ran and divided around the facets, how it was larger on the top and tapered down to a dull point below.

“Now visualize reaching for it, imagine your hand moving toward your Heart and sinking into it.”

Scorio bit his lower lip as he frowned, his focus intense. He did as she bid, tried to imagine his hand extending out, grasping for the black stone. Nothing appeared, no arm, no hand. If anything, the Heart seemed to retreat.

“I’m not sure I understand,” he said, after several long minutes.

“All right. Your huge paddle. You realize that you’re not actually summoning one, correct?”

“Right,” he said wryly.

“Your paddle is your will. You’re stirring the ambient mana with the strength of your being, of your mind and spirit and heart. That is what you need to use to connect with your Heart. Reach for it again, but this time imagine you’re using your paddle. Maybe that’ll be easier for you.”

Again he brought the Heart as close as he could, but this time he imagined himself grasping that large oar, its blade as long as his forearm, plain and sturdy and dependable. He directed its end toward the Heart and pushed.

He fully expected the paddle to knock the Heart away, but instead, he felt it slide smoothly into the great stone. And in that moment, an awareness blossomed within him, a connection to the Heart that hadn’t been there before, as it went from an opaque image to a tangible, heavy core within his being, still with its black, faceted aspect but now encapsulated by the same sense that told him even with his eyes shut where his limbs were, his hands, where his body began and ended.

“There!” He grinned, elated, only to see Naomi’s face register not a flicker of emotion, her gaze remaining as deadpan as before. “There. I, ah, did it.”

“Great. This would have been an agonizingly long week if you couldn’t do even that much.”

“Ah, yes,” said Scorio, smoothing away his smile. “So—bring the mana into my Heart?”

“Bring the mana into your Heart.”

This time it was fundamentally different. He swirled the black, turgid clouds about but for the first time felt the Heart as a part of him, a funnel in its own right. He felt the hunger within it, the ability to drink deep of those clouds just as the treasures had done.

Working mightily, he swirled the mana around and around, and then directed the black smoke towards the Heart while inhaling at the same time, pulling on the smoke from within the Heart as best he could.

The black mana sank into the stone and disappeared without a trace. But Scorio felt it within, felt it grow heavy and still, filling his Heart like water did a sponge.

“There!” He punched a fist into the air, not caring that Naomi’s only response was to arch an eyebrow. “I did it! What now? How do I ignite?”

“Ignite?” She laughed, leaning back on one outstretched arm. “Scorio, you’re decades away from igniting, entire lifetimes.”

“Wait, what?”

“All right, maybe not decades, but you’ve got a long way to go. Look. You ignite your inner flame when you apply sufficient tension to your Heart after saturating it with ambient mana. You just took a sip of the poorest mana in hell. I barely felt the reduction. You’re nowhere near saturated, and even if you were, you’d then have to learn to hold onto the mana while applying tension.”

“Hold up.” Scorio felt the mana he’d taken into his Heart begin to leak out, and with a wave of frustration allowed it all to slip free. “I don’t understand. Apply tension?”

“Yes. Tension. Though the fact that you’re out here, cheating your way to victory against me so as to learn this stuff bodes well for you. Because tension is the friction we all feel between the object of our desires and the reality of our shortcomings. The greater your ambitions, the greater your frustration at failing to achieve them, and the greater the turmoil that will roil your Igneous Heart.”

Scorio shook his head sharply. “I don’t understand. Frustration is what causes my Heart to catch fire?”

“It’s the fundamental driver of every Great Soul’s climb to power,” said Naomi. “It’s why most can’t make it past Dread Blaze while only one in a million makes it to Imperator. Power comes to those who truly desire it, by means of the frustration they feel at not yet having achieved it.”

“So… Great Souls who stop at Dread Blaze do so because they don’t want more power?”

Her smile was dark. “Precisely. No matter what they say out loud, they have grown content. They achieve what they really want—perhaps a little money, a little authority, some security—and stop striving for more. Because acquiring power takes work, Scorio. It takes pain and sacrifice and unyielding resolve. And once people attain as much power as they need to satisfy their inner ambitions, they stop growing.”

“Huh.” Scorio stared at her, nonplussed. “But… what if you don’t have ambition? Or goals? Does that mean you can’t grow?”

“You’re just a Char,” she said dismissively. “You don’t even know how the world works. How could you have real ambition? You’re all reincarnated with enough drive to fuel you to at least Emberling or the like. Great Souls are by their very nature ambitious. Once you learn more about the world, you’ll figure out whether you want to keep growing.”

“I see. And you? You’re happy as an Emberling?”

Her thick brows drew together. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about your first baby steps. First, you need to focus on saturating your Heart. That’s easier at the Academy, which is built over a massive trap of Iron mana, the best you can get here in Bastion. Further, there they give you all manner of help in the form of treasures which help you Ignite at much lower levels of saturation. But here?”

Her smile was dark, her gaze turned predatory, her amusement at his expense. “Out here in the ruins, you’ll be working with Coal mana, the worst of the worst. You’ll have no help, no elixirs, no pills. You’ll have to do it all by yourself, and odds are you’ll do such a poor job of it your Heart will be pathetically weak even if you do manage to ignite.”

“Wait, weak?” Scorio felt his pulse begin to race. “Why? I’m willing to do the work. Is it the Coal mana that will limit me?”

“Indirectly, yes.” She lowered her chin so that her black hair pressed close about each cheek. “The Coal mana is crude, hard to work. You might even grow stronger by limiting yourself to it, but your control will be abysmal. In the Academy, they artificially help their students pack their Hearts with astounding amounts of pure, high-density mana. They can saturate themselves to the point of stupidity, and ignite at absurdly high levels, setting the baseline of the Hearts miles ahead of where they might otherwise get. You? You’ll be sipping Coal for years, exhausting the local supplies too quickly to build up a deep reservoir.”

Scorio stared at her blankly.

“What?” She inclined her head to one side, a lopsided smile curving her lips. “You asked me to teach you for a week. Not to lie to you and make you feel better.”

Scorio tongued the inside of his cheek then leaped to his feet to pace, unable to remain still. “So the more you can saturate your Heart before igniting, the more powerful you’ll be in the long term?”

“That’s right.”

“And the Academy makes that easy for its students?”

She nodded.

“But out here, I’ll burn through the Coal mana too quickly to build up a high saturation point, so that… I mean, will I even be able to ignite?”

“There are three parts to the equation. Mana is just one element. The purer, the denser, and the quicker it regenerates, the better. But you can compensate for terrible mana with quality training or the natural quality of your Igneous Heart.”

“Natural quality of my Heart?” He stopped pacing and turned to face her. “How so?”

“Not all Hearts are created equal, though in the long run, these differences don’t matter much. All Hearts vary in depth and reactivity. The deeper your Heart, the more mana it can hold, the longer you can sustain your techniques and powers, but the harder it is at first to ignite. On the other hand, the more reactive your Heart, the more it responds to training, and the less mana and training it requires to burn.”

He dropped to a crouch before her. “So if I had a highly reactive Heart…?”

Naomi shrugged one shoulder, indifferent. “Sure, you’d manage to ignite, even on Coal. But you’d have a very shallow heart due to a lack of saturation.”

“But what if I had a very reactive heart and a very deep one?”

She moved her head from side to side. “Deep hearts are good. They give you stamina. But they make it exponentially harder to ignite. I suppose this could be offset by an especially reactive Heart, but even so… on Coal? You’d be in trouble.”

Scorio rubbed at his jawline, trying to keep his frustration at bay. “What about the blue vials? That’s better mana, right?”

Naomi’s tone grew chilly. “It is. But they’re mine. Not. Yours.”

Scorio stared at her, but she held his glare with indifferent ease, and finally, he stood once more to resume pacing. “What if I train in areas of better mana? Like where there’s that reddish-brown kind, or find hidden pockets of Iron mana?”

“Hidden pockets of Iron mana?” She grinned. “Why don’t you snatch up piles of forgotten elixirs while you’re at it?”

“Fine, but the reddish-brown mana—”

“Copper.”

“Copper mana, whatever. What if I train where there’s Copper mana? Would that make enough of a difference?”

“First, those locations are hard to find and carefully protected. But sure. Say you find a way to train where there’s Copper. You’d still have to take into account its regeneration rate, as you’d need a lot to saturate your Heart, and would quickly use up a single location’s reserves. But yes. It would help.”

“Great. Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“Still won’t be enough to give you more than an average to weak Heart,” said Naomi, eyes glittering. “The baseline for every Great Soul is enhanced Iron from the Academy. You’ll be locking yourself in at weak Copper. You’ll be at a disadvantage for the rest of your life.”

Scorio stood still, glaring at Naomi, but tore away his gaze when he realized that none of this was her fault.

“This world’s not fair,” she said. “The sooner you accept that the Houses hold all the cards and never, ever plan to relinquish them, the better it’ll go for you. Think of it this way: why does the Academy have a monopoly on Great Souls?”

Scorio scrunched his face up in confusion. “A monopoly on Great Souls? What do you mean?”

“Never mind. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Look. I didn’t take you on for this week because I intended you to get nowhere.” She rose smoothly to her feet and dusted off her palms on her hips. “Practice drawing Coal mana into your Heart. You’ve already made decent progress for an ignorant Char. Once you can drain this whole room of its mana, you’ll be ready for the next step.”

“Next step?” He fought hard to hide his disappointment. “What’s that going to be?”

She eyed him over one shoulder as she stepped back out onto the windowsill. “Training. Learning to apply pressure to your Heart. And in that department, at least, you’re in luck.”

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

Her smile was just shy of sadistic. “Because I’m exceptionally good at making people realize the reality of their shortcomings.”

And with that, she stepped off the ledge and dropped out of sight.

Chapter 17

Scorio spent the rest of the night wrestling with the ambient Coal that suffused his chamber. His newfound connection to his Heart allowed him to interact with the sooty clouds with greater focus, though in large part he still found himself swooshing it around as if he were a boatman trying to pole a barge along a river of honey.

But his focus was ruined, and after perhaps an hour of laboring in the dull light of his lamp, he rose to his feet to pace again.

What was the point? Why kill himself to develop at best a weak Igneous Heart? He’d made Blood Baron before, but that had to have been under different circumstances. Was it even possible to get that far if he formed himself out here in the ruins?

Moving to the window, he stared out over the rough, dark shapes of the closest buildings. The rain had ceased to fall, and all was silent and still. Could he get back into the Academy, somehow? Avail himself of the high-quality mana and the treasures they heaped upon their students? What if he swore some kind of pledge, to never go against House interests, or…?

He paused. What if he joined a House? They were the benefactors of the Academy, were they not? Or had some manner of relationship? What if he approached one—say, House Chimera, the youngest and perhaps most flexible—and revealed himself to be a rogue Great Soul? Offered to swear himself to the House in exchange for training and high-quality resources?

For an hour he considered the idea, pacing back and forth, then finally climbed outside his window and up to the large, flat roof that was tilted at a subtle angle. He stopped and stared again, hands on hips, out toward the best and better part of Bastion, the great cylinder city revolving all the way around, most of it dark. Sporadic candles and lamps made it appear as if a great, diffused cloud of sparks hovered in the gloom, while toward the far end of the city, closest to the Gate to Hell, patches of radiant copper and clouds of luminous gray saturated the streets, imparting upon the city a surreal and unearthly glow.

Would they take him? Not if they identified him as part of the attack on the skycrane yard. But say he went to House Hydra or the like. Would he want their help in exchange for swearing away his freedom? He didn’t imagine their terms would be generous, if they accepted him at all. Most likely he’d end up in as punitive a relationship as the one he’d been negotiating with Dola.

Then he thought of the elders and dignitaries clustering around Jova and Ravenna and Massamach on the stage. Whispering insistently, trying to recruit them, perhaps, while they were still dazed.

A bitter taste soured his mouth.

No. He hadn’t fought this hard for his freedom to exchange it so quickly for a new form of servitude. The Houses were out, for now.

Scorio resumed pacing. Could he contact Leonis and Lianshi? Perhaps they could find a way to smuggle him into the Academy, give him access to the Iron mana there—

No.

Again he ran into his refusal to endanger his friends—if they even still thought of him at all—for his own sake.

Scorio chewed on his lower lip and resumed pacing.

What if he got a job at the Academy? As a janitor, perhaps, or in the kitchens? A legitimate way to get onto the grounds and there access the high-quality mana? Perhaps in time, he could even figure out a way to steal some treasures, or get access to pills?

Scorio stopped and rubbed at his jaw. But he’d have to learn how the Academy hired its employees. What if they needed recommendations? Or did background checks? What if they could detect the presence of an errant Great Soul? He’d not stand up to a second’s scrutiny, and the moment they noticed him it would be all over.

Scorio resumed pacing.

He couldn’t find a way to overcome his obstacles. Even accessing rare Copper mana was a path fraught with danger, and one that didn’t truly resolve his difficulties.

Could he compensate for his deficiencies with extreme training? But no; according to Naomi training helped ignite the Heart, but only once it was saturated. Nor did it deepen his reserves. Training was an accelerant; the harder you trained, the faster you progressed, but it couldn’t compensate for the fact he’d be working with Coal.

Finally, out of ideas, Scorio sat down, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes.

If there was one thing he could do, it was work at saturating his Heart. Naomi had told him his first attempt had barely registered as more than a sip.

Forcing himself to stop frowning, he inhaled slowly and then let out a ragged exhale.

He’d work his way from sips to gulps.

Only then, perhaps, would he allow himself to worry about drinking in the world.

* * *

“You’re still here.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement of surprise; Naomi entered his chamber slowly, bowing her head to fit in through the window, her black hair flowing down like a great ribbon cut from the essence of night.

“Where else would I be?” asked Scorio, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. It looked to be First Rust outside, the sky a hazy burned orange, and his eyes felt grainy and raw.

“I don’t know.” Naomi walked slowly around the circumference of his room, running her fingertips lightly over the walls. “I thought perhaps you’d run off to wherever it is quitters go.”

“Quit?” He stretched and tossed the threadbare sheet off his lap. “I’m not quitting.”

“Then you passed your first test.” Naomi stopped before him, crossed her arms, and canted her head to one side. “Though don’t get cocky. It also happens to be the easiest.”

“I imagined.” Scorio rose and ambled over to his water bucket, where he scooped a handful over his face and rubbed it into his hair. “You planning to make me quit through training?”

“The thought crossed my mind.” She smiled sweetly at him. “If you quit, that ends my week early.”

“True. But there is a difference between training and murder.”

“A fine line, I’m sure.” Her gaze flicked up his length and she gave him a tight smile. “Get ready, then meet me on the roof.”

“The roof?” He hesitated. “That’s, ah…”

“Not safe?” Her smile would have cowed rabid dogs. “Precisely.”

And with that, she stepped past him, through the window, and up and out of view.

“Great.” Scorio crouched by his gruel bucket, stirred the slops at the bottom without any enthusiasm whatsoever. “Just great.”

She was waiting for him on the roof’s far edge, hands linked behind her back. He clambered up and then stretched, reaching for the distant ruins far above his head.

“Before we begin,” said Naomi, still not turning around. “Tell me again why we train.”

“To become frustrated,” he said, moving forward. “To spur growth.”

“Correct. But not any frustration will do.” She turned then, and somehow, with her chin lowered and face wreathed in dark hair, her hazel eyes sober and cold and her face expressionless, she seemed almost as perilous as her Nightmare Lady form. “You wish to ignite your Heart and grow in power. The frustration you feel as you work with Coal is good for your growth, but it pales in comparison to the benefits of physical conflict. Why?”

“Why?” Scorio’s mind raced. “Because… the mind and body are connected?”

“Wrong. Try to hit me.”

Off-balance, unsure as to what he was missing, Scorio raised both fists and approached, the loose stone crunching underfoot, the ruddy light everywhere.

Naomi drifted forward, hands swinging free, watching him carefully but making no move to attack.

When he was close enough, Scorio moved his shoulders subtly to one side, then the other, trying to get a sense of her balance, her reactions, then threw a light punch in the direction of her face.

Naomi didn’t react. His punch fell a few inches short, as she must have sensed it would.

Her gaze, if anything, became disapproving.

“Fine,” muttered Scorio, and stepped in close to throw a mean strike, snapping the punch out with intention and force.

Again he missed, but this time because Naomi simply swayed her head aside, her mane of hair swinging with her dodge.

Scorio hopped back, having expected a counterattack, then crept in close once more, fists raised so that they hovered before his chin. This time he lunged forward, crossing the distance between them swiftly, and threw two jabs which he followed with a more powerful cross.

Naomi dodged all three, head sliding from one side to the other, and when he stepped in tight to throw an uppercut, swinging from the hips, she sidestepped altogether and swept the side of his foot with her own just as he was about to put his weight on it.

His foot slipped out neatly from under him, and with a cry he crashed down to the ground, hitting the stone roof hard with his side.

Naomi crouched beside him and placed two fingers alongside his throat.

Scorio froze, stared up at her face which hovered just a foot above his own. Her hair hung down, brushing against his cheek.

“We train at fighting,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “because nothing concentrates the mind so wonderfully as pain and avoiding death.”

Scorio grimaced and tried to rise, but she pressed him back with both fingers, pinning him to the ground.

“What, then, is better than training?” she asked.

He blinked a drop of sweat out of his eye. “A real fight?”

She nodded. “And if that is the best way to advance, why bother with training?”

For a moment he couldn’t figure out why.

“Because,” she said, smile cold and cutting, “you must fight a superior opponent to benefit. And in a real fight, that’ll mean your death.”

And with that, she stood up and backed away.

Scorio sat up. “So the harder you beat me while training, the better?”

She shrugged one shoulder, gesturing for him to come at her again. “Not really. Otherwise, you could simply thrash Great Souls to higher ranks.”

Scorio raised both fists and approached.

“Ambition and hunger are what drive you on,” she said, linking her hands behind her back once more. “If those are beaten out of you by insurmountable odds, you’ll cease to grow.”

“Makes—” began Scorio, only to lunge forward again, hoping to catch her off guard. He threw a succession of three punches, then kicked out to try and crack his shin across her thigh.

Each time his blow missed, with Naomi reading him well enough to avoid every blow.

“—sense,” he finished, hopping away before she could trip him up again.

She was good, obviously better than him, but not insurmountably so; what she had was calm and confidence, which allowed her to react smoothly to his attacks. But he’d sensed hesitation when he’d kicked at her, thought he might actually connect before she spun away.

She was, after all, only an Emberling.

“What the Academy does,” she said as she gathered her thick hair and tied it off in a ponytail behind her head, “is excel at finding your edge. How far they can push you before you start to break. Or so they say. I think their actual execution is weak. But in theory, that’s the way to go. Find a new Great Soul’s tolerance for abuse, and keep them hovering just below that threshold.”

Scorio rolled his head about his neck, eliciting a series of pops, and forced himself to take slower breaths. She wasn’t invincible, she’d simply trained more. And, better yet, he’d managed to back her toward one of the roof’s corners. If he kept pressing her, she’d run out of room to maneuver.

“So that’s what you’re going to do?” He came at her again, throwing jabs, testing her, driving her back. “Find my threshold?”

With her hair back she somehow seemed smaller; he could have captured one of her fists inside his palm, punched clear over her head without having to aim up. But she was light on her feet, surprisingly strong, and her coordination was incredibly smooth.

“Yes,” she said, voice betraying a little exertion as she slapped aside a jab and then raised her leg to take his kick along the length of her thigh instead of across it. “Find your threshold, and then break your back over it.”

Gaining confidence, he continued to drive her back. “Good. Sounds like an actionable plan.”

She was nearly pinned. Had she realized? One more step back and she’d have no room to escape. She was fast, but she was small, and he doubted she could hit him hard enough to truly give him grief.

Expressionless, she took a long step back, right into the corner, trapping herself more neatly than he could have hoped.

Scorio grinned. “Perhaps you can get some training in, too.”

He went to close the distance when she changed.

It took but a breath, but he felt a rushing of an invisible wind swirl past him, and then she nearly doubled in height, her frame growing gaunt, horns sweeping back and up from her brow, talons rippling forth from her skeletal fingers, her eyes burning a sulfurous green that the sun-wire’s light did little to mute. Her tail fell free, swept up and around to loom over her shoulder, its huge, bladed head aimed at his heart, and when she smiled, her fangs showed as her black lips went taut.

Scorio felt his body go numb with fear.

“Perhaps I can,” she whispered and came at him.

Scorio gave ground so quickly he was practically locked into a rearward stumble. She could have killed him at any moment but contented herself with open palm slaps that near broke his arms when he blocked them and battering him with the flat of her tail’s blade.

And she was fast; it was all he could do to keep his arms up, chin tucked, bobbing and weaving to no avail as she came at him from all sides at once, even from behind; her tail curled all the way around and swept his feet out from under him with utter finality, so that he crashed flat onto his back, breath exploding from his lungs as her tail rose to hover an inch from his face, its wicked tip aimed at his left eye.

“Getting closer to the threshold,” she said, voice cheerful, and the tail retracted. “But we’re not there yet. Up.”

The next half hour was unrelenting. She would drive him across the roof, at times slowing her attacks so he could gather himself, only to speed them back up so that his focus would shatter, and he’d reel before her onslaught. His arms quickly began to throb from the impacts, and just as he began to think he was so hopelessly outclassed he should give up she’d open herself to a paltry punch, or give him a moment to stand there, reeling, gulping in deep breaths as she stepped back to observe him.

“You know what the single trait every successful Great Soul has?” she asked during one such reprieve.

Scorio bent forward, hands weaving before him, fighting to catch his breath. “Access to a charitable trainer?”

Her black lips pulled into a wicked grin. “Insatiable hunger.”

And her tail snuck out to crack against his ankles, dumping him onto the floor.

Biting back a groan, Scorio climbed to his feet, body aching, stars dancing in his vision.

“Every Great Soul has infinite chances to quit,” she said, and again her tail snuck out. This time he leaped at the last second so that it flew beneath him, only to be tripped as he landed when it reversed direction and took his feet out again.

Scorio fell down onto his forearms, the pain lancing through his battered muscles and joints.

Again he forced himself up to standing, though it took him longer.

“And you’d be surprised how many ways there are to quit,” she said, sweeping her tail at him in a series of lashing blows that he ducked under and leaped over. “If you’re not hungry enough, you’ll find a way to convince yourself to stop. Sooner or later.”

He was watching for tail, so didn’t see her punch. It cracked him square in the chest, lifted him right off his feet, and sent him hurtling back to the roof’s edge, where he slid right to the edge before coming to a stop, his head and shoulders out over the void.

Before he could pull himself back her tail was there, the long edge against his throat, keeping him trapped, almost completely off-balance, aching as he held himself in place.

She loomed over him. “Give up, Scorio. You’re outside the Academy. You’ll never be anything but a third-rate Cinder at best.”

He scowled, slapped aside her tail blade, and pulled himself back onto the roof. Fighting the urge to retch, sucking in deep breaths, he curled over onto his side, then straight-armed his way up to sitting. The roof was spinning, but he fought his gorge down and somehow climbed back to his feet.

He wanted to say something. Something defiant, something sharp, something that would take her by surprise.

But all he could do was stand there, trying not to vomit, not to fall back down.

She studied him for a moment, tail coiling behind her, then shrugged one shoulder and turned away. “One-minute break, then.”

Scorio only realized they’d been training for two hours when the sun-wire shifted, going from First Rust to First Bronze. As the air grew more luminous, the deep ochers and reds lightening to oranges and tans, Naomi stepped away and shifted back into her human form.

It was galling to see that she hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Rest,” she said.

“We’ve not found my threshold yet,” he croaked, throat dry to the point of desiccation.

She raised an eyebrow, then pointed at the roof. “Sit.”

Feigning reluctance he sat, though really it was more of a controlled collapse. He thought she’d walk away, but instead, she placed her hands on both hips and stared at him. “Now, saturate your Heart with Coal.”

He blinked at her in confusion. “Now?”

“Now.”

Chest heaving, feeling nauseous, he wiped sweat turned to silt by the dust from his brow, and forced himself to stare out at nothing.

He wanted to lie down.

He’d have killed for a sip of water.

Instead, he fought to visualize his Heart.

His real heart was pounding, a frantic, fevered dance within his chest that showed no signs of stopping. Not even in the depths of the ruined dungeons had he ever pushed himself this hard and for this long.

The Igneous Heart came swimming into view, then faded. He gasped, wiped his badly bruised forearm across his brow, tried again.

It took even longer this time, and though he thought he caught a glimpse, it was gone before he could be sure.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hung his head and focused on catching his breath.

“A taste,” she said, and he couldn’t tell if she was pleased or scornful. “A taste of what you must be able to do if you want to be taken seriously in this world.”

And then he heard her footsteps as she walked away, the loose stone crunching under her weight.

She wants you to quit, he told himself as he sat there, head hanging, shoulders heaving. She wants you to think it’s hopeless so you’ll end her oath early.

He swallowed thick spit, raised his head, bit his lower lip as he inhaled deeply through his nose. Blinked away the stars and stared at where Naomi stood, hands on her hips again, staring out toward the civilized part of the city.

Where did she think he’d go if he quit?

Slowly, laboriously, he climbed to his feet.

There was nowhere to go.

“All right,” he said, raising his battered arms. “I’m ready.”

She looked back at him, surprised. An emotion he couldn’t read flickered across her face, and then was gone.

“Very well.” She shimmered and rose into her nightmarish form once more, skeletal and emaciated, lean and black. Her tail lashed at the air as she lowered herself into a crouch. “It’s your funeral.”

Chapter 18

They stopped the “training” at Second Bronze; Scorio simply couldn’t get up any longer, no matter how he clenched his jaw and shouted at himself to stand.

The last time he fell, he lay sprawled out on his back, arms outflung, drenched in sweat, unable to focus on the burning sun-wire, not caring about how the ragged edges of stone bit into his back.

Naomi had moved to stand over him, her gaunt, alien body out of focus, her hands on her angular hips, her tail lashing pensively back and forth.

“We’re done,” she’d said at last, and turned away.

“No,” he rasped, trying to turn onto his side. “One more…”

One more what? He didn’t even know. He sensed more than saw her drop out of sight, leaving him alone on the rooftop, and with her gone he could finally allow himself to stop trying, to unclench his muscles, and just lie there, sweat and blood stinging his eyes.

It had all been a massive exercise in frustration. She’d not simply beaten him for hours on end but showed him how inept he was at even trying to land a blow on her gleaming black hide. For long periods of time, she’d simply evaded his every blow, his every clumsy punch and staggering kick. Then she’d pelt him with light punches, keeping him perpetually off-balance, reeling from one hit to another, unable to block or get his bearing. Just when he’d be about to cry out in fury and frustration, she’d level him with a toppling blow.

Only to ask him if he was ready to quit.

He’d lie there, just as he did now, gasping, raging, and force himself up. One last time, he’d swear to himself. The next time he fell, he’d give up.

Just not this time.

But now she was gone, and he had nothing left to prove.

He couldn’t catch his breath. He’d already vomited several times, and the sour taste of bile was thick in the back of his throat. The sun-wire blazed at his unfocused eyes, so that with a groan he closed them and turned over.

What had just happened? Was that training? If so, what was he supposed to have learned? Was this literally the way to power, being beaten for hours again?

But no.

She’d said you couldn’t thrash a Great Soul to greater glories.

So…?

He eventually sat up, just as the sun-wire darkened to Second Rust, and in the ruddy light descended painfully to his own chamber, climbing slowly down the cyclopean blocks to his window, then falling inside as much as anything else.

To sprawl out across the shadowed floor.

With great effort, he crawled over to his water bucket. It took all of his remaining willpower to not just pour it over his face. Instead, he took it up in shaking hands and carefully, oh so carefully, raised it to his lips.

Nothing had ever tasted so sweet.

Closing his eyes, he rested his head back against the wall, allowed the warm water that had filled his mouth to seep down his throat, then took another swallow, then a third.

It was only when he set the empty bucket down that he realized he wasn’t alone.

Naomi sat against the far wall in her human form, an arm draped over a raised knee, other leg curled around, her hair thick and tousled about her face, her gaze thoughtful, her lips curled into a pout.

Scorio just sat there, heart pounding, too weak, too sore, too brutalized to do more than stare back.

“Tomorrow will be worse,” she said at last. “You sure you want to continue?”

He answered without thinking. “Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Why?” The question didn’t make sense. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t parse it. “Because I want power.”

“Why do you want power?”

Such a simple question, but he found himself unable to come up with a quick response.

“You said most Great Souls figured that out later.”

“Sure,” she said. “But you’re not most Great Souls. You’re alone and weak and without a future. You’re asking for unrelenting pain and abuse. Pain and abuse that will allow you to crawl over the starting line, but not get much further. You’ll be left in the dust by your peers. You’ll be a joke if they ever learn about you, with your Coal-trained Heart and your shallow reserves. So why bother?”

His voice was just a croak. “There’s nothing else for me.”

“Not good enough.” Her voice wasn’t cruel, just matter-of-fact. “You saying the moment you find an alternative you’ll take it?”

He frowned, head still leaning back against the wall, feeling wrung out, a throbbing mass of pain and bone bruises. “No.”

“No. Then?”

He tried to put it into words. To understand it himself. The deep anger he felt, the simmering rage that he barely noticed. “I want to prove them wrong.”

A slight nod. “Better. But very limited. You can’t base your growth on other people’s opinions.”

Frustration caused him to curl his hands into fists, but only loosely. They hurt too much to truly clench. “It’s a start.”

“Fine. You want to prove them wrong. About what?”

“About me.” His words were terse, his anger filling them like empty vessels. “They threw me away. Sent me into the dark to die. Like a rabid animal.”

“Sure. So you want to—what? Get revenge?”

He didn’t know. Hadn’t thought that far.

Her sober hazel gaze seemed to pierce deep into his soul. “They threw you away like a rabid animal because you’re a Red Lister. Now you want to get revenge on them. Haven’t you realized that by doing so you’ll be proving them right?”

“Proving them right?” He forced himself to sit up. “They started it!”

“Now you sound like a child.”

He glared at her, his anger mounting. She held his stare without difficulty, and for a long while they simply sat thus, the silence aching between them.

Until she waved her hand, as if parting the tension, and sighed. “Scorio, I’ll level with you. You know I’ve been trying to get you to quit. I was sure you would. But somehow, you’re still sitting there across from me, more determined than ever.”

“Wait. So the training we just did…?”

Her expression turned impatient. “A little rougher than it needed to have been. Perhaps not as directed, either. But I told you. A trainer needs to get a sense of their student’s threshold.”

“And?”

Her expression soured. “I’ve yet to find it. Which is surprising. And annoying. It means I might have to take this oath more seriously than I intended.”

He was about to spit out something caustic when she raised a hand.

“But first I’ll level with you so that you know where I’m coming from. You’ve earned that much.”

“Fine,” he said. “Start leveling.”

“I wasn’t reborn into the Academy.”

And like that anger just sluiced away to be replaced by shock. “What?”

“You heard me.” Her tone turned defensive. “I was born the natural way in Bastion. My father was a high-level bureaucrat in House Kraken. I grew up in Ward 6, well provided for. Tutors, groomed for House duty, the works.”

“But… how?” Scorio shook his head. “You’re a Great Soul, right?”

“I have an Igneous Heart,” she said, and he couldn’t tell if it was a correction. “But everybody does. Everyone out there, from the lowest beggar to the richest plutocrat. But they’re raised in Coal and told they can’t do better. Nobody tries, and most of them have Hearts with such low reactivity that nothing would happen even if they dedicated their lives to ignition.”

“Wait,” he said, clasping at his brow with both hands and staring through the floor at nothing. “You’re saying that anybody can become—”

“No. I’m not.” Her tone was sharp. “I’m saying that with weak Hearts and nothing but Coal or Copper to burn, nine hundred and ninety-nine in a thousand would never amount to anything unless they were given huge resources and dedicated their lives to training.”

“Which you were?”

She leaned back against the wall, thick hair flowing forward as she lowered her chin to partially hide her face once more. “Which I was. My father is an angry man. He never accepted being worth less than the Great Souls who were given ten times as much for ten times less work. So he used his considerable resources to acquire elixirs for me, condensed mana of high quality, all kinds of things.”

“This was allowed?”

Her lips twisted into a sneer. “It’s not strictly illegal, though it ruined his career. Fortunately for him, I was born with an especially reactive Heart. I prospered, and against all odds, ignited my Heart at the age of nine.”

“Nine?” Scorio forgot all about his aches and pain as he stared at her. “Nine? You’ve been doing this for –what—ten years?”

“Something like that. And yet I’m just an Emberling. You know why?”

A test. Not an innocent question. “They didn’t admit you to the Academy?”

“They admitted me all right. Better to pretend I was one of their own than a rogue element they couldn’t control. But though they called me a prodigy, they never treated me like one. My training was neglected. I was told to develop character by being part of the cleaning crew. I served the other Great Souls, each and every year that a new cohort was reborn. In time, I think they even forgot I was meant to be trained at all.”

“And your father?”

“He grew furious. But his protests only ruined his career further. Just as I was informed that making too much noise would hurt my family. So for long years I stayed quiet and mopped, and cleaned, and peeled, and walked in the shadows. A Cinder that nobody paid any mind to.”

Scorio listened, fascinated. “But something changed.”

“It did. I grew older. Made friends that I lost, and even had the gall to fall in love.” Her smile couldn’t have been more bitter. “And for a while, even my little world gleamed with gold and seemed enchanted. Until I realized what a fool I was, and had enough.”

“What happened?”

Her eyes turned cold. “None of your business. But it was enough to propel me to my first trial. I passed it and manifested my Emberling power. That form you’ve seen that becomes me so… well. Hard to ignore.”

“What did they do? The trainers?”

“I don’t know. I left before they could disappoint me again. I knew my father would never forgive my ‘giving up’ as he’d call it, so I came here instead.” She leaned forward, eyes flashing. “Which is the point of this whole heart-warming tale. I’m about the least qualified person to train you in all of Bastion. I was spoon-fed elixirs until my Heart had no choice but to burn, then ignored and abused till I quit and fled for these ruins. So you ask me why I was trying to make you quit?”

Scorio stared, not knowing what to say.

“Because I have almost no idea how to train you.” She leaned back and crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “Want me to put together a regimen of high-quality treasures to push you past your limits? I can make some excellent if outdated suggestions that you’ll never get to act on. Want advice on the best ways to mop a kitchen floor at three in the morning? I’m your girl. Want concrete advice on how to train and improve yourself to remain on par if not better than those Academy monsters? You’ll have to look somewhere else.”

After which she finally looked away, staring out the sun-wire-lit window at the ruins as he continued to study her profile.

“Thank you for being honest,” he said at last. “But if I have any choice in the matter, I’ll keep you as my instructor.”

“Because there’s no one else.”

“That, and…” He trailed off, trying to fit his emotions into words. “You’re an outsider, like me. Something tells me we ought to stick together. Work together.”

Her smile was sardonic as she looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. “Work together. Toward what end, Scorio? Because that’s the other part of this. I’ve ceased growing in power because I’ve come to accept the wall I’ve run into.”

“Run out of ambition?”

“Become a realist,” she corrected. “There’s nothing but Coal out here. Coal and fiends and endless days in which to brood over the injustices of the world.”

“Doesn’t have to be that way.” He shifted his weight, wincing as some of the pains came back to him. “We’re alive against all the odds. Surely—”

“Scorio.” Her smile was pained. “Save the heartwarming speech. You don’t know anything about anything. I was actually born into this world. Raised in it. I’ve seen how it works. Been broken by the system you’re so blithely deciding to—what? Get revenge on? But what does that even mean?”

Scorio gritted his teeth as he mastered his anger. “Forget the revenge. Success is its own vengeance. Let’s just focus on getting powerful. Once we have power, we can dictate our own terms.”

Her expression was a blend of disbelief and amusement. “You’d be adorable if your ignorance wasn’t so frightening. The Houses run vast operations based out of Bastion but whose enterprises stretch across hell. Each has thousands of Great Souls operating its functions, but the truly talented, the most ambitious, the real power brokers abandon the Houses quickly to make for The Pit. Who exactly are you going to dictate terms to? Pyre Lord Praximar? The Charnel Dukes and Crimson Earls of the far reaches? What terms are you going to set?”

“I don’t know!” His cry rang off the walls. With a grimace, he climbed to his feet, his every muscle protesting, but he couldn’t just sit there. “I don’t know, all right? But I won’t hide out here like some whipped dog waiting for death and nursing my grievances! I’m going to fight!” Again his shout bounced off the walls. “I’m going to figure out what I can do and then I’ll bloody well do it, again and again and again until I’ve got some control over my own life!”

He hobbled across half the room to loom over her. “I won’t let people discard me like trash. I won’t let them decide my worth. I won’t watch as they do it to others, or pull them into these rotten systems while they don’t know any better. I’ll fight!” And blinded by his fury, he hammered the base of his fist into the wall.

Pain lanced up his forearm, sprang bright across his wrist. Grimacing, he shoved his hand into his armpit.

“Maybe it’s pointless. Maybe you’re right, and we’ll get nowhere. But if I had thought that from the beginning, I’d already be dead. Instead, I’m here. With you. On the verge of igniting my Heart, which I’d thought impossible until just a few days ago. So yes. I’m going to keep trying to pull off the impossible until it kills me. Because there’s no saying how far it’ll get me, and I plan to use the entirety of my pathetic life trying to find out.”

Naomi’s eyes were wide, her face pale.

With a curse, Scorio turned and limped over to the window and gazed out over the jumbled ruins. For a spell, they remained thus, in silence, until at last Scorio sighed and lowered his head.

“You agreed to train me for a week. Just do that much. But do it right. Maybe you think you don’t know anything, but you’re a walking encyclopedia compared to me. Teach me everything you know, and when the week’s up I’ll get out of your face, and you need never see me again. Fair?”

“Fair,” she said, voice quiet.

“Thank you.” Exhaustion rose to grip him like a great claw, making his knees feel weak and his head ponderously heavy. His forearms throbbed, his knuckles were raw, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and let oblivion steal away his mind.

But he couldn’t rest. Instead, he hiked himself up to sit on the windowsill.

“You said that Bastion is mostly Coal, with pockets of Copper and Iron mana. But those blue vials are better stuff.”

Naomi looked to have coiled in on herself, knees pressed to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins. “Sapphire. Very rare.”

“So there’s better mana out there?” He waved his arm vaguely toward the north. “Out in hell?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Coal is the default in Bastion, and Copper the standard in the Rascor Plains. The closer you get to The Pit, the richer the mana.”

“Then let’s get out of Bastion. Let’s catch a ride to some place with the best mana, and train there.”

Her smile was little more than a bitter quirk of her lips. “Would that it were so easy. If it were, don’t you think the Academy would be located as deep into hell as the Houses could place it?”

“Then?”

“There’s a thing called the Curse. You don’t feel it here in Bastion, but the closer to the Pit you get, the stronger it is. If you as a Char went out into the Plains, you’d get a taste of it. Mild impairment of your thinking abilities, your reasoning. A sense of euphoria. That’s what all the regular folk in Bastion have to deal with when they work in the plains. Why there are so many accidents over time. But the farther you go, the worse it gets. Beyond the plains, you’d start having delayed responses to the world, make calculation errors, become fixated on random ideas, become overconfident, perhaps start laughing uncontrollably. If you kept pushing through, you’d develop hallucinations, mental confusion, and eventually fall unconscious and die.”

Scorio blinked. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” said Naomi softly. “It’s why only the greatest of the Great Souls can even attempt to reach the Pit. As an Emberling, I’ve more resistance, but I’d not get far past the Rascor Plains before I started feeling it, too.”

“So then we get out on the plains. Are there pockets out there of Iron and better?”

“Sure. You can even find areas of Bronze mana out there.” Some of the fire seemed to have gone out of her, her voice becoming flat. “But they draw all kinds of danger to them. Danger we’d be hard-pressed to avoid for any length of time.”

Scorio frowned, determined to find an answer. “Then we settle for Copper, for Iron, even. It’s better than working with Coal in these ruins.”

“It’s possible,” she allowed. “We’d have to fake papers to allow us to exit Bastion, and then find a way to both survive on the plains and evade notice from the House overseers.”

“Great. Then that’s a plan we can work on.”

Her gaze sharpened. “But you should ignite your Heart first. You should be a Cinder at the least, or the Curse will slowly but surely addle your mind.”

“You said I’d ignite a weak Heart if I did it here.”

“And you would. But better a weak Heart than a scrambled brain.”

“I don’t know about that.” He drummed his heels on the wall. “But since you’re no longer trying to get me to quit, what’s your honest assessment of my being able to ignite a decent Heart out here?”

“It’s… good.” She rested her chin on her knees. “You’ve got a ridiculous amount of unspecified ambition. You managed to figure out how to work Coal by yourself to the point of activating treasures. Plus you’re an obvious talent; you made Blood Baron in a previous life, which shows you have the capacity for greatness. I’d wager your Heart is naturally deep and no doubt very reactive. With some honest work and training, you could probably ignite within a month or two.”

“All right. A month or two. That’s a doable time frame. And once I make Cinder, what happens?”

“You gain low-level immunity to the Curse for one. The ability to see in the dark—”

“Wait, what? You can see in the dark?”

Her bitter smile crept back across her face. “How do you think I tracked you so easily?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Darkvision was part of it. But most importantly, you begin the path toward your first trial, after which you’ll develop your first power.”

“Tell me more about that. What does it take to make Emberling? What’s this first trial?”

She raised both palms to forestall him. “No. You need to focus on the basics. The worst thing you can do is start thinking about future steps, and allow that to muddle your training. Trust me on that.”

“Fine. But say I ignite my Heart and become a Cinder. Would you be willing to escape Bastion with me, to find a way to train with better mana out on the Rascor Plains?”

Her expression became inscrutable. The silence drew out, and he was about to ask again when she finally answered. “You don’t know me.”

Scorio paused. “What? You’ve told me all I need to know. We should work together on this. We should—”

“You don’t know me,” she cut in, voice sharp, “and I don’t know you. I only stopped wanting to actively kill you yesterday.”

“See? Huge improvement.”

“You—you know nothing about the world. Your ignorance is terrifying. You don’t even know what you’re asking!”

She’d sat up, her face going pale, then mottled with emotion.

Scorio spoke slowly. “I do know what I’m asking. I’m asking that we start something here. A beginning. And see where it goes.”

Naomi gaped at him, then practically snarled. “Don’t toy with me.”

“I’m not. Damn, Naomi. All I’m asking is that you consider it. If by the end of this week you want me gone, I’ll go. Remember? So what do you say? Will you at least think it over?”

The silence stretched out between them, and then she looked away. “Maybe.”

“Maybe. All right.” He grinned. “I can work with that.”

To which she laughed. “You are one of the most obnoxiously confident men I’ve ever met.”

He grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You do that.” Naomi stood. “Good. But first, get some sleep. Looking at you in this condition is starting to make me feel guilty, and I don’t like that feeling.”

“Sleep.” He said the word experimentally, easing off the windowsill. “That I can do. And then?”

“Then it’s back to work. I’ll start our week fresh, seeing as I wasn’t working in good faith till now. And I’ll think over how best to help you.”

“So we’re back to a week?”

“For now, yes. At the week’s end, you can make your offer again.”

“You can count on it.”

She patted his cheek. “You have to survive the next week first. It won’t be easy. Best get some sleep.” And with that, she vaulted out of the window and dropped out of sight to the ground below.

Chapter 19

True to her word, Naomi took his training more seriously in the days that followed. She eschewed night-time visits altogether to greet him at First Clay, to sit cross-legged and guide him through his Coal manipulation techniques, the room filled with dark, bloody light from the still warming up sun-wire.

“You intuitively went with a paddle,” she began on their third day, tone surprisingly non-judgmental. “At the higher rankings, Great Souls don’t require such visualizations, as they can interact with mana directly, but for now, that works. But you don’t need to limit yourself to that image—in fact, if you use it for too long, you’ll find it imprinted upon your spirit, and it will become an obstacle to your long-term growth. So try using different ideas to work the mana around.”

“What do you use?”

“It’s different for me as an Emberling, but now I imagine a vortex, like the kind of funnel that forms in water over a drain. I use that to pull the mana directly into my Heart. But that wouldn’t have worked for me as a Char; it would have been like trying to suck sand up through a straw. When I was at your stage, I used…” She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember. “I would imagine a great wind blowing through the mana like it would through the ash ivy outside my bedroom window.”

“A great wind,” he said softly, gazing through her now and at his Igneous Heart. Which, he noticed, was appearing with greater facility each time. The room was filled with sooty smoke, but instead of trying to stir it, he sought to summon a blast of wind, to surge through the heavy clouds like a gale.

But the image didn’t connect; he sensed soft ripples pass through the clouds, but nothing more.

“Whatever you imagine is just meant to be a metaphor that you connect with,” she said, tone patient. “In the end, we’re all just using our will, but right now, knowing that does nothing for you. You have to give your will shape. I’ve heard of people imagining hands molding clay, or slicing chunks out of the clouds with scythes or shovels. Some Great Souls imagine their Hearts at the bottom of huge pits, so that the mana falls down toward it, while others cast nets over the clouds, using the mana’s own resistance as a means to drag it closer. You have to experiment. See what works best for you.”

He spent the morning attempting different visualization techniques, working at every metaphor he could imagine, but in the end, nothing worked so well for him as the idea of the great paddle, dipping down into the black clouds as if he stood on a skiff above them and was making his way across a lake.

That afternoon Naomi led him to a sunken ballroom that tilted drunkenly toward one corner, the roof haphazardly cracked, the floor turned into an obstacle course by huge fallen blocks.

“We’ll train here instead of out in the open. There’s no longer any sense in trying to break you through a fear of falling, is there?”

He forced a smile in return. “Ha, right. You’re most kind.”

“My father had me train in the martial arts since I was young.” She slipped into a combat stance, resting her weight on her back leg, front leg bent, the ball of her foot lightly touching the ground. “I loved it. But eventually, I had to wonder: what does learning how to hit people and defend yourself have to do with the power of the Igneous Heart?”

Scorio warily moved to stand before her, falling into his own combat stance, presenting a three-quarters profile, arms up, legs slightly bent. His body was a mass of bruises, his muscles stiff, his knuckles swollen, but he forced the pain from his mind.

Only to realize she was waiting for an answer. “You said nothing concentrates the mind like pain and avoiding death. The more real the fight, the greater the benefits.”

“True. But think—when I’m in my nightmare form, do I really need to know how to do this?”

And she sprang forward, light and athletic, only to leap up and spin, leg scything around in a wicked arc. Her foot missed his face by an inch.

Scorio leaned back, a fraction too late to have avoided the blow, and felt the rush of air as her foot swished past him.

“I… I guess not? But surely it helps?”

She’d landed lightly, fallen easily back into her combat stance, backed away. “It does. But then half of all Great Souls who pass their first trial develop ranged attacks that require no melee skills at all. Yet still, they train. Why?”

Scorio resisted the urge to rise out of his stance. “Something about the act of training the body itself?”

“Close,” she said, nodding her head in approval, and despite himself, Scorio felt a rush of gratification.

She illustrated her next words with three carefully controlled roundhouse kicks, executing them slowly and with great precision, one low to the knee, one to the stomach, then one high, to the chest. “Advancement through the ranks requires one thing and one thing only: ambition fueled by an inexhaustible will. Training the body by learning martial arts hones the will by forcing you to learn discipline, self-control, and focus.”

Scorio watched her retract the last kick and then slowly, with great control, lower her foot back down to the ground. “Makes sense.”

“So.” She smiled, and he didn’t like it. “You’ll learn to fight so that you can learn to manipulate mana with the same force of will and determination. Yesterday you showed me you already had good instincts; you move well, remain aware of your surroundings, and know when to press and when to back off.”

“Didn’t seem to help me any.”

“Didn’t help you at all, but then, it wasn’t a fair fight. But your technique was raw, almost sloppy, your movements too loose and predictable, and you have virtually no stamina.”

“Well, that seems a bit harsh. Virtually none?”

“Virtually none,” she said with finality. “From now on, you’re going to start each cycle with a run which won’t end till First Clay becomes First Rust.”

“All of First Clay?” He tried and failed to hide his disappointment.

“Then you’ll meditate till Amber, working on your Coal manipulation. After that, you’ll meet me here, where we’ll work on your forms and technique. And in the evenings, we’ll talk. I don’t know much, but what I do know, I’ll share.”

Scorio inclined his head gravely. “Thank you. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“Just shows your ignorance. You’ll finish the day cycle with a run that’ll last all of Second Clay. But since we’re already here, you can warm up with fifty laps of this chamber. And to keep things interesting, I’m going to follow behind you in my nightmare form. If you slow down, I’ll punch you in the kidneys. Go.”

“Go?” Scorio’s eyes widened in surprise, but when she began to shift into her gaunt, horrific form, he took off, tripping and stumbling as he navigated the room toward the far wall.

He didn’t look back, but he knew she was right behind him. Not because he could hear her footfalls, but because of a low, terrifying chuckle that seemed to whisper directly into his ear.

* * *

On the fifth night, Scorio built an actual fire in his chamber out of desiccated wooden fragments he’d found in a collapsed building during his morning run. He carefully leaned the slats against each other to form a pyramid and stuffed the hollow beneath with dried moss and dead ivy.

When Naomi appeared for their evening review, slender flames licked at the wood and cast dancing shadows across the walls. A soft, cottony smell filled the chamber, a scent which prickled at lost memories, and Scorio found it surprisingly difficult to tear his gaze away from the dancing flames.

“What’s the occasion?” asked Naomi, tone wary as she sat across from him.

“The sun-wire’s been feeling oppressive of late.” He gazed into the heart of the small fire. “And I’ve some questions for you.”

She canted her head to one side. “What questions?”

“There’s so much I don’t know. Don’t understand. But we’ve been focused just on immediate training. You won’t even speak of what happens once I ignite my Heart.”

“There’s a reason for that,” she began, but he cut her off with an upraised hand.

“I know. I understand. But—well. These runs I’ve been doing.”

“Run-walks,” she corrected.

Scorio grimaced. “Mostly runs. I can loop the ruins all the way around three times within the entirety of First Clay.”

“You should be able to do five.”

“Well, I’m at three. But my point is, that’s a lot of time to spend thinking. And now that I’ve mostly worked out a safe path, I’ve realized there are things I need to ask you.”

Naomi settled down, reclining on her side and leaning on one elbow, her expression skeptical. “Such as?”

“Well, the ruins.” He gestured around the room as if taking in the vast, moldering buildings without. “What’s happening? Why is Bastion dying like this?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Nobody knows.”

“There has to be speculation.”

“Sure. But that’s just what it is. Speculation. Some think that when the portal to our supposed homeworld closed, Bastion stopped receiving some kind of vital energy that kept it alive, and now, like a plant trapped in the dark, it’s withering up. Others think it’s a spiritual judgment of our failings. Some think it’s all part of the plan, and meant to act as a clock counting down to our extinction if we don’t destroy the Pit in time. But nobody really knows.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“Centuries, easily. Maybe since Bastion was founded. It’s a slow process. They’ve figured that at the rate it’s going, the city has perhaps ten years left before it’s consumed utterly.”

Scorio sat up. “Ten years? But there’s so much left that’s just fine.”

“The ruins are expanding ever faster.” Naomi stared morosely out the window. “They say that originally it was but inches that were lost each year, then mere feet. But now they’re expanding quickly enough that you can see the change from day to day. So yes. It’s been studied exhaustively by just about everyone. Ten years, they say, then the Archspire in the Academy will be destroyed, and the Great Souls will never return.”

Scorio absorbed this, trying to wrap his mind around that fate. “How do you know when a year’s up?”

“The sun-wire pulses in a unique way. It happens every three hundred and eighty-four cycles. Why three hundred and eighty-four? Nobody knows. But every time we hit that number the sun-wire goes through this light show, and everybody reckons themselves a year older.”

Scorio nodded slowly, tonguing his molars, mulling this over.

Naomi watched him, faintly amused.

“And—the portal home. Does anybody know why it closed?”

“If they do, they’re not sharing. I remember asking my father the same questions. Legend has it that in the beginning, the portal would open frequently, but never stood permanently open. But that in time it opened less frequently, and one day ceased to open at all, breaking the oath that was sworn to the Great Souls and those who came to live here and serve them in hell. That’s when the focus of every Great Soul became the destruction of the Pit. It’s said that the one who accomplishes that will become the Infernarch, with power over life and death and all of hell. They’ll lead every living soul back to Ettera, opening the portal home, and our sojourn in Bastion will come to an end.”

Her smile was steeped in bitterness. “’Course, the Empyreal Prophecy had everyone excited on that front. The whole city was ready to celebrate a few years back. It foretold the day the Imperators would crush the true fiends and collapse the Pit, and the Houses, the Great Souls, everyone made a big push. Then it all went wrong. The Imperators were thrown back, there were big losses, and it’s been revolution in the streets and denial in the halls of power ever since. And with only ten years left, time’s really starting to run out.”

Scorio nodded, taking this in. “Who made the prophecy?”

“Supposedly? Some Great Soul from centuries back. Though I think the council fabricated it for their own ends. Who knows? Regardless. It failed, and now the streets are ready to burn with outrage.”

“And the ruins started when the portal closed?”

“Right. Or shortly thereafter. First, they consumed all the most important buildings that had been built close to the portal, and then they spread outward.”

“Most important buildings? Like what?”

Naomi shrugged. “The old palace, the old basilica, the old academy. The most important buildings were built around the perimeter that met the portal itself. All gone now, all destroyed and consumed.”

Scorio frowned. “Old academy?”

Naomi raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I said.”

“You mean, the one everyone’s training in now is new?”

“If you count a building that’s nearly two-thirds of a millennium old as ‘new,’ sure.”

“And the old one? Have you been?”

Naomi smiled. “Of course not. The deeper you get into the ruins, the more dangerous it becomes. And what do you think we’d find? The ruins have been scavenged and picked over ever since they were abandoned.”

“Huh,” said Scorio, sitting back. “Interesting. What about Black Star petals?”

Naomi blinked at this sudden change of topic. “What about them?”

“I met a couple who made money collecting them, or used to. They said they’d sell them to House Basilisk, who’d turn them into pills for their Great Souls.”

“That so? I used to take Black Star pills when I was young. But from what I remember, it takes some fifty plants or the like to make a single pill. It’s not worth the effort.”

“Why not?”

“Because just like everything else in the safe zone close to Bastion, they’ve been picked to extinction. I can’t remember the last time I saw a Black Star plant around here. Plus they only bloom where Coal mana is strongest, which is where, coincidentally, you’ll often find the most dangerous predators. Just not worth it.”

“But say I collected fifty plants. Would you know how to turn them into a pill?”

Naomi considered, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “I mean, not really. But I know someone in town who would. An alchemist. But forget about it. I’d not waste his time until you survived the process of collecting fifty plants.”

“All right then.” Scorio gave a sharp nod. “Then I’ll start doing my Second Clay run at night to see if I can’t find some.”

Naomi’s tone turned flat. “You’re not listening. That’s not a good idea. It will take you forever, Black Star pills are just condensed Coal mana, and you’ll be a target to every predator out there.”

“Are you willing to give me my sapphire vials back?”

Naomi narrowed her eyes but didn’t answer.

“No? In that case, I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“If it comes to that, I won’t be able to say much at all, will I?”

To which she couldn’t resist smiling. “Fair enough.”

“And one more thing,” he said, taking up another wooden slat and laying it carefully against the fire. “When I was in the Academy, Praximar said something about Great Souls keeping journals, keeping treasures for their future selves. Have you heard about that?”

“Sure,” said Naomi. “Common practice. As was raiding the lockers of famous Great Souls once they died for their loot.”

“Wait, what?”

Naomi shrugged one shoulder. “Was one of the first ways I became disenchanted with the Academy. Technically your locker is meant to be inviolate, but it was sickening how often the trainers or more powerful students would raid a locker when word reached them of a notorious Great Soul’s death. Of course, that also meant that most Great Souls didn’t bother leaving anything of worth in their lockers once they realized the truth. So it’s not nearly as amazing a cache of treasure as you might think.”

“But they’d leave something behind? Journals?”

“Journals, sure. Art, objects of sentimental value. It’s not cut and dry. If a Great Soul had powerful friends, their locker might remain untouched until those friends died, too. And if the Great Soul was reborn in time, they might actually get access to their stuff before it was stolen. But… how long did you say it’d been since you were last reborn?”

Scorio’s heart sank. “Two hundred and thirty-three years.”

Naomi gazed at him sorrowfully. “Add in the fact that you’re a Red Lister, and the odds of there being anything of value in your locker are incredibly small.”

Scorio sighed. “Great. I thought… well. There’s still a chance, right?”

Again with the one-shouldered shrug. “Nothing’s impossible. But it’s not as if you could walk into the Academy and ask to see your old belongings.”

“Not walk in, sure. But what if someone smuggled me in?”

Naomi raised an eyebrow. “And who would do that?”

Scorio smiled pensively. “I’m not sure they would. But there’s no harm in asking, right?”

“Would that that were true.”

* * *

After Naomi disappeared for the night, Scorio wrapped the bands of leather he’d salvaged from a discarded harness about his near defunct sandals and carefully slipped out the window into the darkened ruins.

Second Clay was already fading to twilight darkness, the sun-wire a livid seam of garish orange across the dim sky wrapped in funnel clouds, the maroon and musty brown hues of the last cycle’s light giving way to smoldering umber and deeper shadows.

It wasn’t true darkness; there was enough deep light to illuminate the edges of buildings, to wash the darkest chocolate brown over raised surfaces, to give a sense of the objects around him as he descended to the street.

But shadows seemed impenetrable, windows and exposed interior spaces beyond crumbling walls revealing nothing but ebon night.

Scorio took a moment to stretch, easing his aching muscles and limbering up, then set off at a light jog, giving himself time to warm up, his footfalls echoing softly off the rough walls.

Heavy rain began to fall, the droplets fat and warm, spattering down from the revolving clouds in spiraling curtains that washed across the city. Scorio raised his face to the rain and allowed it to wash the day’s sweat and dust away. This moment had become one of his favorites; the rain didn’t last long, but while it fell it seemed an absolution.

It was his fifth run, but this time he left the trail he’d made for himself that ran radially around the city in a neat path, and instead angled deeper into the ruins, striving to keep to open streets or broad avenues, though even these were often choked by collapsed buildings or washes of shattered masonry.

Nothing but exposed stone and shadow lay around him. The darkness seemed to swarm with movement, but he’d learned to relax and not let his paranoia get the better of him. Instead, he jogged with soft focus, allowing his peripheral vision to pick up on dangers that he might not otherwise have sensed.

Because for all that the ruins seemed a blasted wasteland of gray rock and charred stone, there was a subtle ecosystem existing within it, subsisting, he now understood, off the Coal mana that wafted across the desolate urban landscape like smoke off the charred remains of a fire-stormed city.

The mana wasn’t actually like smoke, however; it had—if not an intelligence—then perhaps a reason to where it gathered and thickened, and where it grew sparse to the point of non-existence. At first, he’d wondered if it didn’t simply settle into hollows and depressions like a heavy fog, but no; he’d come across dense pockets high up in the buildings, or dropped into lower basement levels, wary and with his senses tingling, to find that the cramped, half-collapsed rooms might prove devoid of any Coal.

There seemed to be a system to it, but he couldn’t divine its rules. So instead, he simply jogged through the lessening rain, and challenged himself to envision his Heart as he went, to hold it before him like some talisman, so that he could get a weak sense of the Coal mana about him as he went.

It wasn’t easy.

More often than not he’d realize he’d been running for a spell without any sense of the mana at all, and have to stop to summon his Heart once more. Or he’d get such a tenuous read on the ambient mana that he couldn’t really tell if it was thick or thin, more just if it was there or not.

But the creatures that lived in the ruins were obviously attuned.

More than once he nearly ran into a funnel of delicate strands that were woven across entire rooms or even streets, their filaments beaded with Coal mana that had condensed like dew upon blades of grass. He’d been tempted at first to harvest these droplets until he’d seen movement above, a hint of massive, insectile legs and burning red eyes. He’d backed away and then fled, realizing he’d almost fallen prey to a not-so-subtle trap.

The fire salamanders with their strange gill stalks were quiescent during the night, but occasionally he’d jog through a nest and startle a dozen of them into waking, sending them shooting away in all directions like streaks of crimson fire.

More wondrous and strange were the fist-sized and stone-shelled barnacles he’d come across that clustered across entire streets and encrusted entire buildings with their conical forms; usually they’d be dormant, their mouths hermetically sealed, looking like little more than part of the decay, but sometimes he’d come across stretches of street awash with Coal mana, and there the barnacles would have opened up and waved their filaments in the air.

Random boulders might be covered in gray mussels the size of his palm, and occasionally he’d espy glowing motes of soft green light floating within the Coal mana currents, each of which would resolve itself into small, transparent organisms whose simple internal organs were visible, each of them trailing long and incredibly fine tendrils behind them.

Once he turned a street corner and froze, looking up to see a curved shell the size of a wagon floating down the center of a particularly rich flow of Coal mana, its shell patterned with gray and pink stripes, a great, unblinking eye pinned directly in the center of the spiral, gazing at him with alien intelligence as it jetted its way slowly down the street, trailed by a mass of rubbery tentacles.

But there were more overt predators as well.

He was forced to barricade himself into a small chamber with the help of his chalk when a pack of black-furred beasts that came up to his knee came leaping after him, eyeless and squat, their huge mouths filled with glowing green fangs, their entire bodies seeming to be little more than sleeves in which to fit their maws.

Another time he realized that a massive feline was keeping pace with him along the rooftops, six-limbed and utterly silent. Scorio had frozen, heart hammering, staring up at the beast, which ceased trailing him to stare back down, only for its head to lurch up from its shoulders as its neck elongated and then spread out violently into a hood, revealing glowing patterns scrawled across its interior that immediately dulled Scorio’s wits and drowned him in lethargy.

It took all his will to stumble away and sprint through the streets, garish afterimages of that mesmerizing pattern hanging before his eyes all the while as if seared into his mind.

But all of that he’d experienced while running his perimeter route, staying roughly the same distance from the edge of the civilized city, and never straying more than a dozen blocks into the ruins proper.

This time he sighted upward, getting his bearings from the sun-wire and the fiery gaps that littered the ruins in the sky, and set off at an oblique angle, moving deeper into the ruins, his nerves growing ever tauter with each step.

It was a tricky line to walk; head too quickly into an obvious area of thick mana, and you risked running into a trap or patient predators; remain too circumspect, and you could spend all night running down barren streets, glimpsing nothing but the hollowed-out remains of old mana-mollusks.

So Scorio ran cautiously, and when he saw a street scalloped with dormant stone shells, he eased into it, slowing down and scanning the rooftops as he went.

Nothing moved.

On he ran, footsteps sounding painfully loud in his ears, chalk clasped lightly in his right hand.

The clams that cluttered the walls weren’t overly large or densely grown, so the Coal mana had to only wash through here sporadically. He followed the street down till it reached a chasm over which extended a brutal bridge like a toppled monolith.

A deep red glimmer illuminated chasm walls covered in serried ranks of large barnacles, over whose rough stone bodies milky-white spidercrabs the size of ponies picked their way, the edges of their armored bodies lit a soft pink by the chthonic glow.

He paused, considered. Summoned his Igneous Heart, and with it hovering before him in his mind’s eye, opened his attention to the sweeping clouds of rank mana.

The chasm below him was absolutely saturated with Coal.

Scorio studied the descent. The walls were architectural in nature, a series of ledges, balconies, rough walls, and protruding buttresses. It was an easy matter to drop to the first broad ledge, only five yards below, and from there he could drop to the second. It arced around a promontory, and then there were some four stories’ worth of dark windows, their pocked blackness against the gray stone making it seem like a hive of some sort, before another broad ledge showed the first of the barnacles.

Was it worth descending? Exploring? The climb back would be arduous but possible; the stone was so decayed and cracked that he’d not be at a loss for handholds.

Scorio glanced back down the street, over the bridge, then sighed in resignation and wished he still had his other treasures. He hopped off the street to the sunken curb, moved to the edge, grimaced, then turned over to lower himself down to his stomach and drop to the ledge below.

Carefully, slowly, he descended, always making sure he could see a way back up, and after ten harrowing minutes of climbing down past the hollow windows, he dropped the rest of the way to the final ledge and there peered over at the fiery depths below.

The Coal mana was as thick as tar here.

A river of fire was washing slowly past far below, great plumes unfurling as if in slow motion, a never-ending gout of virulent orange overlaid by a startling yellow. The very rock seemed to glow with heat, the gray gradating to a cherry red like a long bar of metal whose end had been placed in a fire.

No coming back from a drop into that.

In the center, however, rose an island of rock, a towering column whose top was some twenty feet out from him and some thirty below. A couple of Black Star flowers grew far out there, and Scorio crouched down, rubbing at his chin, as he pondered how he might reach it.

Wait—

There.

Scorio stared down at a protruding corner several yards below, nestled between the barnacles whose delicate fronds waved back and forth through the air. A slender flower grew amidst them, its petals a soft, velvety black, the heart a softly glowing blue.

No need to leap out to that isolated column. He’d happily settle for the one below him.

Sucking on his teeth, Scorio considered how he might reach it. He’d have to lower himself off the ledge, catch the toes of his sandals on the uppermost barnacle, then trust that it would hold his weight as he reached for a crack several feet above it.

And if it didn’t?

He’d drop some six yards to the next ledge.

Not letting himself consider the danger, fixating solely on the plant, he once more lowered himself to his belly, eased over, and felt with his toes till he found the rough ridges of the barnacle.

Put weight on it, then some more, then eased all the way off, hands holding tight to the edge, to reach down and shove his fingers into the crack, desperately taking hold.

The barnacle had retracted its frond and snapped up tight. Worse, the closest spidercrab had stilled, its eyestalks orienting on him.

“Hello,” murmured Scorio, forcing a cheery smile. “Just passing through. Don’t mind me.”

The spidercrab shuddered, then turned around completely to face him.

“Okay, got the message.” Scorio worked his way down the barnacles, moving carefully but still cutting his fingers on their razor-sharp edges, till he was able to put the ball of one foot down on the protruding corner.

The spidercrab began to pick its way toward him, each leg as long as he was, their tips looking more like weapons than anything else.

Scorio leaned down, pulled up the flower, and shoved it into his robe.

A dozen barnacles around him retracted their fronts with a snap, and two more spidercrabs froze and twisted around to stare at him.

There was no time to hesitate. Scorio leaped up, clasped the shell of the uppermost barnacle, and heaved himself aloft. Scrambled higher, reached his ledge, and hauled himself atop it.

The spidercrab had closed the distance with unnerving speed, its mouthparts vibrating, its eyes catching the red light from below. It darted toward him, forelegs raised like spears, and Scorio knew they’d come down with punishing force and speed once it was in reach.

Reaching down, he drew an inch-long line of chalk on the side of the ledge, then stashed it in his robe and leaped for the lowest window.

His whole body tensed in anticipation of a blow, a terrible strike that would pierce robes, skin, muscle, and bone, pinning him to the wall.

Instead, he heard a hissing, bubbling sound, then two cracks below him.

Scorio climbed, panic giving him renewed strength, hurling himself from windowsill to windowsill, ascending in moments what it had taken him ten minutes to climb down.

Only once he reached the ledge above did he glance below him to see three of the spidercrabs on the ledge he’d vacated, waving their forelegs about as if cheering him on, their attention focused on the invisible beam of the chalk wall, against which they clacked their legs as if trying to figure out what it was.

Gasping for breath, Scorio climbed higher, till at last, he stood at the foot of the bridge once more. He took out the Black Star plant and held it up to the sun-wire’s dead light, studying its bioluminescent core in the gloom and touching one of the thick, velvety petals.

It felt like soft mud and left a dusty residue on his skin.

“One down,” he said to himself and tucked it back into his robe. “Forty-nine more to go.”

Chapter 20

Neither Scorio nor Naomi mentioned the end of the stipulated week. At the end of the seventh day, she failed to show for their end of cycle conversation, and Scorio feared that their training had finished; but the next morning she was there to guide him through his meditation, her expression hard, her tone terse, giving him no time or room to comment on the continuation of their training.

So Scorio kept his mouth shut.

The first week became two, then three. Slowly Scorio noticed improvements in his abilities. His stamina rose quickly, fueled by long training bouts in the afternoon and even longer runs. His ability to guide the Coal clouds became ever more intuitive, and slowly his grasp of how to engage and pull them into his Heart grew smoother, more powerful, more instinctive.

Better yet, his collection of Black Star plants grew. Night by night he scoured the streets of the ruins. Defied the odds, pushed his luck, and collected as many as he could find. Some nights he came up empty, or only find one or two; other nights he’d nail his luck and stumble across a dozen growing in a particularly rich area.

“You keep up this madness,” said Naomi one morning, eyeing his latest score of six plants, “and one night you’ll go permanently missing.”

“It’s not happened yet,” said Scorio, washing his face and trying to convince himself he was awake.

“You’re killing yourself for a single Black Star pill,” said Naomi, her incomprehension evident. “Your peers in the Academy get one every morning as part of their breakfast—if they don’t get better.”

“I’m not in the Academy,” he said simply. “So I’ll take what I can.”

“Let me see that cut.” She took his wrist without asking, turned his arm to look at the deep scratch that ran from his elbow to shoulder. “You clean it out?”

Scorio pulled his wrist free. “Yes. Though I’m out of gray ivy paste. I’ll have to collect more tonight.”

Naomi frowned at him.

“What?” He tugged his sleeve back down. “I’m lucky the—well, I don’t know what it’s called—didn’t take my arm clear off.”

“No. It’s just that…” And for a moment Naomi looked nonplussed, strangely uncertain. “I just don’t understand. Your effort far outweighs the rewards.”

“So I simply shouldn’t try?”

“It’s like I said. You’re risking death every night for nothing.”

“Not nothing.” Scorio sat cross-legged, placed his hands on his knees. “Two more nights and I’ll have fifty plants. That should be enough for my first pill. Which will put me one pill ahead of the game.”

Naomi sighed and lowered herself to sit before him. “I can’t imagine how powerful you’d have become if you’d stayed in the Academy. But no matter. If you’re that close, we might as well go visit my friend. See how this can best be done.”

Scorio sat upright. “You’ll introduce me?”

She scowled. “You’ve proved yourself by collecting so many. I’ll be true to my word. You can come as long as you stay silent.”

“Great! When can we go?”

“Later. But for now, enough of this talk. Focus on the ambient Coal mana. Let me see you stir it.”

Scorio steadied his breathing, bottled up his excitement, and closed his eyes. He summoned his Igneous Heart. It appeared quickly and hovered in his mind’s eye, gleaming and cold.

Once he’d have thought the Coal mana in the room to be dense, but after his nightly adventures deeper into the ruins, he knew this was a weak cloud at best. Still, it resisted his manipulations like mud. He summoned his will, envisioned his paddle, and after two swirls, began working on his technique, reducing the paddle’s size and moving it more quickly through the clouds, no longer trying to shove the whole sooty mass around, but rather cutting through it and allowing the friction of its passage to drag the cloud into action.

“Better,” said Naomi as the clouds began to swirl, his will cutting through them neatly. “Now, direct it into your Igneous Heart.”

This part still gave him trouble, but the act of cutting through the mana seemed to make it more pliant; he infused his Heart with his presence, and then inhaled, drawing a deep spiritual breath even as he directed the clouds into its glittering core.

The dark mana’s swirls tightened into a spiral with the Heart at the center, and though the process wasn’t as neat as he might have wished, the mana spun its way into the Heart in one great slurp and was gone.

“There!” He opened his eyes but sat absolutely still. The sensation of so much mana in his Heart made him feel as if he were balancing a crystal glass filled to the brim with water upon his palm. The slightest movement and it would topple over, spilling everywhere.

“Not bad,” said Naomi, a touch of a smile appearing at the corner of her lips. “Not at all bad.”

“How close am I?” Scorio fought to keep the excitement from his voice but failed. “From total saturation?”

“Closer. You could probably ignite now if you wanted the weakest Heart out there. But you’ll know when you’ve hit your absolute limit when your body breaks out in soul fire.”

“Soul fire?” He felt some of the mana begin to seep out of his Heart and locked it in tight. “What’s that?”

“Total saturation, the point at which your Heart has been stretched to its maximum potential limit, is when the mana suffuses your heart so totally that it manifests as mana-colored flames that envelop your body.”

Scorio glanced down at his arm. “No black flames.”

“No black flames. If I had to guess, you’ve only filled your Heart a fraction of what it’s capable of. Which speaks to a naturally deep Heart.”

“That’s good?”

“Normally. But not if you’re out here with nothing but Coal to draw on.”

“But if I had those blue vials…? And used this technique?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Almost all of it would be wasted. But yes. That would push you to your saturation point if you could control it.”

With a sigh, Scorio released the mana back into the room. “Have you used the vials?”

“Not yet.”

“Can I convince you to give them back?”

She raised her chin, her expression growing cold. “Don’t mistake our relationship, Scorio. I’ve taken pity on you, yes. You’re a moment’s diversion. But I don’t harbor any illusions about where this is going.”

“Which is where?”

“You don’t have enough self-control. You will either die during one of your night runs or go into the city and get yourself caught. Either way, your hunger for power will be the end of you. So why throw away such a priceless resource on so foolish a Char?”

“Then why haven’t you used it yet?”

“That’s my business.”

“No,” said Scorio, his voice growing as hard as hers. “You stole it from me. I can’t take it back, but you owe me the courtesy of telling me what you’re going to do with it.”

They locked eyes, and the tension in the room grew till Scorio was certain she was about to shift into her nightmare form.

Instead, she looked away and rose to her feet, looking irritable and restless. “Fine. I can still indulge in basic courtesy. If I’m to make the most use of the vials, I need to affirm my own commitment to my growth so that I don’t waste it either.”

“Your ambition,” said Scorio.

“My goals, yes.” She moved to the window and stared out at the ruddy landscape. “I’ve the talent, but not, as my father would say, the drive. Acquiring these vials has caused me to reconsider my options. But I need to be sure that I know what I want and why before I even dream of breaking it open. It might not help me become a Tomb Spark, but it could make all the difference when I press for Flame Vault.”

Scorio frowned at her. “You wouldn’t use it to become a Tomb Spark?”

“That’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Scorio considered. “Fair enough. But I have a proposition for you.”

She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “You’d have to give me something of greater value than a sapphire vial if you want me to give you one.”

“Not quite.” He smiled. “My bridge and steel rod. You took those from me, too. Let’s say they’re still yours, but allow me to use them at night. They’ll make my exploration of the ruins a much easier feat.”

Her eyes narrowed, but he thought he saw a flicker of guilt in their depths and knew that he had her.

“Very well.” She drew both items out and set them on the windowsill. “Basic courtesy. You can borrow them. But they are mine by rights.”

“And what rights are those?”

She smiled, gathered up his bundle of plants, and then hopped up onto the windowsill. “The single greatest legal claim in Bastion and all of hell: the right of the strong. Be ready at First Rust. We’ve an appointment in town.”

And with that, she was gone.

Scorio smiled at the twin treasures that sat upon the sill.

Progress.

Settling himself, clearing his mind, he closed his eyes once more.

Time to resume his training.

* * *

Scorio was up and pacing when First Clay dawned. He paused to lean out his window and watch as the great filament heated up, its deep burn growing brighter till the vast interior of Bastion was bathed in its bloody hues, the dark banished once more to the deepest corners and cervices.

He’d tried to sleep and failed. Too many thoughts. An endless ability to consider and reconsider his plans. To revise and doubt himself until all that was left to do was pace, wall to wall, resisting the siren call of the ruined streets and the desire to use his treasures to navigate them with newfound assurance.

When Naomi finally showed, climbing into view to fill the window, he felt his nerves steady and picked up a pouch. “Morning, Naomi. All well?”

She didn’t hop down from the sill. “Marginally. You look eager.”

“That’s because I am.” He allowed her a rakish smile. “I live for apothecary visits. Shall we?”

“I thought we might do some meditation practice first,” she said, expression dour, but she wasn’t able to hold it. A smile cracked her facade, and she held up a hand to silence his protest. “I jest. See? I, too, know how to do humor.”

“It’s… not… I mean, one doesn’t ‘do’ humor…”

Naomi arched an eyebrow.

“I mean, you’re doing it perfectly,” said Scorio. “Ha! See? That was a laugh. Now, shall we?”

“Very well. Let’s.” She swiveled on the ball of her foot and dropped back out into the street. Scorio scrambled after her, leaped down from rock to rock till they reached the street.

Naomi glanced at the pouch he held.

“A sample,” Scorio said, bouncing it in his palm. “Just to be safe.”

“Wise. We’re headed to Ward 9. It’s not far. But we’ve a long day ahead of us, so let’s hurry.”

“This coming from the lady who wanted to meditate.” He broke into a jog by her side. “But no objections here.”

They slowed so as to not attract attention as they entered Bastion’s civilized edges, and wound their way through side streets till they reached a quiet avenue within a stone’s throw of Ward 7.

“Here we go,” said Naomi, tugging her hood a little lower and leading him along a smooth sidewalk to an unassuming doorway over which hung a banner with a mortar and pestle inked neatly on its beige fabric.

A bell tinkled overhead as the door swung open, and they stepped into a shop so small and irregularly shaped it appeared more an overlooked interstice that someone had taken advantage of than an established commercial spot.

A skylight overhead allowed First Bronze’s brazen light to filter in and set the floating motes of dust aflame where they gyred in the air as if caught in honey. The upper half of the walls were honeycombed with pigeonholes, while the lower half was an endless series of drawers, broad and shallow, the knobs made from a wide array of different materials.

A small counter only three steps from the doorway served a variety of purposes: a third was dedicated to bookkeeping, complete with a pile of neatly tied-off scrolls and a ledger; a third held a number of glass containers with seamlessly fitting lids, each holding a different kind of flower or substance, each but vaguely visible through the dim glass; while the far side appeared a small but efficient space for the actual practice of alchemy, complete with esoteric equipment, a small cutting board, mortar and pestle, and neat bundles of dried herbs.

A young man, with an expression so sober he appeared fatigued, gazed at them with violent disinterest; he was dressed in immaculate robes of dove gray with a golden flower embroidered over his breast, and his dark face appeared to be all shaved upper lip and protruding ears, his hair lacquered and combed back severely.

“What rhymes with ‘dangerous’?” he asked, tone emotionless and mildly annoyed.

Scorio stopped, uncertain, and glanced at Naomi.

“‘Dangerous’?” She frowned. “I… nothing is coming to mind. Scorio?”

He blinked, nonplussed, then slowly shook his head.

The man took up the parchment on which he’d been writing and recited in a dull voice, “‘For even by the light of day your beauty is most dangerous, but I, being true in phases all doth’—something something, then whatever rhymes with dangerous.”

“Hmm, yes,” said Naomi. “It has… promise.”

The young man lowered the sheet and stared balefully down at the words. “Romance when distilled by a passionate heart precipitates into poetry. I didn’t think it would be this… demanding.”

“I’m sure your persistence will pay off.”

He inhaled powerfully, lips pursed in distaste, then set the parchment quickly in an open drawer and slid it shut.

“Anyway. Welcome to the Sincere Refinery, your first and only resource for all matters alchemical, apothecarial, and alembic. Can I be of assistance?”

“Master Jelan,” said Naomi, stepping forward and pushing her hood back. “I trust that I am not late for my appointment?”

“Ah, Mistress Esoka,” said Jelan, inclining his head. “I didn’t recognize you, though your punctuality is appreciated. And this is the associate of whom you spoke?”

Scorio pushed back his hood and gave the apothecary a respectful bow. “Thank you for your time.”

“It is always a pleasure to be of service to House Kraken.” His tone was stilted, artificial; Scorio had no idea if he was being sarcastic. “You had some questions about distilling Black Star pills?”

“I do, thank you. I am in the process of gathering some fifty plants.” At this Scorio took his sample from his pouch and laid it on the counter. “I wished to understand the process to create the pills myself.”

“Fascinating,” said Jelan, not sounding remotely interested. “A wonder that House Kraken would outsource the creation of such low-level pills to an amateur.”

“Hell is passingly strange,” agreed Naomi.

“Thank you for sharing your expertise,” said Scorio, keeping his tone equally neutral.

Jelan shot the cuffs of his robes then placidly folded his hands on the counter. “The process is slow but dangerous. The easiest way to extract mana from the plant is to simmer it over low heat for some twelve hours, and then add alum to clarify the tincture to remove the solids.”

Scorio nodded. “What equipment is necessary? I am of course willing to pay.”

“You have the octs?” Jelan’s smile betrayed his skepticism.

“I can pay in Black Star plants.”

“Shocking. But yes, we can negotiate something. I would rather word not spread that my clients are poisoning themselves in pursuit of potency.”

Scorio raised a hand. “Wait, if it remains poisonous, it’s more potent?”

Jelan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s both not what I said and not what I would advise.”

Scorio inched closer. “But you didn’t say I was wrong. Am I understanding correctly? Neutralizing the poison reduces the potency?”

“It feels like a dereliction of my public obligations to explain this to you.”

“Does the alum neutralize the poison?”

“No,” he said reluctantly. “It clarifies the tincture, causing flocculation. Solids form, which are removed and turned into the pill. But the liquid that remains behind contains most of the Black Star’s potency.”

“But that’s the poisonous part.”

“Exactly. So, let’s move on to the nature of the equipment you will need—”

“Poisonous how?”

“Poisonous, young man, as in deleterious to your health.”

“Lethal?”

“If you drink enough.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll just be violently ill for a few days, retch till you’re out of bile, and hallucinate visions that will make your nightmares appear paltry.”

“But I’ll get a stronger dose of Coal mana?”

Jelan stared at him strangely. “Why does it feel like you’re not hearing the words I just said?”

“He has that strange ability,” drawled Naomi.

“How much more potent is the tincture than the removed solids?”

“I’m not going to tell you that.”

Scorio bowed low before him, his brow nearly touching the counter. “Please. I’m an adult. I simply need to know the truth.”

The silence was drawn out, but finally, he could sense the apothecary relent. “There are several variables. But in short, an unfiltered elixir is about twenty times more powerful than the pill, and requires half as many plants to make. The poison is simply the reaction of your system to consuming raw, unfiltered Coal mana.”

Scorio straightened, suddenly feeling awkward. Too late to deny it was for him. “Can higher-level Great Souls drink the tincture?”

Naomi sighed. “They would be violently ill for most of the afternoon, but yes.”

“And a Blood Baron?”

Jelan appeared genuinely astonished. “Why would a Blood Baron waste his time drinking unfiltered Black Star tincture?”

“But one would be able to process it?”

“Without noticing any effect on their system, yes. But a Char? You’d be lucky not to die as the raw mana tore its way through your Heart.”

“And if I didn’t die?”

His stare was direct and disapproving. “You’ve already decided to do it, haven’t you?”

“This is purely academic, I assure you.”

“Then, academically speaking, I would advise the following: the first time you make it reduce the tincture with enough alum to make it safe to drink. Each time thereafter make it a little more potent so that you can determine your threshold.”

Scorio frowned but nodded. “Fine. As long as it’s not too weak.”

Jelan laughed, the sound bitterly amused. “When you’re begging for death, I hope you remember those words.”

“That is fair.”

“If that is to be the case, you won’t need the fifty plants. Twenty-five would suffice for an elixir of equal strength to a pill.”

“Excellent, thank you.” Scorio paused, a half-formed thought coming to him.

“Yes?” asked Jelan reluctantly.

“I’m just curious. Coal mana is intangible, correct? A Great Soul can draw it into his Igneous Heart through a combination of willpower and mastery of his spirit, but how does a Black Star do the same? Do they have Igneous Hearts?”

“Ah, you really do wish to address academic matters.” For once Jelan appeared slightly more stimulated; he shifted his weight and refolded his hands on the countertop. “You are asking questions that require years of study to answer fully, but I have here a… where is it?”

Jelan turned and walked farther back into his store, fingers dancing over the scroll tubes that emerged from the honeycombed walls, till at last he tapped one and drew it forth. “A treatise on Black Star flower cultivation.”

He blew dust off it, turned it over in his hands, and found a small tag. “And only eight copper octs. This should answer all your questions.”

Scorio took the scroll from the apothecary, trying not to let his expression drop at the price, and pulled off the cap. Within were a half-dozen tightly rolled up sheets which he smoothed out on the counter. Carefully inked diagrams revealed the anatomy of the plant, but he only glimpsed charts and intriguing instructions before Jelan took the pages back and rolled them up.

“You must purchase before perusing. Do you have the octs?”

“Not yet,” said Scorio. “But I will.”

“I see. Well, until then, a succinct answer must suffice.”

Scorio bowed his head gratefully.

“All mana flows from the Pit on the far side of hell, but only Coal reaches Bastion easily. Distance is the great limitation; Silver mana can travel farther than Gold, but not as far as Bronze. There are many theories as to why, but the fact remains.”

Jelan took up the Black Star flower, and spread its velvety petals apart. “Inscribed within the heart of the flower is a unique pattern that is edged with hardened Coal mana. This pattern draws the Coal mana along its course, and by some unknown mechanism tricks the mana into thinking it has traveled a greater distance. Even Coal, it seems, cannot travel forever; upon reaching the end of the pattern, it coalesces into a dewdrop of pure mana, which feeds the plant.”

Scorio bent down to gaze at the heart of the plant and thought he could see the faintest of traceries there in a deeper black. “And that mana feeds the plant?”

“Just so,” said Jelan, folding his hands back together. “And is used to imbue its seedlings with the ability to generate their first, minor pattern when they germinate and flower.”

“This pattern,” said Scorio. “Could it be copied out, in larger form?”

“Yes,” said Jelan. His smile was cold, patronizing. “It forms the basis of mana traps. But people do not have the skill to draw the pattern finely; at best we have been able to approximate its intricacies only crudely, resulting in vastly inefficient traps. It is far better to cull actual patterns from fiends and use them instead.”

“That’s fascinating.” Scorio rubbed at his chin, pondering the limp flower on the counter. “Not even Great Souls have been able to do this?”

Naomi, who had stepped forward to press her hip against the counter, shrugged one shoulder. “There’s little need. Out in hell proper, there are entire forests that capture mana. It’s easier to tap the trees than spend time trying to copy their patterns.”

“Tap the trees?” asked Scorio.

“Yes,” said Jelan, blinking at Naomi. “That is precisely correct. One can ‘tap’ a greater harvester by drilling a hole into its core and simply inserting a short tube. Condensed mana will drip out, and can be collected in a receptacle.”

“Of course, the trick lies in guarding the receptacle,” said Naomi wryly.

“Could one tap a Black Star?” asked Scorio.

Both Naomi and Jelan stared at him blankly.

“I mean, I understand it would need to be a small hole, a pinprick, but that would allow the plant to continue living, wouldn’t it?”

Naomi was the first to speak. “You wish to cultivate Black Star plants?”

“Is it possible?”

Jelan was gazing at him in wonder. “It is possible. But hardly worth the trouble. The system Mistress Esoka describes is used to collect Gold, Emerald, or even more precious mana. But Coal?”

“The expense of defending such a setup would make the effort not worthwhile,” said Naomi firmly. “Even the few beads of condensed mana you’d harvest would draw attention from the local fiends. Not to mention that Black Star never grows close to each other.”

“Just a thought,” said Scorio. “But thank you. You’ve given me much to think about.”

“Well,” said Jelan with a sniff. “Let’s talk practicalities. Equipment, costs, and methods.”

“Yes,” said Scorio firmly. “Please.”

* * *

Naomi agreed to fund the alchemical process, extract the tincture, and let him know when it was ready. She already owned most of the required pieces of equipment, and explained most grudgingly that she had a passing interest in alchemy. It helped, she said defensively, to pass the time.

The next few days of training were a chore, as Scorio forced himself into an artificial state of patience, until at last, at Second Rust, Naomi relented.

“Incidentally.”

Scorio lowered the towel with which he’d been wiping sweat away. “Yes?”

Her expression was scrupulously calm. “I may have distilled a sufficient quantity of the tincture for you to drink.”

Immediately he dropped into a cross-legged seating position. “You’ve got it? Here?”

She drew a slender flask from inside her robe but didn’t offer it. Instead, she gauged him through narrowed eyes. “You look terrible.”

“Sleep’s been hard to come by. And I wager I’m about to feel a whole lot worse. Toss it over.”

“Toss it over.” Her lips quirked into a smile. “You think you’re going to drink it here?”

“Where else?”

“Follow me.” And with that, she pivoted on the ball of her foot and dropped back out of view.

Scorio grabbed his treasures, took a hasty gulp from his water pail, then scrambled after. She had this incredible ability to drop a dozen yards without looking any the worse for the impact, while he still had to work his way down, leaping from exposed block to block, till at last, he landed beside her.

“Keep up,” she said, tone business-like, and took off, running lightly down the street.

Scorio did his best, but despite almost a month of constant running he was hard-pressed; she drifted forward effortlessly, her feet barely raising puffs of dust as she ran silently ever on. Moving with assurance, taking corners as if she’d done so a hundred times, going ever deeper into the ruins.

Scorio was starting to run out of breath and develop a stitch when she finally slowed and strode up to the mouth of a great hole in the center of the street.

“Down there,” she said, hands on her hips as she considered the fiery depths. “Use your treasures if you have to.”

And before he could ask anything, she stepped out into the void and fell into the dark.

Scorio bit back a curse and peered down after her. She’d fallen some twenty yards to land on a smooth expanse of stone that jutted out over the burning depths.

He considered, then drew out the steel rod. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his Igneous Heart before him and leaped down after her.

Almost immediately he activated the treasure, swirling the dense, cloying Coal mana into the rod so that it jerked and locked in place.

He was ready, clutching at it with both hands, and swung beneath it, already some four or so yards down. Released the mana, dropped again, activated it once more almost immediately.

Four times he did this, four times he plunged and was viciously arrested, until at last, he fell into a crouch beside Naomi, who’d watched his controlled fall with bemusement.

“Nice,” was her only comment, and then she pointed at a flat rock. “Sit there.”

He did as he was bid. Glanced around. “What is this place?”

“Where you’re going to ignite your Heart.”

The words caused a shiver of excitement to pass through him. “Here?”

“Reach out for the mana. Check the density.”

He did as he was bid, summoning his Heart and then extending his senses to the sooty clouds—only to realize they were ferociously dense, almost impenetrable.

Naomi crouched before him, flask held loosely between her knees. “I did some calculations. Fifty plants’ worth of unfiltered tincture will dump more raw Coal into your Heart than you’ll be able to handle. It’ll be like taking forty Black Star pills all at once. Since you’re insisting on poisoning yourself, we might as well derive as much benefit from this as we can and saturate you completely. Now, when I say raw, it’s because the normal process of drawing Coal directly into your Heart prevents it from harming your body. This tincture will instead pass through your body first, hence the way it’s going to make you wish you were dead. But it will also pour more mana into your Heart than you’d be able to get anywhere else.”

“All right.” He wiped his sweaty palms on his knees. “So why are we here?”

“Because first, you’re going to pull as much of this ambient Coal mana into your Heart. Only once you’re at your brim will you drink this poison.”

“Oh. Oh!” Then he frowned. “Wait.”

“No, it’s not a good idea.” Her smile was predatory once more. “But I’m curious as to just how deep your Heart is. How much it can hold. I’ve a hunch you’ll be fine. But as they say, if you’re going to get whipped, might as well ask for a flaying.”

“That’s… not the most comforting expression I’ve ever heard.”

“Luckily for you, I’m not here to comfort you. Now. Draw in that Coal mana. I’m going to be watching. We’re not going to stop till I’m satisfied.”

“Very well.” He sat up straighter, rested his hands on his knees, and inhaled powerfully. Held his breath, then slowly exhaled and summoned his Igneous Heart.

“This is it, Scorio.” Her voice had grown soft, and he sensed her settling down before him. “This is your chance to catch up with all those pampered Great Souls in the Academy. You’ve gone without help, without treasures, without coaching or access to Iron mana. This is your chance to close that gap. Think on nothing else but this: how much Coal you draw in now will determine the tenor of your future for a good long while. So draw in that Coal like your life depends on it, because on the most literal level, it does.”

Scorio felt his resolve harden. Gave himself a moment to gaze upon his Igneous Heart, and for the first time, he connected with it first, reached out to that great hunk of vitreous stone, and bonded with it, allowed it to become part of his sense of self. And then, intuitively, driven by need, by bleak desire, he gazed at the mana through its lens, felt the Coal as it encircled his Heart.

And felt something new: a sense of wrongness, that the mana shouldn’t be hanging about his Heart, but should rather be within it, belonged within it, and that it was his duty to rectify that mistake.

Maintaining his viewpoint from within the Heart, he forged his will into a slender paddle, an instrument he could wield with deft purpose. And as he began to roil the massively heavy clouds, he began to draw upon it through his Heart; not a direct pull, the act of inhaling, but a gravitational tease that helped the Coal begin to move, to fall around the Heart but never quite toward it.

He took his time. He’d learned that exerting himself too hard right away led to frustration and unnecessary expenditure of his will; it was better to soften the clouds, to move through them slowly, get them going, and as they picked up speed to move harder himself.

Pulling and pushing, he worked the Coal. But it was tougher than anything he’d ever done before; this wasn’t like honey, but rather congealed mud. Sweat prickled his brow and he had to focus fiercely to keep his breath steady.

Round and round, pulling and pushing, he worked the clouds, and slowly, so painfully slowly, they began to respond. The heavy sooty night responded at last to the constant application of his will, moving turgidly then slowly then smoothly.

“Good,” said Naomi softly. “Keep at it. You’re doing well.”

The words goaded him on, renewed his determination, and he inhaled deeply as he moved his paddle faster, pulling around and around the Heart, drawing the Coal ever closer.

Faster and faster. He’d stopped breathing, his entire trunk locked up, his fingers digging into his knees, his chin lowered, sweat pouring off his face.

“Now,” whispered Naomi. “Now, Scorio. Pull it in!”

The effort tore a bestial grunt from his chest, but with all his might he directed the whole mass of the Coal to swirl into his Heart, opening it completely to the nightmare mana, pulling it with everything he had—and it poured in. Like a great ebon cascade, it flooded through the facets, deep into its heart, into himself, and he felt as if he were drowning, held underwater, the sheer mass and pressure of it making him want to burst.

“More!” Naomi was right there before him, her voice urgent, but he didn’t dare open his eyes. “A little more—keep pulling!”

Clenching his jaw, Scorio pulled as much of the remaining Coal mana into his Heart, scraping and clawing at it, abandoning all pretense of a paddle and just grasping with claws, scrabbling and yanking, a final, frenzied inhalation.

His mind was stretched to the limit, his thoughts scattered, his body a thin skein of flesh stretched tight over his bloated Heart.

And just when he thought he could draw in no more, he felt Naomi press the flask to his lips.

“Drink it! Drink it all, Scorio, drink it down!”

Barely knowing what he was doing, Scorio opened his mouth, tilted his head back, and drank the whole bitter concoction to its last drop.

Chapter 21

Waves of fire rolled through Scorio, driving his thoughts before them, extinguishing his sense of self, his sense of his body. Time lost meaning, and all he could do was cling to a spar of consciousness that was knocked spinning about within the eddies and vortices of the Coal mana that raged through him.

All that remained was an overwhelming sense of purpose: he had to remain afloat, he had to stay atop this raging storm of mana. He couldn’t let it slip his control completely, couldn’t let the raging waters flow away.

Despite it being the cause of his torment, he had to hold the mana within his Heart, to remain a willing prisoner of his own undoing. Groaning, gasping, he fought to keep it together, his mind, his will, this esoteric purpose, though why he had to do this he could no longer remember.

Insubstantial, translucent, hanging above him, was a massive heart of black stone. At times it swelled so that he felt himself bodily within it, and at times it contracted so that it hung high in the air, out of reach, tantalizing.

As the black waves buffeted him, he yearned to reach it, intuited that within its faceted walls he’d find peace. But each time it expanded he felt the same cruel sense of betrayal, realizing that it was a false harbor. That it was in some way the cause of this agony.

Occasionally his whole body would shudder, and he’d feel himself retching, as if the act were taking place a hundred miles away, over the edge of the horizon. Other times he’d feel cool liquid being dribbled past his lips, liquid which he desperately sought more of, even as it provoked his stomach into horrendous cramps.

It was an eternity while it lasted, and he had no idea if it was an hour, a few minutes, days, or even weeks.

Mind blasted, thoughts shredded, body diffused and stolen away from him, he simply weathered the pain. Resisted the urge to let go, to give up. Held on, because in the end that was the only act he could claim as his own, the only way to have agency in this horrendous fever dream, so hold on he did, until, at long, long last, the fever broke.

His eyes had been open for some time, he realized, but he’d been staring up at nothing, unseeing. Blinking, he focused, and saw a rough expanse of rocky wall, the undersides of the ridges dimly colored red.

His whole body ached as if he’d been worked over methodically with a cane. He was parched, his throat desiccated to the point of feeling cracked. Every muscle in his core burned as if he’d swallowed live coals. Groaning, he rolled slowly, carefully onto his side, then pushed his way up to sitting.

“There you are,” said Naomi, who sat off to one side, eyes opening from what had clearly been a meditative stance. “And somehow still alive.”

“Don’t count on that yet,” he croaked. “Water?”

She nodded to his side, and he fumbled a half-full pail, almost knocking it over. The thought of spilling that precious water was the most terrifying thing he could imagine, so he grasped at it with both hands then raised it, shaking, to his lips.

Only to see that a pale, insubstantial charcoal fire was burning across his skin.

He startled, nearly dropped the pail, then set it roughly down to stare at his palms.

“Saturation,” said Naomi, tone pleased. “I knew you’d do it if you didn’t die.”

Scorio looked up the length of his arms, down at his body, and saw that he was enveloped in the same, gray fire all over, flickering and dancing an inch off his skin. He couldn’t feel anything—there was no heat—but now that he was focusing, he felt the difference in his Igneous Heart.

A ponderous heaviness that demanded his attention.

Summoning it into his mind’s eye, he saw the same ghostly fire wreathing its faceted body.

“Did I do it? Ignite?”

“Not yet.” Naomi unfolded herself and rose to stand, stretching languorously. “You’re primed and ready to go, however. Your Heart is at Saturation. All you need do now is take the final step.”

“How do I do that?”

“The state you’re in?” She smiled. “You need but apply the lightest amount of tension and it’ll blaze. Luckily for you. Not like you could manage anything more. Now, stand up if you can.”

Clumsily he drank from the pail, allowing himself four deep pulls before forcing himself to set it aside. Then, body shaking, feeling weak to the point of debilitation, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

“What do I do?” he rasped.

Naomi moved to stand before him. “We’re going to go through our standard striking and blocking drill. Start slowly. Just go through the motions. And then I’ll pick up the pace.”

“All right.” Scorio forced his knees to bend, to stand in his combat stance. A deep, shaky breath, then he raised his fists.

They’d worked on this every day for weeks. Naomi would slowly strike at him in an established pattern, alternating between a set combination of sixteen jabs, hooks, uppercuts, and elbows. He’d parry, using his forearms, pushing her blows away with his palms, turning and blocking in the same manner each time.

Naomi began the sequence. A slow jab, a follow-up punch from the other hand, left elbow, right uppercut.

Scorio felt drunk, barely able to focus. But repetition had served its purpose; his hands moved almost of their own accord, slowly but surely deflecting her blows.

It was mesmerizing, the fire—he wanted to simply stare at it, how it burned across him, but refused to allow himself the luxury. Especially as Naomi began to slowly build up speed, coming at him with greater assurance.

He met her pace, barely aware of what he was doing, moving in time with her as if they danced, and all the while he felt his Heart burning, raging within him.

She began to move even faster. Normally he’d have little trouble with this pace, but already he was suffering, his exhaustion causing his limbs to shake, his focus to blur. But still, he met her blows, and as he did a roar began to build up in his ears, the sound of his blood rushing through his veins, perhaps—and he found his thoughts being consumed by that sound as if they were kindling for that fire.

Naomi watched him with fixed intensity, her gaze unwavering as her fists and elbows came at him ever quicker, pushing him harder, testing his edge.

Somehow, he kept up, even as the roaring within him grew in volume, his sense of his body fading away, so that he no longer felt the contact of his wrist upon her arm, his forearm crossing his chest to block her elbow.

She said something, but he couldn’t understand the words. He was burning, the roar overwhelming everything, drinking in the world.

Her first blow slipped past his defenses and cracked across his chin. Scorio didn’t let it distract him; if he lost the rhythm, he’d be buffeted by a dozen more in quick succession. Parried the next three, then the fourth slipped through and her uppercut caught him in the chest.

He staggered but felt nothing. His hands flew up again, but his defenses were increasingly ragged, falling apart before her tenacious onslaught, an attack that only grew faster, peeling him apart, battering his arms away, pounding him again and again with her blows.

And then his Heart was there, before him, laid over Naomi, and he felt it before it happened, had a second’s premonition to prepare himself before the insubstantial flames that wreathed his stone heart went whoomph! and the whole world changed.

His aches, the pain, the misery, and discomfort sluiced away. Strength flowed into its place, his muscles swelling with renewed vigor, his vision clearing, his chest unlocking. Sweet air poured into his lungs, erasing the stitch that had pierced his side, and it was as if a lifetime’s accumulation of suffering was washed away.

Even as the Heart continued to burn before him, his arms picked up speed, and when Naomi stepped in to clock him across the temple with a tight hook, he simply pressed his curled-up arm tight against the side of his head, absorbing the blow without pain, and stepped into her, driving her back.

Off-balance, she retreated, regained her balance, renewed her assault. But he was in the fight now, fully present, and once more he began parrying her every blow. Jabs were slapped away, elbows were blocked, crosses swayed away from.

The rushing roar was still a crescendo in his ears, but now he realized he was laughing, his arms alive, the insubstantial flames that had burned down their length having faded away, pulled, he felt, into his very blood.

Naomi laughed as well, her eyes flashing, and came at him even faster; they were blurring through the sequence now, arms contacting so rapidly the sound was a blurred staccato. Filled with delight, wanting to roar his victory, Scorio seized the perfect opportunity to move from defense to offense, and initiated the sequence against her.

She danced with him, accepting the reversal of roles, blocking and parrying his attacks perfectly. He moved faster, put more force into the blows, faster still; she kept pace, but the roaring in his ears made him feel invincible, unstoppable, and he punched harder, came in more aggressively, till the smile slipped from her lips and became a frown of fierce concentration.

He was driving her back, flowing seamlessly through the sequence, jabs to crosses, elbows to uppercuts, swaying and dipping and rising. She gave more ground, until suddenly she exploded in size before him, reared up high to loom, gaunt and horrific, and caught his next cross in the flat of her black palm, stopping him cold.

“That’s good,” she hissed, leaning her distended, horned head down toward him, lips peeling back from her fangs into an approximation of a smile. “But that’s enough.”

Scorio pulled his fist free, stepped away, realized he was panting for breath. For a moment he only stared at her in alarm, but then she slid back down into her human form, and the momentary pang of fear ebbed away.

“You did it.” She shook out her hand, wincing. “You mad fool. You actually did it.”

The rushing, roaring sound was fading away now, but his Heart still burned, still spewed forth black fire in an endless torrent. He could bring it into view at will now, flicker it in and out of sight with but a thought; he did so a few times, then allowed it to fade away altogether; still he could sense it burning, invisibly, within his core.

“I did.” He rubbed his hand over his stomach, marveled at how the pain had completely disappeared. “You didn’t tell me I’d feel so good right after.”

She smirked. “You didn’t need the encouragement. Everyone heals when they reach a new level. Why do you think I was willing to go through with this? Now. How does it feel?”

Scorio stared at his palms. “It feels… amazing. Like I can do anything.”

“Well, you can’t, so don’t try. But focus on the shadows now. Tell me what happens.”

He frowned, looked past the radius of her lantern, and stared hard at the darkness that obscured the far side of the pit. As if wilting under his glare, the darkness faded away, revealing gray outlines of the rock, ledges, cracks, and pitted holes.

“I… that’s darkvision?”

“It is indeed. Takes focus, and you’ll get better at it with time.”

“No color, though.” He swung it slowly across the pit’s curving wall. “And it’s more like a beam than anything else. I thought I’d just be able to see through all darkness.”

“When you rank up, you will. But as a Cinder? Take what you can get.”

Scorio grinned. “That I will. What else? I’m more resistant to the Curse now?”

“You sure are, though you won’t feel much of a difference here in Bastion.”

“Which means my plan to train on the Rascor Plains is now a possibility?”

“A possibility,” allowed Naomi, picking up her lantern. “If we can get past security.”

Scorio clenched his hands into fists and felt newfound strength flood his arms. “And my body. I feel… just more, in every way.”

“You can take more punishment. Move faster. Hit harder...” Naomi paused. “…than a Char. But you’re still just a Cinder, even if you feel like a Pyre Lord. So don’t get carried away.”

Scorio grinned at her. “You know, that sounds like good advice? But right now I’m going to just enjoy this feeling.”

She grinned right back. “Can’t begrudge you that. But let’s put it in context. See if you can keep up with me, Cinder.”

And with that, she swept up her lantern, blew it out, and fastened it to her belt.

Immediately Scorio focused on her, so that her form grew clear amidst the greater darkness, a contoured mass of gray, leaden hues. He saw her curl her thick locks behind one ear, smile at him, then crouch and leap, soaring up a couple of yards to latch onto the rock wall and begin to climb.

“Challenge accepted,” he whispered, and leaped after her, eschewing the use of his treasures for the sheer exuberance of his own burning Heart. Up he leaped, latching onto the wall a few feet below where she’d landed, and then climbed right after, scouring the rocky surface with his darkvision as he went, finding handholds split seconds before he needed them. Momentum kept him going more than anything, his fingers tireless as he dug them into cracks, the toes of his worn sandals pressing against the slightest bumps.

But even so, Naomi was faster.

She gained the lip of the pit a good eight yards ahead of him, and it was her laughter that drew him on, up and over the top into the street, to stand in the darkness of a night cycle, the sun-wire a blood-limned filament in the sky overhead.

Naomi was dancing backward, arms outstretched as she floated over broken blocks and deep riven cracks, her feet seeming to know where to land with each step. “Thought you weren’t going to come.”

“You thought wrong,” growled Scorio, and drank deep of his burning Heart, felt the black flames roar forth from the obsidian facets, filling his core with power. He burst into a spring, racing toward her, and blasted right by, down the center of the street, running so fast he thought he could leap and soar right over the buildings.

But a few moments later he sensed movement by his side, saw her pass him, her shorter legs blurring, her hair streaming behind her.

They reached a great landslide that had flowed across the street when a building had collapsed who knew how many centuries ago, and Scorio grunted as he raced up the fallen scree of blocks.

Naomi, however, hurled herself into a leap, changing into her nightmare form mid-air and clearing a dozen yards, landing far above and ahead of him, only to take off again and clear the summit.

Scorio drew even more from his burning Heart, the flames raging now, pouring strength and endless stamina into him. He felt unbeatable, untamable, a force of nature. Powered up the slope and leaped right off the apex into the air, arms cartwheeling as he began to fall to the far side of the street, the Nightmare Lady already far ahead, her laughter trailing behind.

He landed smoothly, stumbled just a little, began to pick up the speed—and then his Heart guttered and died.

The strength flowed right out of him, his legs grew jellied, and he stumbled and crashed down to his knees, heaving for breath, black spots dancing before his eyes.

“There we go,” said the Nightmare Lady, walking back toward him. “Though I have to say, you lasted longer than I expected.”

“Wait… what happened?” Scorio reared up onto his knees, summoned his Igneous Heart, and gaped at its smoking surface. It was dead once more but looked superheated, the edges dulling away from cherry-red to orange.

“You burned through your reserves,” she said, stopping before him and resuming her human form, hands on her hips. “Which, as a Cinder, you have precious little of. Though your Heart is as deep as I’d guessed—perhaps deeper. You should be proud. I thought you’d gutter out before you got out of the pit.”

Scorio heaved deep breaths, trying not to vomit. “This feels…”

“Terrible. Yes.” Naomi winced in sympathy. “But I can already tell you’re the kind of Great Soul that disregards well-intentioned warnings. Best way to teach you is to allow you to hurl yourself headfirst into a wall. This is what happens when you burn through all your mana heedlessly.”

Shoulders still rising and falling, Scorio forced himself to swallow. “Can I… can I pull more mana into my Heart?”

“Of course. But it won’t feel good. Because when you drain it dry like you did, you expend some of your Heart itself. Now listen up because this is important. Your power comes from the divine combination of Heart, mana, and tension. You suffuse your Heart with mana, then spark it to life with tension. But in extreme situations, if you run out of mana, you can choose to purely burn your Heart.”

“Wait,” he said, blinking away sweat. “You let me just do that?”

“No,” she said, feigning tender care as she crouched before him and patted his cheek. “You’re still too ignorant to know how to do that on purpose. What you’re feeling is the shadow of what that would actually feel like. You slammed into your Heart’s reserves instead of actually burning them. But here’s the crux of the warning: burning your Heart gives you power at the expense of your sense of self. Tremendous power. But—and they drum this into everyone at the Academy, over and over again—that power is fueled by your nature, your personality, everything that makes you you. So what’s the moral of this story?”

“Don’t do it?” asked Scorio.

“Don’t do it,” agreed Naomi. “Though I know you will. Your drive is too reckless to turn away from ready power. Just know that you’ll burn yourself out from the inside if you choose to tap that source. Clear?”

“Clear,” said Scorio, rising to his feet. “I’m guessing I’ll develop larger reserves of power the higher up I rank?”

“As well as lasting longer if you’re burning better mana. Coal really is the worst.”

“It got me this far.” He ran his hands through his sweat-soaked hair and nearly stumbled. “Whoa.”

“You must be starving. Come on. I’ll escort you back to your place. Right now you’d have difficulty fending off a fire salamander.”

Scorio fell in beside her. “Thanks.”

They walked in silence. Scorio practiced focusing his darkvision, looking sideways and narrowing his gaze to bring different areas into sharp relief, but found no noticeable improvement over how quickly he could tease out the gray contours from the deep dark.

“You’ll be wanting a lantern yet,” said Naomi, unhooking hers from her belt and lighting it. “Darkvision only becomes a practical way to get around once you hit Tomb Spark or Flame Vault.”

“Speaking of,” said Scorio as he took the lantern gratefully from her.

To which she laughed. “Are you serious? You just ignited your Heart.”

“Which means that’s behind me. How do I make Emberling?”

“You should have stayed at the Academy,” she said, shaking her head. “They’d have loved you.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice on that front. Emberling?”

She blew out her cheeks in resignation. “You realize this is going to take you much longer than making Cinder?”

“Sure, that’s fine. All the more reason to get started now.”

She eyed him.

“Well, after I eat and sleep,” he amended sheepishly.

“Sure,” she said skeptically. “But very well. To reach Cinder you need only ignite your Heart for the first time, which means saturating it and targeting it with sufficient tension to cause it to alight. Trust me. That’s child’s play compared to what comes next.”

“You’re wonderful at boosting my confidence,” he said.

“To reach Emberling you have to increase the amount you can hold. You need to swell the capacity of your Heart till you can barely ignite it at all. This is obviously dangerous, as it will become increasingly difficult to harness your power the closer you come. Most Great Souls with normal, natural depth can do this without too much difficulty; in effect, they work hard to get to where you already began. But those like you, who are born with incredibly deep hearts to begin with, are in for a rough time. How deep you choose to make it will depend on your tolerance of ever-greater weakness. Protected in the Academy, that’s not so much of a problem. But out here? That can be a walking death sentence.”

Scorio nodded thoughtfully. “Can I just drink more Black Star tinctures?”

Again Naomi laughed in disbelief. “Poison your way to greatness? Sure. But I won’t be sitting around each time to make sure you don’t choke on your vomit, and the raw nature of the tincture will wear at the structure of your Heart. Using Coal mana already develops brute strength at the expense of finesse, but drinking tinctures? That will make you a raging beast without any self-control.”

“So not a good idea?”

“Not a good idea.”

He frowned. “Ah well. I’m sure there are other treasures out there I can use.”

“For sure. The trick will be getting your hands on them.”

“You think I can speak to your apothecary, ask him what other raw materials I can harvest out here in the ruins?”

“Sure, fine.” Naomi seemed almost resigned. “But you know that doing so will expose you, correct? The more you interact with society as an anonymous Great Soul, the more you’ll be remarked upon?”

“Hmm.” Scorio considered. “True. But it’s not like I have much choice.”

“See, that’s the thing. You do have a choice. You’re simply telling yourself you don’t.”

“Semantics. But what about this trial I’ve heard of?”

“Your first trial, yes.” Naomi looked away, her expression turning half-wistful, half-bitter. “Once you’ve deepened your Heart as far as you can take it, or are willing to take it, you’ll have to ignite it with a special sense of purpose, willing this ignition to take you over the threshold. That will take you to the Trial Room.”

“Take me? How?”

“Just as you are ‘taken’ to the Gauntlet. You’ll find yourself there.”

“I see. And everybody goes to the same chamber?”

“Right up till they make Dread Blaze, and then they’re done with it. You’ll have access to the first door. If you pass the trial within, you’ll emerge an Emberling and manifest your first true power.”

“Like you did your nightmare form.”

“Correct.”

“And the trial? What is it?”

She looked away again. “It changes for every Great Soul. Telling you more than that will hamper you.”

“So wait. Your nightmare form is…?”

“Not a literal reflection,” said Naomi, rolling her eyes. “But yes. On some level, the power you manifest captures something essential about who you are. And no, I don’t want to hear you puzzling out what my power says about me. Do that thinking on your own time.”

“Got it,” said Scorio, thoughts swirling. “I won’t say a thing. But can you tell me anything else? What was your trial like?”

“No.” A flat response. “My trial is my own business. And telling you more will only artificially influence your own trial. Believe me, you’re best served entering it without preconceptions.”

“Great,” said Scorio, resisting the urge to kick a rock as they walked on.

“You’re welcome,” said Naomi with utterly false and saccharine sweetness.

“How quickly do students at the Academy reach their first trial?” he asked. “I mean, you said they ignite their Hearts usually within the first week, so…?”

“The goal is to undertake your last Gauntlet run at the end of your first year as an Emberling. Most make it.”

Scorio stopped. “Last Gauntlet run?”

Naomi had continued walking and now stopped to look back at him. “Yes. You do two runs each year. When you first reincarnate, and at the year’s end. You’re expected to do much better the second time through.”

“Oh.” Scorio’s thoughts whirled once more, and he envisioned the Gauntlet, that vast, amber beam, the chambers beyond. The spiteful little monsters, the chamber of blades, the tilting hallway. Would he do better now if he could undertake it again?

He curled his free hand into a fist.

Undoubtedly.

“How far did you get?” he asked, moving to catch up. “The first time you ran the Gauntlet?”

“I never did,” she said quietly, turning to walk alongside him. “As an interloper, I was promised the chance, but they kept finding reasons to deny me.”

“They what?” Scorio looked at her in shock. “Why? I mean, I understand why, but that’s…”

“One of the many reasons that led me to quit the Academy?” She gave him her signature bitter smile. “Precisely.”

“Bastards.”

They walked along in companionable silence for a spell, navigating the ruins, avoiding areas of dense Coal mana that could lead them into trouble.

When his ruined building moved into view, he looked sidelong at her. “So.”

“Hmm?”

“This means you’re not averse to more training? Now that I’ve made Cinder?”

She pursed her lips, walked in silence till the end of the block, then stopped. “We’ll see how this goes. Can’t say I was going anywhere fast before you showed up.”

“What exactly were you doing, back then? Other than cultivating a reputation as the Nightmare Lady?”

“Mostly just cultivating a reputation as the Nightmare Lady.” Her smile was sad. “That and reading, some alchemy. Trying to cultivate a few rare plants. Going into town a lot, just walking the streets. Trying to figure out what I was going to do next, and getting nowhere fast.”

“So it’s a good thing I showed up?”

“That remains to be seen.” Her smile was guarded, but there. “Let’s see if you’re able to survive the next month without purposefully poisoning yourself to death or throwing yourself down a fire chasm while trying to escape a fiend.”

“Deal.”

“Take the day off, by the way. Rest, eat as much as you can.”

“Sure. Rest and food. Got it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s important, Scorio. You keep pushing yourself like this and you’ll flame out. Literally.”

“I got it.” He spread his hands out in an innocent gesture. “I’m ready to sleep the day away. Think I’ve earned it.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound convinced. “I’ll see you tomorrow, the First Rust.”

“First Rust. And—thank you.”

She’d already begun to walk away, stopped, surprised. “For what?”

“For everything. Your time. Your advice. Your training.”

Naomi’s expression was inscrutable. “Oh, you’ve nothing to thank me for. You’ve paid for all this with quality sapphire mana. If anything, I’m still in your debt.”

“You could repay that easily by giving me some,” he suggested innocently.

To which she gave a short bark of laughter. “Right. See you tomorrow, Scorio.”

“See you.”

He watched her go, and then took a deep breath. As much as he yearned to lie down and sleep away the next day cycle, he didn’t have time.

Instead, he brushed the worst of the dust away from his robes, tightened his belt, and set off toward his room to grab a quick meal before heading for the civilized border of Bastion.

It was time to ask Feiyan and Helena for a favor.

Chapter 22

Groggy, Scorio lifted his head from his arm and blinked around his room. The window was dark, with the soft hiss of the dusk rain falling outside.

He sat up, stared at nothing for a bit, then crawled over to his water pail, dipping his hands into the dregs at the bottom and washing his face.

Despite his best intentions, he’d slept in. He recalled reaching his chamber, sitting down for a moment’s rest, and then—nothing.

Perhaps Naomi had been right. Even having slept the day away, he felt exhausted, his mouth gummy, his skin tight.

Rising to his feet, he moved to the window, climbed outside, and then scaled the wall to his rooftop. Clambered up and sat on a hunk of retaining wall, lifting his face to the night sky, the dried-blood sun-wire, and the sweet rain that fell upon all of Bastion.

After a moment he shrugged his way out of his robes and sat naked beneath the cool rain, allowing it to wash away days’ worth of dust, grime, and sweat. Simply sat there, enjoying the sensation, occasionally blinking the water away to gaze up at the far side of the city above him. At the distant fiery chasms whose light was momentarily muted by the falling rain, the plumes of steam rising from them and turning their depths from a smoldering crimson to near black.

The rain didn’t last long. Scorio rose to his feet, raked his fingers through his wet hair, pulled on his damp robes, cinched the belt tight, then gazed down at the street some four stories below.

For a moment he was tempted to ignite his Heart and attempt leaping down.

But then he remembered Naomi’s warning and simply climbed down the ruined wall till he was able to leap the remaining six yards safely to the rubble below. That accomplished, he set off toward Bastion’s living wards.

He’d never visited the city at night, but Naomi’s warning made the adventure even more exciting; now that he was an almighty Cinder, he was eager to prowl the narrow streets and see how exactly the city changed in the dark.

Scorio moved quickly through the ruins, passing softly glowing mana traps, seeing the occasional flicker of well-hidden campfires amongst the guttered buildings. He avoided all signs of life, and after some eight blocks, he slipped into the city proper, leaving the cracked stone and detritus for the alleyways and winding streets of the city.

It was like entering a different realm. Under the indiscriminate light of the sun-wire, Bastion was a massive, ponderous collection of dull buildings, the pervasive light rendering everything flat and dusty, banishing the shadows and painting everything the same golden hues.

But now it felt a city of mystery, darkness everywhere, as most of the narrow streets weren’t illuminated and most of the windows shuttered.

The main avenue, however, was a surreal ribbon of black light shot through with purple gleams, this illumination emitted by black spheres suspended haphazardly from poles, building corners, the underside of awnings, or within shop display windows that were still courting business.

The darkness, in contrast, took a dark, slate-blue hue, so that he felt as if he walked through a submarine world, strangers hurrying by on their nocturnal errands, some carrying closed parasols, others damp from the rain, most dry and clearly having just emerged from their homes or places of business.

It was easy to stick to the illuminated areas, instinctive, even; signs glowed overhead, curling glass tubes filled with radiant purple-black Coal light offering services of every kind, though Scorio had trouble deciphering the lettering.

And overhead, the barely glowing sun-wire, and beyond that, a city curved above, its avenues picked out in black light and pale, radiant copper, with serene pools of light, Iron-gray betraying the homes and streets of the wealthier wards closer to the Gate to Hell.

A rarefied world, everything gleaming and wet from the rain, the startling blacklight reflecting off the road in eddies and smears.

Bemused, Scorio allowed the sparse foot traffic to guide him, content to simply take in Bastion at night, so different from the day cycle city that he could have been transported to another world entirely.

Here were gathered stalls that vented steam from the back, hectic cooks under their damp awnings serving bowls of hot food to impatient customers; there, music skirled out of tall windows, a glowing sign above the bar’s doorway depicting a purple squid with wondrously complex tentacles; down a narrow street Scorio saw a raised stage on which a half-dozen women in elaborate costumes danced before a crowd six deep; there a building was stunningly decorated with gaudy, shining stripes of refulgent copper that contoured and embellished its architectural excesses.

Scorio waved away solicitations, ignored the desperate cries of young boys who beckoned for him to come to the doorway of various establishments, studiously ignored the smoldering consideration that the beautiful men and women cast his way as he strode beneath their balconies, their forms draped in exotic furs, long cigarettes burning from between their careless fingers.

The city soon changed, however, as he continued north; he must have entered a new ward, for the dubious nature of the businesses and enticements were replaced by more rigid and severe buildings, the lighting more functional than alluring. Small squares opened up, benches arrayed around dead fountains or broad canopied trees; he began to see harried workers making their way home, their uniforms indicating House allegiances.

Ducking his chin, Scorio turned radially west, cutting through the imposing buildings, ignoring the gazes that trailed him as he went. There was a different allure to the people here; the very severity of their outfits, the callous indifference of their manner, the strange way they coiffed their hair, rouged their lips, the confident way they held themselves, all spoke to as alien a world as the decadent one he’d passed through first.

Mercifully he left the Chimera ward behind, only to realize that he had no idea where he was. He plunged into a teeming night market where a hundred stalls were packed close together, forming a labyrinth through which a crowd streamed. Garish lights were strung from crisscrossing strings overhead, hung from building corners and reaching branches, and by their blacklight, Scorio saw a wide array of goods set out for sale, the owners watching the passersby suspiciously, with more than a few having powerfully-built young men and women standing close by, hands resting on the hafts of clubs.

“Excuse me,” said Scorio, stopping at a covered stall whose owner was busy chopping a fistful of roots with numbingly fast precision. “How do I get to Ward 11?”

“Ward 11? Ward 11?” The old woman cried the question back to him as if he’d insulted her deeply.

Scorio took a step back. “That’s right. Ward 11.”

“Mischa!” Her cry was just short of raucous. “Tell this idiot where to go!”

Her guard, a bored-looking man with an eyepatch and red-stained teeth, gestured for Scorio to step away from the stall’s front, and immediately draped a muscled arm over his shoulders in a manner that made Scorio deeply uncomfortable.

“Ward 11? Oh, man.” He said this as if commiserating over a deep loss. “You’re destined for trouble; any fool can see that. But even I, a humble guard, can recognize destiny when it appears before him.”

The man smelled pungent, as if he’d been standing inside an incense-choked room for days. Carefully, adroitly, Scorio disentangled himself and stepped away.

“Just point out the direction and I’ll be much obliged.”

Mischa stared dully through Scorio, his pupils enormously dilated, then blinked and focused on him. “Oh. Yes. Radial west another four blocks, then walk north till you hit the rim. Ward 11. Kraken turf. Watch yourself.”

Scorio traversed Bastion, keeping to the copper-lit streets, hurrying now, avoiding the crowds, no longer trying to keep track of the changes but simply seeking his destination.

Finally, an old busker who was busy tuning his oud blinked up at him from a doorway and smiled.

“Ward 11? You’re here, my friend. Where every fist coming at your face is clutching a roll of coins. Is there anywhere in particular you wish to go?”

Scorio rested his hands on his hips and considered the avenue on which he stood. Broad, clean, well-tended, the buildings and people spoke of wealth and refinement. The busker was, if anything, the only element at odds with the manicured street.

“A new establishment,” he said. “Music oriented. Run by two ladies, Feiyan and Helena.”

The busker’s eyes lit up, their gleaming surfaces flashing pink in the overhead blacklight’s illumination. “Ah, you and everyone else! It’s the talk of the ward, and those next to it, besides.” At which point the old man considered Scorio speculatively. “Though it’s a refined establishment, I’m sorry to say. The likes of you and me wouldn’t be welcomed through the door.”

“I’m old friends with the owners,” said Scorio, trying to sound nonchalant. “If I can get their attention, I’ll be fine.”

“So says every novice seeking admittance to the halls of glory.” The busker placed his oud carefully in its case and closed it efficiently. “But come! Old Memek is done caterwauling for octs tonight; I will take you to The Flame, and if your claims are true, perhaps I will gain admittance as well.”

Scorio smiled. “It’d be my pleasure. I’m Scorio.”

“Scorio. An interesting name. Archaic, is it not?” Old Memek began hobbling along the street, favoring his left leg. “How is it you know the proprietors? Can you tell me aught of their past? It is shrouded in mystery, and speculation is rife. Is it true that they were both secretariats in House Hydra, overseeing matters of life and death, and grew tired of their onerous responsibilities?”

Scorio laughed. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” Old Memek glowered at him. “You plan to keep their cards close to your chest. Either you are truly their friend, or you know less than I do.”

“An accurate analysis,” said Scorio. He felt relieved to have met a friendly guide at last, and to relinquish the responsibility of finding his way through this strange and perturbing night city. “The Flame is doing well?”

“It is indeed. Small, refined, open to a select crowd but boasting high-quality music and scandalous adherence to impropriety. Those who cannot get in scorn it, while everyone else angles for a ticket.”

“Sounds about right,” said Scorio. They reached the top of a broad flight of steps that led down into a canyon formed between two close pressed buildings, the far end opening to reveal a broad canal. “And yourself? How is it that an illustrious oud master has been denied entry?”

“A terrible injustice,” sighed Memek, making his way carefully down the deeply worn steps. “When I was young, my ballads were the talk of the ward, no—the city! I recall one night when I was invited by a Hierophant to play at the Constellar Gardens, and oh, what a night that was. You will think me a liar, but I received such praise that night that my head literally swelled to twice its size; my hosts grew concerned, and called for Varigard the White, a Great Soul who perished—has it been two decades already? How has time flown—”

Old Memek spoke on, regaling Scorio with a fanciful tale that seemed endless in its permutations, and soon had the oud player fleeing House operatives as he escorted an orphaned Great Soul to safety at the Academy.

They descended the steep steps and emerged at the canal, whose broad length was dark and reflected the blacklights of the far bank with iridescent sensuality.

“… to which I declaimed, ‘Never shall I regret a moment with divinity, though it cost me my fame, my talent, and perhaps even my life.’” Old Memek paused to frown at a small crowd gathered outside a non-descript building that faced the canal, and from which the muted sounds of a dozen stringed instruments being violently played seem to come.

“There it is, The Flame. The crowd is fierce, my young friend. The chances of our success plummet by the moment.”

“Come on,” said Scorio, tapping the old man’s elbow. “Let’s give it a try.”

They approached, and the music grew more distinct, numerous guitars being played aggressively with virtuoso skill, the rhythm fierce and tempestuous, accompanied by a strange, clacking sound. Cries of laughter and delight emerged faintly from behind the heavy closed door, before which a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head stood, his robes tightly belted around his waist, his meaty and heavily tattooed arms crossed over his oxen-like chest.

The crowd milled in the copperlight, all of them young, most of them beautiful, dressed in artfully torn robes and with all manner of patterned silk scarves wrapped around their necks. They eyed Scorio and the oud player with distaste as they walked up to the large man, whose eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“Back of the line,” said the man, not even looking at Scorio.

“I’m a friend of Helena’s. Please tell her Scorio is here and would like to talk to her.”

“Back of the line,” said the man, his voice almost mechanical with boredom.

“Come, come, let us not tempt the fates,” said Old Memek, plucking at Scorio’s sleeve.

“What will it take to allow us inside?” asked Scorio.

“You make me repeat myself one more time, I’m chucking you into the canal,” said the bald man, still not even looking down at where Scorio stood.

“Into the canal, hmm?” He turned, considered the black waters, his pulse starting to pound. “So that’s the way it’s done?”

Old Memek gripped his elbow forcibly. “Scorio, dear friend, come, we do not wish to—”

But Scorio wasn’t listening. In a moment he’d summoned his Igneous Heart, and reached out with his senses, seeking mana. Copper wisps floated around him, but within the bright fuchsia overhead, it burned brightly, bottled up and refulgent.

Scorio reached for that nexus of power, drew it forth with his paddle, finding that his will could force it out of its container, and pulled it swiftly into his obsidian Heart.

Which, obedient to his will, immediately caught fire with a whoomph.

Smiling blandly, Scorio grasped the large man by the belt and shoulder, pivoted on his foot, and hurled him across the entirety of the pavement to disappear into the canal below.

A large gout of water burst up and spattered over the narrow street, eliciting shrieks of dismay from the crowd which pressed itself against the wall in horror.

The sign overhead had gone dark, the patch of pavement before The Flame now an island of darkness.

“There,” said Scorio, tugging his robe back into place. “Old Memek, shall we?”

The oud player was gaping at him but didn’t resist as Scorio guided him through the door and into the establishment beyond.

It was charged with music, activity, the smell of people, and lit by slender bars of blacklight set along the tops of the walls so that they shed no visible light but rather caused the dancers to glow.

Or more accurately, caused the pigments that were painted over their features and drenched into their hair to smolder with gaudy, impossible light. In the darkness people cavorted, moved to the charging rhythm of the guitars, their hair burning in bright, unnatural tones, their faces covered in constellations of vivid yellows and blues, oranges, and pinks, as if some fey power had blown magic, fluorescent dust across their features.

A dozen musicians sat atop a stage at the back of the room, all of them bent over their instruments, all of them stamping their feet and occasionally drumming their hands on the bodies of their guitars as they let loose a riot of sound. Scorio couldn’t guess how many people danced under the glow of the imprisoned Coal, but he didn’t care; slowly and methodically he pressed his way through the crowd, pulling Old Memek along behind him, looking all around as he searched out his quarry.

Helena was on the stage, looking wild and exhilarated, sawing at her fiddle in wild abandon, her wide lips revealing her glowing teeth, green stripes painted down her cheeks, the ribbons intertwined in her braid burning as if aflame.

And there—Feiyan sat at a recessed booth amongst a half-dozen others, sandaled foot up on the table’s edge, a cup of something in one hand, watching the musicians, the upper half of her face painted a blinding crimson which glowed like artificial blood, a black band crossing narrowly over her eyes.

Scorio moved to stand before the table, and when Feiyan glanced at him in disinterest he inclined his head and gave an apologetic smile.

For a moment Feiyan simply stared through him, and then recognition slipped into place, and she sat up, almost spilling her drink, eyes narrowing in fury.

But the music was too loud for them to converse, so rather than shout futilely at him, she slammed her drink down, escaped from the throng of friends, and rose to stand bristling before him.

Scorio met her gaze with equanimity, and when she stabbed him in the chest with a finger and then pointed over her shoulder, indicating that he should follow her, he nodded.

Old Memek, mesmerized, eyes wide and mouth opened wider, stumbled along behind him, clutching his oud case to his chest.

Feiyan led them both through a side door and into a narrow corridor whose length was littered with even narrower doors.

But that was as far as they were going. Feiyan rounded on Scorio and stepped right into his face, glaring up at him. “What by the ten hells are you doing here? How did you even get through the door?”

“The door?” Scorio blinked innocently. “It was just open. I let myself in.”

“You’re lying.” Her voice was low with anger, and he saw her pat her hip where her hammer usually hung. “I told you to stay well clear of us, Scorio. You broke your word!”

“I recall the warning. I don’t recall promising to obey it.”

“I want you out before Helena sees you. She’ll take every starving dog and beggar off the street. Come on—”

“I’ve an offer to make, Feiyan.” When she paused, he continued smoothly. “Be honest. You profited richly off our last exchange. You telling me you couldn’t use further treasures?”

She glared at him, then fixed Old Memek with her stare, causing him to shrink back. “Who’s he?”

“Allow me to introduce Old Memek, a fantastic oud player and immense fan of yours.”

“He part of your offer?”

“N-no,” stammered Memek quickly. “I am but a casualty of our mutual friend’s ambitions.”

To which Feiyan grunted and nodded at the door leading back into the darkened room. “Wait for us in there, then.”

Old Memek scampered back out into the music, and when the door closed Feiyan crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve got one minute.”

“That’s plenty.” Scorio leaned back against the wall, affecting nonchalance. “In exchange for some information and a favor, I’m willing to bring you another sunphire.”

“What information? What favor?”

“The first one’s easy, I’m sure. I just want a way to get in touch with members of the Academy. Do you know of a means to get inside? Could you find one?”

“Great Souls?”

“That’s right.”

“There’s no need to get into the Academy. They come into the city every Eighthday to explore and spend their allowance in the markets. Keep an eye out and you’ll see your target easy enough.”

“That so? Excellent. There a particular market they frequent?”

Feiyan’s brows lowered. “I’ve not agreed to this deal yet. The favor?”

“Smuggle myself and another out of Bastion and onto the Rascor Plains.”

“Ha!” Her bark rang off the walls. “I gave up exactly those kinds of connections when I decided to make this my life. No.”

“Two sunphires.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t get that many.”

“Say I could. Would you help?”

“For two?” She frowned at him pensively. “Perhaps.”

“Then you start looking into it, and I’ll start collecting them.”

“Give me one first, and then I’ll start turning over old stones.”

“Fair enough.” Though he’d no idea how long that would take him. “And the market?”

She snorted. “Easy enough. The Academy is in Ward 7, and a stone’s throw from the Graveyard. Every Eighthday, the place turns into a circus. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” He could ask for directions there from Old Memek. “You and Helena have done well for yourselves.”

He thought she might smile, but though her expression softened just a little, it didn’t completely thaw out. “We’ve started realizing some dreams, yes. And I know it’s thanks to your sunphire, so don’t think me ungrateful. But I swear to you, Scorio: if you lead Dola to us, and if Helena gets mixed up in any trouble, I will personally tear your spine out through your mouth. Do you understand?”

“I’ve missed you, too,” said Scorio, and then held up both palms as Feiyan’s eyebrows rose in disbelief that presaged further fury. “But yes. Fine. How can I contact you next time if I’m not to come here?”

She considered. “I’m not telling you where we live. Just come back here. But with the sunphire, or not at all. We clear?”

“We’re clear,” said Scorio. “Tell Helena I said hello?”

“No.”

“Fine.” Scorio took a deep breath, tugged on the hem of his robe, and inclined his head respectfully. “Thank you, Feiyan, and apologies for the inconvenience.”

“There’s a door at the end of this hall that leads into a blind courtyard. Head out that way, don’t come back.”

“Tell Old Memek I said goodbye, then. And give him a chance to play. He really is good with that oud.”

“Goodbye, Scorio.”

His parting smile was more grimace, and he stepped past her, down the hall, and to the last door. He could feel her watching him the entire time, the sensation of an intense stare only cutting off when the door swung shut behind him, and he stepped back out into the night.

Scorio began to make his way back home. Now, with concrete information at hand, he felt unsure; would Leonis and Lianshi remember him half as fondly as he did them? Would they risk their own careers as Great Souls by speaking with him? What would he do if they turned him away?

Sinking his chin toward his chest and avoiding eye contact, he paced on, making his way south, always south, back toward the dark and somber ruins.

There was only one way to find out.

Chapter 23

Five days later Scorio found himself wandering through the Graveyard. The sun-wire blazed in First Rust, casting Bastion in bronzed light, erasing all evidence of the delirious blacklight and hints of the city’s nocturnal alter-ego.

The Graveyard was a large expanse of mausoleums packed closely together and hemmed in on all sides by towering buildings; many of the tombs were in advanced states of decay, their ornamentation eroded past recognition, but those clustered at the northern edge were newer, their edges sharply delineated, their walls and ceilings made of a gleaming white marble that Scorio had seen nowhere else in Bastion.

The broad expanse of tombs and graves was filled with people; if they felt any reverence for the dead, they didn’t show it; rather, the large, open space seemed opportunistically seized as the perfect site in which to hold a market. A festive air hung over the sprawling gathering, one that was enhanced by numerous musicians and buskers who strove to attract the crowd’s mercurial attention. Here a troupe of acrobats formed a wobbling pyramid, there a dour young boy cast a dozen spinning pins into the air, catching them with an air of doleful resignation as an older man with a striking, familiar resemblance looked on from the shadows.

Everything was for sale. Scorio moved slowly, taking it all in, amazed at the sheer variety of wares. One large booth was filled to bursting with caged animals, which ranged from the crimson, arm-long creatures from the ruins to squat, toad-like animals encrusted with amber gems to a flying snake that endlessly spiraled about within the confines of its elongated cage.

Another stall was so heavily guarded that there was barely room for customers to approach the golden cloth that was spread across the table; Scorio caught glimpses of fluted bottles, miniature displays holding a variety of colored pills, sheaves of dried herbs, metal cubes wrapped in copper wire, and more—when he summoned his Igneous Heart and tried to sense the booth with his mind’s eye, he was nearly overwhelmed by the pulsing nature of the mana that the treasures on the table exuded.

Food stalls and ambulatory vendors, racks of delicate robes and endless jeweled belts, silversmiths and copper workers, jewelers and spice merchants, carpets hung out for display besides fabulously painted urns, pots, amphoras, and bowls. Everywhere Scorio looked he saw the finest of wares, with nearly as many guards standing by, faces set in permanent scowls, hands resting lightly on the hilts of their clubs.

The Graveyard was surrounded by a high, black-iron fence whose tips were formed into spear points; entry to the great market was afforded by means of four huge gates that were placed at each cardinal side, with the largest facing the hulking complex of the Academy itself.

Scorio made his way toward this gate, broad enough for two carriages to drive through with ease, and there found an out-of-the-way spot in the shadow of a stall selling scarves from which he could view the comings and goings.

His gaze, however, was drawn to the Academy. It was a series of great domes clustered together, held in place by huge flying buttresses, and with many extensions and halls built about its body so that it was difficult to tell where the Academy ended, and the rest of the city began. The domes gleamed in the sun-wire’s early rubicund light, though closer examination revealed that much of the golden paint was flaking off. The walls of the Academy proper were either painted in dull, reddish ocher or graying white accents.

But it was an impressive edifice regardless of its dilapidation or the scaffolding that engulfed several corners and even one of the domes.

Scorio pursed his lips as he studied it, allowing his mind to wander, to dream about the powers contained within, the opportunities that he had been denied.

This lasted till the first of the students began to enter the Graveyards, most of them clustered in small groups, some walking arm in arm, all of them fresh-faced and confident. Scorio drew back into the shadows. It was easy to make them out; they wore uniform robes of white belted with ropes of gold, and had an air to them that Scorio couldn’t quite pin down at first.

Only after observing some fifty or so of them pass by did he figure it out. They moved with a relaxed confidence that made them seem masters of wherever they went; they laughed freely, loudly, and chattered with exuberance. They weren’t aware of themselves, of their place in the city. They walked as if they didn’t belong to the market, weren’t part of Bastion. As if they were simultaneously removed and above the fervor and frantic attempts to garner their attention.

Exalted, rarefied, and privileged.

And to think. But for a quirk of fate, and he might have walked out amongst their number, as oblivious to the cruel vicissitudes of life in the city as they were.

Scorio watched with avid curiosity, seeking faces he might recognize. Not everyone had a holiday air; here and there a Great Soul strode with intense purpose or withdrawn mien. But none were familiar.

Uncertainty began to gnaw at his hope. What if Leonis and Lianshi opted to remain within the Academy? Were they the kind to indulge in an Eighthday market visit? If not, what hope had he of contacting them?

He was starting to despair when he saw them.

Leonis, his long hair gathered into a bun, his beard trimmed, his face pulled into a laugh Scorio couldn’t hear, eyes nearly closed with mirth. He wore a dozen necklaces of polished wooden beads and silver thread around his neck, his robes hanging open in what could have been a purposefully slapdash manner. He looked relaxed, healthy, strong. At ease, comfortable in his own skin, at peace with the world and his own place in it.

By his side, Lianshi was an elusive shadow, her frame angular and slender, her pitch-black hair gleaming as if freshly washed, one section pleated into a braid, the rest hanging loose. Her expression betrayed amusement and something akin to resignation, as if Leonis’s joke were partially at her expense, and Scorio felt a pang, a tight twist in his chest, and wished fervently that he were in on the jest, that he was part of their crew, had been there for whatever had caused this bout of merriment.

They sauntered past, not seeing where he stood in the shadows to one side, their voices lost in the crowd’s hubbub.

Scorio wanted to step forward, to raise a hand and call out their names, but something arrested him. Perhaps it was their humor, their ease; he felt dirty, outside of their world, his hopes of their still retaining some fondness for him dying in his breast.

Instead, he let them pass, then slipped into the crowd behind them, following at a distance, tailing them as they walked idly past the stalls. They were clearly in no hurry, pausing here to purchase skewers of meat drenched in a thick, brown sauce, pausing there for Lianshi to consider a series of gauzy scarves.

Other students greeted them as they walked by, but they were ignored by just as many; Scorio frowned, leaning against a cool column holding up a mausoleum’s portico. Was that some measure of tension he was picking up? Leonis didn’t seem to care, but occasionally he caught Lianshi frowning after one group or another as they brushed briskly by.

It was a pleasure just to watch them. Scorio found himself smiling reflexively when they laughed, straining to hear their quiet conversation as they ambled on. Perhaps this was enough? Perhaps he could simply come out here every Eighthday and follow along behind them, gathering some measure of comfort from their presence as a starving man might watch the wealthy dine at tables he could never dream of sitting at himself?

But then Lianshi glanced back, an idle scan of the crowd, and their eyes met.

Scorio felt a spasm of shock, saw her feel the same, her dark eyes widening, and he neatly sidestepped out of view behind a booth selling endless trays piled up with candied nuts and other colorful treats.

He stood there, breathing hard, not even understanding why he’d stepped away, mind racing. He should leave, he should dart deeper into the crowd, if he stood there a moment longer—

“Scorio?”

Lianshi’s head dipped around the corner of the stall, her fresh braid sliding off her shoulder.

Scorio stared at her, mute, stricken.

She stepped fully into view, and then Leonis was there, his good humor gone, his eyes wide.

The three of them stared at each other, the Graveyard and the sound of the crowd seeming to disappear, fading away so that only they existed, the five yards between them at once no distance at all and yet somehow a million miles.

“Scorio?” This time it was Leonis who asked, his voice a disbelieving rumble, and then he glanced up and down the street and ushered Lianshi forward, out of the crowd’s flow, his expression turning serious. “Is that—but how?”

Scorio felt his eyes prickle. He felt a flush run across his face, felt mortified. They weren’t glad to see him, they were ashamed—of course they were, he looked filthy, dressed in these rags, a specter from their past, he should never have come—

“You’re alive!” And then Lianshi threw herself at him and wrapped him tightly in a hug, squeezing him close.

Leonis gaped a moment longer, and then he, too, stepped in to wrap them both in a massive bear hug.

Scorio couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t process what was happening. His arms hung by his side, he stared out blankly at the distant crowd, and only when Leonis let out a joyous laugh and pulled back to clap him on both shoulders did he come back to himself.

“You—you guys don’t—I mean, I wasn’t sure if I should come—”

“Shouldn’t come?” Lianshi seemed unable to decide whether to grin or scowl. Tears gathered in her eyes, and she wiped them away with the heel of her palm, laughing breathlessly, and then, abandoning any attempt at self-control, hugged him tightly again. “What took you so long?”

“You’re alive.” Leonis shook his head in wonder. “But how? We’ve been grieving your loss since they marched you away. Everyone said there was no hope—but… but how?”

“It’s a long story.” Scorio’s entire body was prickling now, his head swimming with emotion, but over everything else, washing away every other feeling, was a delirious joy. A sense that some fundamental part of his being, his world, had just slid back into alignment. “But you both—you look great!”

Lianshi frowned down at her white robes, then considered Leonis. “I mean, they feed us well.”

“That they do.” Leonis pressed his hand to his stomach. “But you—you look like you’re not quite done returning from the dead. You need money?”

“Leonis!” chided Lianshi.

“What? The man looks half-starved. Let’s buy him a pork bun. Or ten.”

Scorio raised his hands, laughing weakly and shaking his head. “No, no I’m all right, thank you. But…” He trailed off as emotion shook him again, and only then, weak with happiness and relief, did he realize just how lonely he had been. “It’s really good to see you.”

“We need to talk,” said Lianshi authoritatively, linking her arm with his and forcing him deeper into the cluster of stalls. “Let’s find some place private.”

“Hold on,” said Leonis, placing a hand on her shoulder and stopping her in her tracks. “We walk out arm in arm, and everyone will notice. Scorio, why don’t you lead the way? We’ll follow at a discrete distance.”

Despite himself, Scorio felt a stab of uncertainty—they didn’t want to be seen with him? But he immediately crushed that foolish insecurity and nodded. “Smart. I’ll take us somewhere close. You sure you can leave the market?”

Leonis’s smile became grim. “We’re Great Souls, my friend. The city is our playground.”

“For better or worse,” muttered Lianshi.

“Then follow me.” Scorio unlinked his arm and took a few steps before looking back at them, drinking in the sight of their standing there, the reality of them, the fact that they wished to follow, to learn what had happened to him.

“Less gaping, more walking,” said Leonis with a wolfish grin.

Scorio laughed and led the way out of the Graveyard. Out the southern gate, into the avenue, then down a street, through an alleyway, across a busier street, and finally found a blind courtyard in which little tables were scattered under an awning, an acacia tree providing shade from the sun-wire.

A man stepped out from the shadowed doorway to frown at Scorio, gaze flicking up and down his ragged clothing. “Can I help you, sir?”

It was as transparent a get lost as Scorio had ever heard.

“Yes,” said Leonis, walking up behind him. “A table, please. Inside.”

The man’s entire demeanor changed as he took in the Great Soul’s white robes and gold sash. He bowed so low he nearly overbalanced, then hurried backward, almost dancing, pointing at the door as if it might escape Leonis’s attention. “Of course, of course, what an honor! Please, enter, you can use my most august private chamber, a thousand blessings upon you and yours!”

The three of them followed the proprietor inside, which proved to be a cool, spacious restaurant, circular tables clustered before the two front windows, with a doorway at the back opening to a small room with a low table, the surface gleaming waxily under the lamplight.

The three friends removed their sandals and sat cross-legged on the thin cushions. Beautifully painted scrolls hung upon the walls, the art stylized and depicting scenes from nowhere in Bastion: cities atop cliffs, vast emerald forests filled with bizarre-looking fiends, a chasm from which a dozen beautiful women arose dancing, a cloud-swept plain dominated by a huge, cerulean crystal. Leonis placed an order with confidence, not bothering with the menu, and then the proprietor bowed low and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Now,” said Leonis, leaning forward on both elbows, chin propped on his thumbs. “Explain the nature of this miracle. It’s been months, man, since they threw you through the Final Door.”

“We’ve missed you,” said Lianshi, reaching out to touch his arm. “Grieved for you. But I didn’t believe you were dead.”

“Obstinate, she is,” said Leonis reluctantly. “Kept trying to find ways to launch a rescue mission. Bothered everyone she could find with her questions, even led me on reconnaissance missions to find a way past the guards.”

Scorio looked from one to the other, then laughed. “I can’t believe we’re here. Sitting like this.”

“Nor can I,” said Leonis. “So you’d better start talking before I wake up.”

“Right.” Scorio tried to gather his thoughts. “The Final Door. They threw me through it, right enough. On the other side was a dark warren of tunnels. A closed system, to which fiends were drawn by some lure. Someone set it up ages ago as a trap, a way to clear the underground of the monsters that infest the tunnels…”

He told them everything. Meeting Hestia and Havert, Sal’s hidden base, Nissa and the Bronze Door. Their escape, his wanderings through the dark, how he’d fallen into the same trap that had claimed Radert, and how the Great Soul’s treasures had enabled his own eventual escape.

At that point the proprietor and three other servers began bringing in the food, so Scorio stopped talking, sipped from his cup of water, and watched as platter after platter was placed on the table.

The food didn’t stop coming. Plates of steaming rice, bowls of vegetables, noodles with slivers of meat, deep-fried pastries, pink mollusks swimming in a clear red broth, hearty bowls of soup, pungent nuggets of meat on beds of more vegetables—by the time they were done, Scorio couldn’t see the table’s surface anywhere.

“Will that be all, masters?” asked the proprietor, brow gleaming, smile nearly splitting his face in half.

“Yes, thank you,” said Lianshi, smiling politely.

To which the man bowed, then ushered his servers out frantically and closed the door again.

“Who’s joining us?” asked Scorio, taking in the heaping quantities of food.

“Me, myself, and I,” said Leonis, taking up his plate and beginning to shovel food onto it. “Training has me perpetually starving.”

“Good thing he trains,” said Lianshi, “or he’d be twice as wide as he is tall by now.”

“Eat, eat,” said Leonis. “Don’t let the food get cold.”

Scorio hesitated, then gingerly started filling his plate. The smell was intoxicating, rich and savory, sweet and spicy. His mouth flooded with spit, and then despite his intentions, he set to devouring everything as quickly as possible.

“Not fair,” said Leonis around a mouthful of pickled tubers. “You can’t leave us hanging. So you used these three treasures to reach the surface?”

“Yes,” said Scorio, swallowing a mouthful of sticky rice and washing it down with a cup of water. “I wouldn’t have made it without them. At the Academy, I mean, do you get access to things like them?”

“To minor artifacts?” Leonis grimaced. “No. We’ve no need of them, to be honest. But they’re not common.”

“They were, once,” said Lianshi. “I read about it in my journal. But over the centuries they’ve grown less so as they’re broken and used up.”

Scorio stared at her. “Nobody knows how to replace them?”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” said Lianshi, shrugging one shoulder. “Or at least, not minor artifacts like the ones you found. They’d be really valuable if they didn’t become unnecessary past a certain power point. Dread Vaults and above don’t really need things like that anymore. This Radert must have been a Flame Vault, or perhaps even lower-ranked.”

Scorio nodded slowly. For some reason, the thought of his stick of chalk never being replaced, of being a unique item that would disappear forever once he finished it, filled him with a pang of sorrow.

Leonis pointed a serving spoon at him. “So. You reached the surface. Then what?”

“Let him eat,” said Lianshi, slurping noodles into her mouth. “You said yourself he looks half-starved.”

Scorio set to serving himself again, having cleaned his plate even quicker than Leonis. “No, I can eat and talk. I’m surprisingly talented, I’ll have you know.”

“More impressive than him, then,” said Lianshi, nodding toward Leonis, who was pouring a mass of noodles onto his plate, not bothering with the serving utensils.

“No argument there,” said the massive man.

So Scorio picked up his tale. The ruins, Helena and Feiyan. Dola, his strike on the skycrane yard, his retreat, and eventual run-in with Naomi.

The other two ate slower and slower and eventually stopped eating altogether, expressions avid, halfway between disbelief and amazement.

“So I trapped her in the hallway with the chalk. She tried to get at me, but I threatened to cut her in half if she didn’t concede defeat. Which she eventually did, and the next day she started teaching me what she knew.” Scorio paused. “What?”

Leonis exchanged a glance with Lianshi and set his fork down. “You did all this… in the past couple of months?”

“I’ve been busy,” said Scorio, sitting back with a smile. “I can only imagine how fast you guys have been progressing. I’ve had to work hard to keep up.”

“She teach you how to ignite your Heart?” asked Lianshi.

Scorio nodded. “Yes. Mostly. With a lot of caveats. Only having Coal mana around made it a hard proposition. I had to take some extreme measures to do it in a manner that satisfied me. You two?”

“Sure,” said Leonis. “Almost everyone ignited within days of awakening.”

Within days. Scorio tried not to let his smile slip. That meant that while he was fleeing through the Bronze Door, his friends had already taken that momentous step.

“Have you guys passed your first trial yet?”

“No,” said Lianshi, sitting back and crossing her arms. “That’s a lot more challenging.”

“Even with all the high-quality treasures they’re feeding us each morning,” said Leonis, picking at his food. “How much training have you received? You learned yet about the role motivation plays in all this?”

“Ambition, Naomi called it. Hunger, yes.”

“It’s a base quality,” continued Leonis. “How much you have determines everything. It’s like the true enemy of a Great Soul is happiness.”

“Not so,” sighed Lianshi, and Scorio guessed that this was an old argument. “There has to be a way to accommodate your motivations while still living a rewarding life. We can’t all be Jova Spike.”

“Jova Spike,” murmured Scorio. “She still at the head of the pack?”

Leonis snorted and finally set his fork down. “Miles ahead. Was the first to pass her trial and make Emberling. Developed this crackling black aura that only grows as she’s wounded, imparting an ever stronger resistance to being hurt.”

Scorio tried to imagine it. “That’s… completely unlike Naomi’s nightmare form.”

“Not really,” said Lianshi, tone growing clinical. “Your first trial determines whether you develop long-range combat abilities or personal, hand-to-hand abilities. Both Naomi and Jova developed powers that augment their ability to fight in close.”

Leonis sighed, raised his cup. “One of our instructors manifests a whip that’s completely under her control and can cut through rock. A second has spikes that erupt from his joints, like his knees and elbows, and he grows taller and leaner and becomes nearly impossible to hurt. All, apparently, the same.”

“Whereas Hera—another instructor of ours—collects light and focuses it into a beam with which she can hit people at a distance. Creates this weird side effect where everything goes dark around her, too, until she unleashes the attack.”

“This first trial,” said Scorio. “They tell you anything about it?”

Leonis scowled. “That information’s offered up, sure. But only to the Great Souls who’ve accepted House sponsorship.”

“House sponsorship?” Scorio glanced from one of them to the next. “Like House Hydra, or whatever?”

“Yep.” Leonis settled himself more comfortably on his cushion. “The eighty or so who did the best at the Gauntlet were offered House sponsorship by one of the four Houses. Almost everyone accepted. Comes with access to specialty trainers, more potent pills and elixirs, inside knowledge on what to expect…”

“Remember how those elders spoke with each Great Soul when they went up on stage?” asked Lianshi. “After they touched the Archspire? They were telling them the basics about House sponsorship, making quick pitches which they followed up on later.”

“Huh,” said Scorio. “Lianshi, you did pretty great. Did they offer you anything?”

“House Kraken made me an offer,” she said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I turned them down.”

Leonis grinned wolfishly at her. “You make the way you declined sound positively polite.”

“Why?” Scorio frowned at her. “Why say no to their help?”

“I was upset,” she said, still looking off to the side. “They’d just thrown you to your death, and then came in with their offers. Full patronage would depend on my making the top eighty on the final Gauntlet run at the end of the year, but the way they spoke to me, the way they… it all just rubbed me the wrong way. I said no.”

“Along with a few other things,” said Leonis, his grin eased away, and he stared at Scorio gravely. “We were both really upset when they hauled you away. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you alive and kicking.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi with a smile. “I wonder if anyone has ever survived the Final Door before.”

“I’d imagine so. That one Great Soul, Radert, he at least had come and gone a few times.”

“If there was,” said Leonis, “you can be sure the Academy’s hushed it up. They take their image very seriously.”

Almost Scorio went to tell his friends about Naomi, how she’d not been reborn like them, how her success defied the Academy’s narrative. But that wasn’t his tale to tell, so he remained quiet.

“So what’s your plan?” asked Leonis at last, leaning forward to snag a bread roll out of a basket. “You can’t come back to the Academy. Are you going to keep training with this Nightmare Lady?”

“That won’t last forever,” said Scorio softly. “I’m exploring options. Perhaps getting out of Bastion, out onto the Rascor Plains where the mana is richer.”

Leonis let out a low whistle. “You sure that’s a good idea? The people that farm the land out there are protected by low-ranking Great Souls for a reason.”

“The ruins aren’t that much safer,” said Scorio with a shrug. “And I don’t want to subsist off Coal mana forever.”

“It’s impressive that you ignited your Heart out there,” said Lianshi quietly. “With only Coal to work with?”

Scorio could hear the unspoken assumption. That his Heart was weak, barely ignited off the weakest mana around.

“Like I said, I took some extreme measures to make sure I wasn’t left too far behind. But one thing I really want to do is get access to my personal locker in the Academy. Didn’t Praximar say that our kind tends to keep journals or records over the centuries and that they’re stored in lockers?”

“Sure,” said Leonis, tearing the bread roll in half slowly. “I’ve already looked in mine. Lianshi has too.”

“Turns out I’ve been a meticulous keeper of journals,” said Lianshi with a self-conscious smile. “It would take a lifetime to just read everything I’ve written. Which apparently occurred to me during my last few reincarnations; I began a project to index my own journals, but died before I could get more than a quarter of the way through.”

“Well there you go,” said Scorio excitedly. “If I could get access to my locker, I might be able to learn about myself. Maybe why I’ve been put on this Red List, and perhaps unlock my deeper motivation to keep growing. Because Naomi really has been emphatic about my needing to develop long-term goals. Just acquiring power for its own sake won’t get me far. I thought reading my own journals might help me figure things out.”

Leonis swirled a stub of bread around the sauce on his plate, not meeting Scorio’s eyes. “The lockers are attuned to your spirit. Nobody else, supposedly, can open them.”

“Though there are obviously ways to get around that,” said Lianshi. “We’ve several friends who opened their lockers only to find them ransacked.”

“I know,” said Scorio. “Naomi told me as much. I was just hoping there might be a way you guys could help sneak me to my locker.”

Again the pair exchanged a glance.

“What?” asked Scorio. “Not feasible? I of course understand if not—”

“It’s possible,” said Lianshi haltingly. “But it would be quite dangerous. The lockers are in the same basilica we awoke in. They’re embedded in the walls and accessed by the balconies.”

“But that room’s heavily guarded,” said Leonis. “You need permission to visit your own locker, and are escorted in and out. Remember those shattered crystals we saw at the foot of the biers we woke up on?”

Scorio nodded.

“Doing that permanently destroys that bier. Nobody alive today remembers how to forge those crystals. Which is why nobody’s allowed in there without permission.”

“Wait, people have permanently destroyed the biers? Why?”

Lianshi shuddered. “Different reasons over the years. A desire to stop our rebirth, obviously.”

Scorio sat back, shaking his head. “That’s…”

“We Great Souls haven’t always been appreciated,” said Leonis, tone heavy. “The penalty for being caught shattering a crystal is to be placed on the Red List if you’re a Great Soul, or execution if not. Like I said: they take it very seriously.”

They sat in silence for a spell, and then Scorio shrugged off his growing resignation. “Can you look into it, at any rate? Just see if something occurs to you? I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course,” said Lianshi, smiling and reaching out to touch his hand. “If there’s a way, we’ll find it.”

Scorio returned her smile. “Thank you. But what of you guys? How has life at the Academy been since I was summarily banished to my death?”

Over the next hour, Lianshi and Leonis took turns regaling him with what it was like to live at the Academy. The luxurious rooms they were given with their own pool inside a picturesque grotto; the four different instructors that they worked with, the larger personalities amongst their peers; the training, the meditation, the grueling workouts, the double knock-out tournament that was about to start up soon, and the overwhelming pressure to form a team with which they could dominate the final Gauntlet run.

“Everything is focused on that last run,” said Lianshi, leaning on one forearm, idly spinning a knife by its point over her wooden plate. “Our first was merely a gauge of our potential, but we’ve been told repeatedly that many that did the worst the first time round used that as motivation to excel, while the best often grew complacent and slipped down the rankings thereafter. Only those who place in the upper half of the cohort will be invited back to do a second year at the Academy, which is motivation enough. You get matched with elite Great Souls, and train one on one as well as go on expeditions into Hell itself.”

“And they won’t stop droning on and on about the Houses,” said Leonis, arms crossed over his chest. “Everybody’s going to get inducted into a House by the end of our training, but those who do best will be promoted to exalted levels, given the greatest opportunities, continue with elite trainers, and so forth. We’re watched at every step by House representatives, and I swear they keep track of how many hours we train, how deep we’re making our Hearts, whether we snore in our sleep—”

“You definitely snore in your sleep,” said Lianshi.

“And there’s no way you could know that from the far side of the suite,” said Leonis smugly. “That’s just a cheap attempt to ruin my good name.”

“The walls shake.”

“The walls are made of solid rock.”

“Just goes to show how powerful your snores are.”

“If they were that powerful, I’d find a way to weaponize them and hurl Jova across the arena floor.”

Lianshi propped her cheek on one palm and grinned at him. “Maybe you should start looking into that. Might be your only chance of winning a fight against her.”

Leonis looked despairingly at Scorio. “Can you please come back? Please? Do you see what I have to live with?”

Scorio tried to keep the bitterness out of his chuckle. His friends dwelt in another world. Staring at them, he marveled as to how different their lives were: they didn’t have to refill their pails from the ever-replenishing fountains of gruel; didn’t have to watch their backs every second they were in the city; didn’t have to sleep on a threadbare sheet in a ruined room with horrors passing outside their windows.

But then a warm glow filled his chest, taking him by surprise, erasing the bitterness as he suddenly saw it from another side: good. He was glad they didn’t. Glad they didn’t have to worry about their lives, and could instead focus on their advancement and Jova Spike’s impossible advantages.

“Have a word with Praximar for me,” he said, giving them a lopsided smile. “Get him to let bygones be bygones, and I’ll be swimming in that private pool with you guys in a heartbeat.”

Which only led him to think of Naomi—would he leave her alone in the ruins? Could he abandon her, no matter how gruff and distanced she tried to be?

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Leonis, pulling at his face with both hands and then sitting up. “Maybe we if get a really exalted patron. But speaking of which, we should be heading back.”

“Already?” Lianshi’s shoulders slumped dramatically as she pouted. “I hate meditation practice after I’ve stuffed myself. I always fall asleep.”

Leonis sighed dramatically. “All the more reason to get back to it.”

They stood, and for a moment Scorio panicked, wondering how he would cover his part of the bill, but Leonis simply tossed down a dozen octs upon the table, their faces gleaming with copper, and ushered him out of the room back into the main restaurant.

They stepped out into the blind courtyard, and Scorio was surprised to see that it was already Second Bronze—had they been in there that long? Wisps of cloud were rising from the canals to burn off some fifty yards above them, and the air was already hot and muggy.

“So when can we see you again?” asked Lianshi, hugging herself as she walked backward, eyeing him carefully. “This wasn’t a one-time deal, was it?”

“We can get out here every Eighthday,” said Leonis. “Want to make this meal a habit?”

Scorio smiled, feeling at once happy and melancholic. “I’d love to. Same place, even? See you guys back here next time you come to the Graveyard?”

Leonis draped a massive arm over his shoulders. “Sounds like a plan. And I promise to do my best to figure out how to get you to your locker, all right? Just don’t get your hopes up.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi. “We’re on it.”

They walked in companionable silence to the end of the alleyway, where Scorio stopped, letting the others take a couple of steps before turning back to him.

“Probably best if we said our goodbyes here.”

“Scorio.” Lianshi reached out and took his hand. “It was really, really good to see you again. When you were taken from us, it… it hurt.” And she pressed her other hand over her heart, her expression sincere, open. “What we went through in the Gauntlet. It forged a bond between us three. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see that bond’s not broken.”

Leonis grunted in affirmation. “I won’t get all weepy about it, but I agree. It’s damned good to see you again.”

Scorio was trying to think of something wry to say when Leonis stepped in and wrapped them both again in a bear hug.

They smelled clean, their robes freshly laundered, and Scorio winced inwardly, wondering at how badly he must compare.

But when they stepped back, they were both smiling.

“Here,” said Leonis, taking his money pouch out of his robes and pressing it into Scorio’s palm. “Buy yourself some meat, for hell’s sake. Some new robes. Visit a barber.”

“Leonis,” hissed Lianshi, blushing.

“What?” Leonis stared at her frankly. “If I were in his broken sandals, I’d want a bath and a good meal, too. Friends don’t stand on pride.” He looked to Scorio. “It’s not a gift, it’s a loan. One day I know you’ll repay me a hundred times over.”

Scorio bounced the pouch in his palm then slipped it into his robe, his emotions roiling, his pride pricked, but Leonis’s open gaze defied any objections.

And truth be told, with that money he could get Naomi better alchemical equipment, treat her to a hot meal as well, get them both new sets of robes…

“Thank you. I wasn’t sure how you two would feel when you saw me again. I’m… I’m glad this went as well as I hoped.”

“Never doubt your friends,” said Lianshi. “One thing I’ve read repeatedly in my journals is that we’re born into this hell without family, without a past, without anything but our names. I’ve told myself a hundred times over to never give up on good people without a fight.”

“She’s not joking,” said Leonis gravely. “She was planning ways to get through the Final Door for two weeks after they took you. Only gave up when Helminth took her aside and warned her she’d be cast through herself if she didn’t straighten up. And even then, she tried to think of how we could use that as part of a strategy to get you out.”

“I couldn’t come up with anything,” said Lianshi apologetically. “Not as a Cinder.”

Scorio could sense more to the guilt in her words—perhaps there had been a terrible urgency at first, but it had been a couple of months since they’d last seen him. How easy it must have been to be seduced by the good life, the constant elixirs and training, the massages and fine quarters.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “What matters is that we’re reunited again. See you guys in eight days’ time?”

“Next Eighthday,” said Leonis. “Lianshi?”

She darted in one last time for a final hug, and then the two of them strode off, turning once as they entered the main avenue to look back and wave.

Scorio raised his hand, waved back with a smile, but both his hand and his smile fell away when they left his line of sight.

With a heavy heart, torn between bitterness and sweet joy, he began walking back toward the ruins and his fugitive life.

Chapter 24

Just eight days till Scorio could see his friends again, but heading back to the ruins, it felt like a year. If anything, their encounter had driven home how squalid his life had been up to this point. Suddenly Helena’s old, tattered robes felt indescribably grimy, his skin filmed with dust and dried sweat, his hair long, his face rough with a half-grown beard.

Hand wrapped around the octs Leonis had gifted him, he stepped out of the main rush of traffic heading south and to crouch in a doorway to survey the ward with a speculative glance. He was still in Ward 7, a bastion of wealth and privilege and center of Hydra’s power. Sufficiently so that as he crouched in the recessed doorway, a prim lady in pink and silver robes stepped up to drop a copper oct into his hands.

She was gone before he could respond, never having looked directly at him.

“All right,” he muttered. “Definitely time to clean up.”

He rose and approached a food vendor’s ornate stall. Piles of exotic fruit were heaped in perfect pyramids, each so beautiful as to be the ideal of its kind.

“Hey, you—get away from those dusk melons!”

Scorio raised both hands to show he meant no harm, but this did nothing to assuage the vendor’s ferocious scrutiny and obvious disapproval.

“Apologies, good sir,” said Scorio, giving the man a half-bow and his best grin. “I’m in need of a bath. Can you recommend a quality establishment that’s close by?”

The man pushed back his cap and sneered. “Places around here cost money, sir. If you want to be hosed down in a back alley, head toward Ward 1.”

“Money’s not a problem,” said Scorio, keeping his tone light. Knowing the man wouldn’t believe him otherwise, he hefted the money pouch. “So, if you could kindly direct me to a suitable locale?”

The vendor’s eyes widened then narrowed. “That information’s not free.”

“Then perhaps it could come with one of these… ah, what are these called?” And Scorio picked up a crimson fruit whose skin was flecked in gold.

“That’s a dawn apple, you mooncalf. Three copper octs.”

An elderly woman, her iron-gray hair pinned behind her head in a tight bun with ornamental sticks, gaped at the vendor. “Temeteo!”

The vendor colored. “What? He needs to pay for all the potential clients he scared away.”

The old woman gave an outraged tug at the collar of her iron-gray robe. “Take the dawn apple, young man, with my compliments. I’d like to see Temeteo charge me that much for it.”

“Madam Voras, I would never—”

The elderly lady sniffed at the vendor and turned away from him. “Now. Excuse my overhearing, but you wish a bath house?”

Scorio bowed his head. “Yes, madam.”

“Then head two blocks radially east, one block—no, two—south. Search for the Brightest Lotus Bathhouse. Their basic services cost two gold octs, but you won’t be given admittance without a sponsor. Here. Take my chit. It should open the doors for you.”

And she handed Scorio a black oct with a gold symbol inscribed upon its face.

“I—thank you, Madam Voras.” Scorio took it and bowed deeply.

“Can’t see why you’re helping this street rat,” said Temeteo sullenly, propping his chin on his palm. “He probably stole all that money.”

“I was once in dire straits myself,” said Madam Voras primly, “and was helped in turn by a kindly stranger. It made all the difference. Enjoy your bath, young man, and may fortune favor you.”

“Thank you,” said Scorio, bowing again and closing his fist tightly about the chit.

Her expression softened. “One day I’m sure you’ll be in a position to help another. You are not your circumstances.”

Which hit Scorio surprisingly hard, and made his eyes prickle with tears. Again, all he could do was bow his head.

“Oh, fine, take a bushel of the dawn apples for a copper oct, why don’t you,” grumbled the vendor. “Making me look like a churl, you are, Madam Voras.”

“Doesn’t take much effort these days, Temeteo.”

Scorio bowed to the vendor again, paid, and with a sack of apples at his side set off before he could embarrass himself. His emotions were all over the place. Perhaps seeing Leonis and Lianshi had unsettled him more than he’d guessed. It took him a good few blocks before he managed to settle himself, and only when he could finally draw his breath easily did he take a big bite out of the dawn apple.

It was divine. The juices flooded his mouth, but more than that, he sensed rich mana tingle across his palette.

Summoning his Igneous Heart, he studied the apple and saw that the golden flecks truly did glow; each was the tiniest fleck of some rich mana he’d never seen before.

Should he just eat it?

Instead, he walked slowly and focused his will upon the tiny flecks, passing his paddle through the apple and drawing forth the little lights. These he swirled about himself, each trailing his will like a firefly, and then directed them into his Heart.

The sensation was delightful. It felt like a spring shower after months of arid heat. Not nearly enough to fill his heart, barely enough to give him more than a passing sensation of pleasure, but it was still a delight.

Munching the apple happily, he followed Madam Voras’s directions, only slowing when the Brightest Lotus bathhouse came into view.

Frowning, he stepped out of the flow of traffic once more and considered. The place was dignified yet reserved, a subtle lotus flower depicted over the doorway. Expensive.

Was this the right move?

He considered the black chit.

It would be an undeniable pleasure to step into that world and be bathed, shaved, massaged, and made to feel human once more.

But what then? He’d have to buy new robes, or else look the fool in his rags. And no matter what, he’d stand out the closer he got to the ruins. Right now, looking like a beggar, he blended in, was ignored as he went to and fro. But if he tried to walk through Ward 1 all perfumed and clean?

No. He’d draw too much attention.

With a sigh, he gave up his dream of pampering himself and looking an equal to Leonis and Lianshi. Instead, he pocketed the chit and continued south, and was passing through Ward 9 when he slowed, a new thought occurring to him.

Glancing around, he took his bearings and turned east. Memory served him well, and a few minutes later he found himself outside a modest store, a sign over the door indicating a mortar and pestle.

Faint music came from within. Should he knock? Did he need an appointment? Reaching into his robes Scorio touched the pouch of octs and decided that wealth was its own prerogative. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Jelan sat behind the counter, a single-stringed instrument propped on his lap. He drew a bow across the string with great intensity, his eyes screwed shut, his finger dancing up and down the string, pressing it to the neck of the instrument and thus changing the tone, which was high and wavering, plaintive and melancholic.

The sound of the bell caused the apothecary to cease playing immediately, and he blinked several times as he emerged from whatever state of mind had allowed him to summon such a haunting song.

“Ah,” he said, rising and setting his instrument aside. “The Black Star flower fanatic. I’m afraid I cannot help you further without octs.”

Scorio drew the pouch forth and bounced it on his palm. “Fortunately for us both, I happen to have some. Is that treatise still available?”

Jelan’s lips pursed as he dubiously appraised the pouch. “You have eight copper octs?”

“That I do.” Scorio stepped up to the counter and drew forth an iron oct. “Eight coppers to an iron, correct?”

“Your grasp of mathematics is impeccable,” said Jelan, his tone still skeptical. Scorio could read the concern in the apothecary’s eyes. The doubt that these coins had been honestly acquired.

So Scorio leaned on the counter, his smile lazy, and set two iron octs down on the counter with twin clicks. “Octs talk, do they not? Such a sweet language. The scroll, if you will, Master Jelan.”

“Hmm.” The apothecary took up the octs, studied them, then dropped them into a slot on the top of a small iron box which he drew out from under the counter. “Indeed. And fortunately for you, the demand for the treatise has been shockingly low. Let me find it.”

Again he walked down the honeycombed wall, till he drew forth the tube and brought it to Scorio. “You are clearly a man who scorns caution and wisdom. There are better and easier ways to acquire Coal mana, if that is what you are after.”

“I’d love to hear them,” said Scorio. “As long as they don’t involve my being part of society, drawing the attention of the Houses or the Academy, or requiring more coinage with which to begin the processes.”

“Hmm.” Jelan studied Scorio with heavy-lidded eyes. “When you put it that way.”

Scorio tapped the scroll tube against his other palm, then slipped it inside his robes. “Many thanks, Master Apothecary.”

“Good luck with your Black Star cultivation, friend…?” Jelan raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

“I appreciate your well wishes!” Scorio grinned and strode out of the shop, humming under his breath as he returned to the street.

Once back in Ward 1, he located a vendor of second-hand robes, and bought himself a sturdy set that was reinforced at the elbows and knees, the kind that a manual laborer might wear. Worn soft by use but neatly mended where the hems had begun to fray, it and an old pair of sturdy sandals cost him a copper oct.

A sliver of soap from a sell-all street vendor, a coil of rope, and a large bucket cost him another oct, and then he waited patiently in line till he was able to fill his bucket completely from the closest water fountain.

He wanted a weapon. A sword, perhaps—a dagger at the very least—but Leonis’s pouch was already nearly empty. A priority, then: the next time he earned some coins, he’d arm himself.

Musing on such matters, he walked carefully into the ruins, found himself an abandoned home, and bathed carefully, rinsing and soaping the dirt away as best he could. He tossed his old rags in a corner, sat in the Second Rust light till he dried, and then donned the laborer’s robes.

He had no mirror, but he felt immeasurably better. He passed his hand over his long stubble and decided to leave it.

Twenty minutes later he scaled the fallen blocks to his chamber, and once there forced himself not to consider how bare and squalid his room appeared.

Instead, he lowered himself into a cross-legged seat and opened the scroll tube. Within were six sheets of parchment. Frowning, Scorio resisted the urge to just skim, and instead read through each one carefully, examining the tables, studying and absorbing the information until he had captured it all.

The Black Star flower subsisted exclusively on Coal mana and water, but also needed a fair amount of loose soil or sand in which to anchor its roots. These roots drew no nutrients from the ground, but rather formed a protective mesh in which the plant grew its seed. This seed, once grown and infused with enough Coal, would travel up the stem of the flower and then catch the tides of mana to float away and land where it could sprout and grow another plant.

The treatise, however, dealt not just with the life cycle of the plant, but how best to cultivate it; one could apparently slice the seed into quarters, as long as each quarter had at least two “eyes”; burying a quarter in a mana rich area would cause the eyes to sprout and grow a flower. Thus careful slicing of a seed could result in up to four flowers if they all took root and the Coal was rich enough.

Scorio made his way over to the pile of discarded stems and roots that Naomi had left behind, and pried one apart; nestled within the roots was a dry seed the size of his thumbnail. He raised it to the light and turned it about; the eyes were little more the dimples in the black, glossy surface.

Excited, he set to work extracting as many seeds as he could; of the forty-five plants he’d harvested, he was able to extract thirty-seven seeds; the poor-quality mana in his room had prevented any of them from sprouting.

Thirty-seven seeds split into quarters meant the potential to grow almost a hundred and fifty plants.

Scorio piled the seeds up with exaggerated care and then snatched up the treatise, moving to stand before the window and continue reading.

The next page dealt with ideal mana concentrations, which involved both the regeneration rate and density, all of which affected how quickly the plants would grow. The page after that outlined ideal planting practices—each quarter seed would need at a bare minimum a square foot of soil in which to grow.

A hundred and fifty square feet. Roughly a square twelve feet by thirteen. Scorio paced it out and scrutinized the floor. Doable.

The next sheet detailed methods of harvesting the Coal mana from the plant. The trick involved the delicate insertion of a slender tube into the stem to intercept the coalesced mana as it made its way down to the new seed. A diagram illustrated the process, and below were suggestions as to how to fashion the ideal funnel. A small receptacle beneath the opening would capture the condensed mana, which would not evaporate but rather draw all manner of creatures due to its being exposed to the air.

Scorio frowned, tapping the sheets against his lips. How would he prevent animals or scavengers from raiding his farm? He couldn’t watch it at all hours of the day, nor could he hire anybody to do so.

A problem for later.

The next page was all charts. Each plant would create a small bead of dense Coal mana at the rate of about one per Eighthday. Fifty beads were necessary for the creation of a pill, though only twenty-five were necessary for the creation of a syrup that had the same potency. Apparently, the process of creating pills vented half the mana.

“Syrup it is, then,” muttered Scorio, who then looked out the window in abstracted thought.

He wanted to take the power equivalent of a pill a day. That meant production of twenty-five beads per day, or two hundred to cover a full week. That meant two hundred plants, of which he could already grow about a hundred and fifty. He needed to harvest another twelve seeds to bring him to the magic number, but should probably plant more to give him a buffer in case of any problems. Say two hundred and twenty, which meant another seventeen seeds.

The penultimate page dealt with the purification process, and here Scorio slowed down and carefully studied the data. The pills’ strength was measured in volts, with a single volt being the smallest discrete amount of Coal mana that could be contained within the weakest elixir or pill.

An unpurified elixir contained about eighty volts, and was twenty times as potent as purified one, which contained only four. The drawback, of course, was that the unfiltered elixir was exceedingly poisonous. Scorio thought of the torment he’d suffered while making Cinder, and reluctantly decided he couldn’t undergo such an experience regularly. But if he only filtered it halfway, the result would still be a respectable forty volts, which was ten times more potent than the normal pills they dispensed in the Academy.

Scorio felt a ripple of excitement flutter through his stomach. If this worked, he’d be consuming the equivalent of ten pills a day for only half the damage, and only moderately poisoning himself each day.

The amount of mana he’d be drawing into his Heart would be tremendous.

But how to prevent scavengers from raiding his farm?

He read through the papers a few more times, then carefully sealed them within their tube. First, he had to find the optimal location for his farm, then fashion two hundred slender funnels as well as find the extra seventeen plants. In the meantime, he’d ponder how best to protect his farm.

Forcing himself to put the problem aside for now, Scorio set to manipulating the Coal mana in the room, swirling it back and forth, not drawing it into his Heart but seeing what he could do with it, how he could weave it with his will. Naomi had told him advanced practitioners could split the mana into two, into four, directing the parts into separate techniques or treasures, so he attempted to do the same.

And failed.

But still, he worked at the exercise, until at last he drew the Coal into his Heart and ignited it with a flexion of his will.

Immediately strength and resilience flooded his frame. He leaped up to his feet. He’d told Naomi he might be out all day, not knowing how his meeting with Leonis and Lianshi would go, and so had the evening to himself.

Taking up his treasures and a coil of rope, he stowed them away in his robe and moved to the windowsill.

It was Second Clay. Already the clouds were spiraling thickly about the sun-wire, presaging the dusk rain to come.

In the Academy, his friends were no doubt moving to grab their luxurious dinner at the dining hall. Perhaps they were swimming in their private grotto pool. Perhaps they were talking with friends, discussing the best way to use the elixirs granted to them each morning, or how best to secure patronage from one of the Houses.

But out here in the ruins, it was time to get to work.

Scorio took up strips of cloth and wrapped them around his wrists, crossed them over his palm, around his knuckles, between his fingers then back around his wrist. Did the same to the other hand, then clenched them both into fists.

Time to hunt.

He took up the burlap sack he’d used to gather Black Star plants and climbed out. Dropped lightly from cyclopean block to cyclopean block till at last, he reached the street, where he broke out into a light run, warming up.

He threw punches as he went, moving south, deeper into the ruins. No oblique angle this time, but just a straight path into the heart of the destruction.

Scorio moved easily, the new sandals quickly breaking in. The sun-wire above had perhaps another half-cycle before it went dark. Enough time for him to get in deeper than he’d ever gone, to find a means to get below into the caverns where he could hunt for sunphires. With any luck, he’d find some Black Star flowers as he did so.

Not that he planned to venture below ground tonight. He wanted to cajole Naomi into joining him when he finally went underground, but first, he had to find the entrances. Come to her with a concrete plan.

The gray, flinty streets crunched under his light footfalls, the sound echoing off the buildings that were painted a dark, ruddy brown by Second Clay. After the crowds of the living city, he felt alone, lost in a dream. On he ran, block after block, deeper into the ruins, until at last, he was certain he’d never penetrated this far.

The street turned into a canyon whose base was choked by detritus and fallen rubble. He hopped up onto a ledge that might once have run along the second floor of the building and ran lightly past dark window after dark window. Leaped down at the far end onto an archway that now served as a bridge over a narrow chasm, then turned up a broad flight of stairs that hugged the side of a cathedral-sized building, the steps so worn and cracked it was more of a shattered ramp than anything else.

Up onto a demolished courtyard where countless palm-sized crabs scurried away in alarm, their carapaces gleaming like freshly spilled oil as they disappeared into hundreds of cracks.

Across and around a partially demolished tower, then he dropped down three stories, arresting his fall every ten feet with an activation of his steel rod till he dropped and rolled and resumed running.

The building to his side was encrusted with scalloped shells as large as he was; they were mercifully closed, their edges wickedly sharp, but nestled amongst their number he saw a young Black Star. He carefully drew it forth and dropped it into his pouch.

This street opened into a plaza of some sort, rough mounds hinting at former sculptures. A shattered temple arose at the far end, huge columns no longer supporting anything. Scorio ran lightly through them, into the interior of the building which now was without a ceiling.

In the bloody light of Second Clay, he saw a monstrous creature uncurl itself from where it had been feasting on a corpse.

Scorio staggered to a stop, eyes going wide.

It was all curves, its blue exoskeleton thick and segmented, each of the pincer-like claws that it raised as large as a vendor’s stall, its face a tiny conglomeration of eye stalks and feathery feelers. Bloody froth fell from its mouth, which was a vertical slash filled with a combination of fronds and sharp ridges.

It was hauntingly beautiful; the blue carapace gleamed as if enameled, gradating from deep cobalt to a cerulean blue, all of it mottled with darker spots.

“Wrong temple,” said Scorio, raising both hands in apology. “Sorry. I’ll take the, ah, next one.”

The fiend took a scuttling few steps toward him; its massive bulk was supported by some six heavily armored legs which allowed it to move with surprising speed.

Scorio backed away, but the fiend didn’t take its eyes off him. At least, Scorio thought it didn’t. Hard to tell with unblinking eye stalks.

Could he outrun it? Scorio kept moving backward, and again the fiend burst forward in a flurry of steps, skittering forward with shocking speed.

No outrunning this thing.

“All right,” said Scorio, drawing the steel rod from his robe with one hand, the chalk with the other. “If you insist.”

He summoned his Igneous Heart. The Coal mana was thick in the room, and he swirled it rapidly about his Heart twice just as the fiend charged him.

Not losing sight of his Heart, drawing the Coal into his being, Scorio raked the chalk across the ground, drawing an inch-wide strip, then leaped back.

The fiend crashed into the invisible pole, fell back, and swung a huge claw at the obstacle.

A chunk of stone tore free from the ground, the chalk mark upon its face, and crashed over to the side.

“Oh,” said Scorio, slowing to a stop as he stared. “You can do that?”

The fiend let out a hiss, more crimson bubbles bursting from its grotesque mouth, and lunged at him, claws snapping.

With a grunt Scorio ignited his Heart, shoving enough mana into the obsidian stone through sheer force of will, and then leaped back, triggering the steel rod and leaving it suspended in the air.

The fiend crashed into the rod as it gave chase, and once more it staggered back, but this time Scorio wasn’t waiting. A quick glance at the interior of the temple showed him it was in a precarious state, many of the support struts and buttresses having collapsed long ago.

A plan clicked into place, and he drew the bridge from his robe. Ran toward one of the walls, and heard the fiend disengage with the rod and come clicking after him.

No time to look back; he sensed the treasure in his hand, swirled the mana about as he ran right at the wall, and then activated the bridge as he bent down to set it against the floor.

Which caused the bridge to explode upward at a forty-five-degree angle, smashing into the wall and punching a hole in the ancient masonry.

Scorio caught hold of the bridge’s railing and swung himself under it so that it formed an impromptu barrier between them just as the fiend fell upon him, driving the bridge closer to the ruined wall.

Which caused the entire side of the temple to come crashing down upon them with a mighty, sloughing roar, blocks the size of barrels toppling down in a rush of dust and chaos.

Scorio turned away, closed his eyes, and braced himself, but the bridge held firm, its upper end lodged against the base of the hole it had created, so that the blocks crashed down and rolled off it even as his Heart guttered and died.

The fiend wasn’t so lucky; massive stones crashed down upon its gleaming carapace, half-burying it, cracking and denting its armor.

Then the bridge recoiled into its tiny form, the treasure slipping out from under the blocks to spring up to where its far end had lain.

Scorio was ready—he swept as much Coal mana as he could manage into his Heart, climbed out of the gap even as he willed his Heart to ignite, and with his enhanced strength grabbed hold of a stone as large as his head.

The fiend let out another hiss and tore a great clawed arm free, but before it could bring it to bear Scorio hurled the rock with all his Cinder-strength right at the beast’s face.

Eye stalks shattered, pale blue ichor gouted out, and the feathered extremities of its mouth were mashed into a crumpled mess.

The claw swept in like a death knell, but Scorio drew deep from his burning Heart and leaped right up and over it. Landing lightly, he ran up, leaped again, and dropped with both feet on the rock that had embedded itself in the fiend’s head, driving it in even farther.

Shell shattered, more ichor burst free, then the fiend subsided, giving a final series of clicks before lowering its claw to the rocks.

Gasping for breath, Scorio staggered away, his Heart guttering again, and waited, expecting the fiend to erupt from the rocks, to come at him again with renewed ferocity.

But it didn’t. After a couple of minutes, he allowed himself to relax a fraction and retrieved the bridge. It had suffered a few deep scratches from the falling rocks but otherwise seemed unharmed.

Pocketing it, he retrieved the steel rod, placed the chalk back in his robe, and then considered what the fiend had been eating—a huge, jellied snake, translucent but for a wire of jet black that ran its length. This wire was what the fiend had been feasting on, and summoning his Heart, Scorio examined it.

The wire glowed with deeply condensed Coal mana.

Reaching into the jellied interior of the snake, he seized the filament’s end and hauled it free, wrapping it around his elbow then back up to his palm then back around, over and over till he’d pulled the whole of it out.

“Gross,” said Scorio, using the last of the wire to tie off the whole bundle. Setting it down, he moved back to the fiend and considered the cracked blue carapace. Again he summoned his Heart, and again he considered the mana, trying to refine his ability to see more than just dark clouds.

Coal mana was venting from the cracks in the fiend’s armor, but he sensed something more potent contained within it which pulled at him as if magnetized. Grimacing, he crouched by the shattered head and pried the armor plates away, then slid his hand into the pale blue goo that filled its interior, feeling his way down into the cool gunk, past ridges and facets and weird, soft tubes, till at last, his hand closed around a large chunk of warm stone.

He drew it out, having to ignite his Heart again to tear away the ligaments that held it in place. It was a hunk of copper the size of his fist, and he had to wash it with some of his water to reveal its details. Holding it up to the light of Last Clay, he saw that its form was convoluted and complex, a great skein of metal that revealed ever more detail the closer he examined it.

Copper mana, then? This must be the pattern that Jelan had told him of. But why was it inside a fiend? Did it allow the beast to harvest power from the air? But there was no copper around here; did that make it an opportunistic harvester? Would it be profitable to hunt more of them down?

Too many questions. He’d save them for Naomi. For now, he dropped the sticky copper heart and the eel’s looped Coal mana line in his burlap sack, then paused, considering the contents.

Keep going?

He’d already pressed his luck this far. Maybe Feiyan would accept these two treasures in place of a sunphire.

Scorio grimaced.

Who was he kidding?

Jaw firming, he tied the burlap sack tightly to his waist and pressed on.

Now he moved more cautiously, however, exchanging speed for stealth. He was feeling weak, shaky, having drawn on his Heart three times in quick succession, and though he’d not drained it completely as he’d done that first time with Naomi, he was wary of relying on it too much.

So he crept from shadow to shadow, scaled walls with the aid of his bridge and rod, avoided avenues that were obviously nexuses of Coal mana, until at last, he came across a deep crack that seemed to lead into the depths and not a river of fire.

Crouching at the edge of the tilting roof and gazing down, he thought he felt an updraft, as if the darkness below were exhaling at the sight of him.

This looked like a good candidate.

He looked up and around, trying to get a sense of its location by finding coordinates he could navigate by when he returned with Naomi, only to pause, staring straight south.

A huge building loomed in the near distance, separated from him by a maze of burning chasms and slender bridges, demolished towers and landslides. A building so large it matched the Academy back in Ward 7, its huge domes cracked, towers toppled, arcades wreathed in dead ivy. He’d come much deeper than he’d anticipated, was nearly at the very end of the city—or perhaps it was the beginning—right where the ruins ran flush into the Portal’s wall.

Pursing his lips, Scorio followed the curvature of the city up and around from where that huge building stood. Others, equally monumental, arose beside it, all of them in their final stages of decay, forming a gauntlet of magisterial buildings.

The original centers of power, the homes of those who had originally built Bastion, and then been forced to abandon them centuries later by the encroaching rot.

Scorio returned his gaze to the huge building across from him. It bore a striking similarity to the current Academy. The original model? If anything, it was more ponderous, more massive, looming dourly over the wasteland and lava chasms, built so thickly that it had resisted the bulk of the decay.

What treasures might be located within? Sure, Naomi had said the place had been picked clean in the centuries following its abandonment, but what about intangibles that couldn’t be lifted and carried away? Might there be pockets of Copper or even Iron mana within? What if they found some replenishing source long thought abandoned which would obviate their need to smuggle themselves out onto the Rascor Plains?

Trying not to get too excited, Scorio considered the ground between him and his new target. A good fifteen blocks, but blocks so perilous that each one might count for ten of those he had already traveled through. All of the streets looked to have fallen away, leaving behind only fiery gorges. The bridges looked eaten as if by acid, but fortunately, most of the buildings were connected by other means, as if the city had once been a single, sprawling building that had grown out to cover all the blocks, its complex expanse dotted by courtyards, avenues, and who knew what else.

Fifteen blocks, and even without summoning his Heart Scorio could sense how rich and thick the Coal mana was up ahead.

Which promised the greatest of predators.

He’d have to convince Naomi. With her help, they could cross over that wasteland and explore the interior of the Academy.

Rising to his feet, Scorio allowed himself the slightest of smiles.

Who knew? Maybe he’d get himself an Academy education after all.

Chapter 25

He was ready when Naomi appeared at the start of the next day cycle. He sat in his clean robes, the room swept with a crude brush he’d made from a downed acacia branch, his eyes resting on the empty window.

She appeared in it much as a cat might; a sudden rush, a leap that brought her onto the sill in a crouch, and then stillness as she considered him, expression wary, thick hair framing her face tightly as it fell past her shoulders to her knees.

“Good morning,” he said.

“New robes.” She looked around the room, gaze quickly settling on the burlap sack. “And treasures of some kind.”

“Last night’s outing was a profitable one.”

She was in no rush to enter and remained crouched, noting his new sandals, the obvious money pouch set by his pallet, the crude brush propped up against the wall.

“You met with your friends?”

“Come on in and I’ll tell you all about it. I’ve got all manner of new plans.”

“Did you reveal my existence?”

“Just that you were training me. Nothing about your past or anything personal.”

She pursed her lips, considering his words as if parsing them for lies, and then slowly slid into the room, movements controlled, tense, as if ready to bolt at any moment. “Good.”

“Come on, Naomi. Don’t get all suspicious. I’ve good news.”

“Good news presages change. Change means danger. Danger increases the chances of death.”

“That’s one way to look at it. How about this: Leonis, one of my friends, forced that money pouch upon me. I wanted to buy you something nice but didn’t know what you might appreciate. So I settled for that bag of dawn apples.”

“Dawn apples?” That caused her to raise an eyebrow. “But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why spend your money on something nice for me?”

“Because that’s what friends do?” When she raised her eyebrow further, he quickly amended, “Potential friends, at any rate.”

“We’ve a transactional thing going on here, Scorio.” She made no move toward the apples. Sliding down the wall beneath the window, she wrapped her arms around her shins. “You oh-so-kindly brought me two vials of sapphire mana. And exacted an oath from me to help you train. You don’t need to bring me nice things.”

“True,” said Scorio. “But the terms of the agreement are now long expired. If we’re not working on a friendship, why haven’t you demanded more payment?”

She frowned. “You want me to?”

“No, I want you to take a damn dawn apple and enjoy it.” Scorio glared at her. “They’ve got little flecks of gold mana in them. They’re… I don’t know. Tasty. Nice.”

She stared at him, expression impassive, brows lowered, then finally rose to her feet. “Damn, Scorio, relax. Fine. I’ll eat a dawn apple. Happy?”

“Yes,” he said, watching as she padded silently over to the bag. “Thank you.”

She plucked a gold-flecked apple from within, held it up to the light of First Clay, and then moved back to her spot under the window. “All right. So tell me.”

“I met with Leonis and Lianshi, and they didn’t immediately turn me over to the Academy.”

The apple crunched crisply as she took a large bite from it. “Mighty sweet of them.”

“They’re going to find a way for me to access my locker. But in the meantime, I’ve begun working on getting two sunphires for Feiyan and more excitingly—”

“Two?” She chewed slowly, clearly enjoying the taste despite herself. “Mighty ambitious of you.”

“Well, that’s what she’s asking for in exchange for smuggling us out onto the Plains. But more excitingly, I used some of Leonis’s money to acquire that Black Star scroll from Jelan. And I’ve come up with a plan to create a potent stream of unending mana.”

“You’re still fixated on that idea?” She studied him, brows furrowed. “You do realize there’s a reason nobody attempts it.”

“Sure. Lots of good reasons. The ruins are too dangerous for normal citizens. Great Souls have access to better resources within the Academy or from their Houses, and so on. But I’m in a unique situation, and it makes sense for me.”

“Fine,” she said, waving the issue away. “If you insist. But when you realize it’s a lot of labor for very little reward, don’t come grousing to me.”

Scorio bit down his annoyance. “I won’t. But listen. Last night, while hunting for a way into the caverns below, I came within fifteen blocks or so of the old Academy.”

She took another crunching bite. “The one I told you was picked clean by looters before my great, great, great, great grandfather was born.”

“The same.” He leaned forward with a smile. “But what I realized is that there’s more than one kind of treasure. We’re planning to sneak out onto the Rascor Plains—”

“Remotely considering the possibility, you mean.”

“—in order to get access to higher quality mana. What if there’s high-quality mana in the Academy?” He smiled at her. “You can’t permanently remove a replenishing source, right? What if there’s, oh, I don’t know, rooms filled with Copper or Iron mana in there?”

She chewed the apple ruminatively, eyeing him.

“You said that the new Academy was built in its current location because of the abundance of Iron mana. What if that was the founding principle of the old one, too? What if we explore and find the old training rooms? We could camp out, train, advance, leap ahead of where we’d get otherwise, and all without going through the painful process of smuggling ourselves through security.”

Naomi took another slow bite. Her hazel eyes were thoughtful.

“If I can get within fifteen blocks, then with your help we can close the distance. What do we have to lose?”

“What do we have to lose?” She leaned her head back against the wall, her hair flattening against her shoulders. “The final stretch is dense with heavy Coal. It’s where the worst of the predators live. I’ll give you three guesses at what we’ll lose.”

“They’re not so bad,” said Scorio off-handedly. “I killed one of those blue lobster fiends myself last night. Wasn’t too hard. Should be easy for you.”

“Blue lobster fiend? You mean a kitursk? Those are scavengers, Scorio. They only attack when frightened or when defending their food.”

“Oh.” Scorio blinked. “Still, it was big and fast, and I dropped it by myself. Together—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “You made Cinder, what, a couple of weeks ago? And already you’re telling me we don’t need to fear the bigger predators in the ruins?”

“I’m saying it’s worth exploring—”

“And throwing our lives away over? You can keep your Heart aflame for—what—twenty seconds? You’re more durable now, sure, stronger, but that’s your newfound ability going to your head.”

Scorio reined in his temper. “Sure. Fine. But you’re not weak. In your nightmare form—”

“How do you think I’ve survived this long, Scorio?” She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “By throwing myself at every wild idea that crosses my mind? By risking attention by visiting the most popular market in Bastion? By making highly illegal deals with virtual strangers?”

Scorio bit back his words.

Naomi rose to her feet. “Thank you for the dawn apple. Been a while since I’ve had one.” She tossed the core onto the recently brushed floor. “Let’s skip training for today. I’ll let you know when—and if—I’m ready to resume.”

“Naomi—” began Scorio, but she’d already leaped neatly out the window and was gone.

“Damn it,” he sighed, sinking back down. He stared at the apple core. Was she right? Was he moving too fast? Was he risking too much?

But what was the alternative? To sit in the ruins for a year or two, training with Coal mana while his peers advanced far beyond him? To wrap himself up in a blanket of comforting numbness and obscurity, and hope the world forgot him just as it had forgotten her?

No.

Scorio rose impatiently to his feet, took three steps, and plucked the apple core from the floor. He wanted to hurl it out of the window but instead placed it with exaggerated care onto a small pile of trash against the wall. He’d deposit it along his run that evening so as to not bring attention to his home. Then moved to the window, leaned his forearms on it, and gazed at the street below.

No sign of Naomi.

He took a deep breath and held it, then exhaled and shook his head.

She hadn’t even given him a chance to boast about his treasures or plans for a Black Star farm.

He stood and tugged firmly at his robes. Fine. She was overly cautious. He couldn’t change who she was, but he didn’t need to let her limitations curtail his own growth.

If she wouldn’t go to the Academy with him, then he’d find a way to get there by himself.

He’d train for a few days, gather his strength, and then venture forth to observe. Perhaps he’d find a solution to his farming problem. After all, he had time—he didn’t need to make a run at the Academy right away. He could afford a few evenings of simply watching the ruins. Seeing if he couldn’t learn something about the terrain.

Then, when he was ready, if he thought he’d found a safe approach, he’d give it his best shot.

* * *

The next day he was perhaps halfway through his Second Clay run when he reached a familiar stretch of street. A chasm up ahead was crossed by a brutal bridge like a toppled monolith, and when he reached its foot, he gazed down into the crimson depths.

The chasm walls were covered as before in rough ranks of large barnacles, over whose stone bodies milky-white spidercrabs big enough to ride on picked their way, the edges of their armored bodies lit a soft pink by the hellish glow from beneath.

But it was to the freestanding column that emerged from the flaming depths that his gaze was drawn, upon whose broad, flat surface grew a handful of Black Star flowers, their dark shapes barely visible against the shadows.

Scorio lowered himself into a crouch and considered the island. Hard to reach, but that would go for any casual scavenger, too.

What if…?

The thought struck him, and his eyes narrowed.

If he dropped to the second ledge, he’d be roughly twenty feet out and thirty feet above the island. He could ignite, leap, and activate his steel rod midair. Then lower himself every ten feet or so with renewed activations, till he touched down upon the island.

But how to get back up? The bridge wouldn’t cross the thirty or forty-foot span from the island back up to the ledge.

He rubbed at his chin, glancing back over his shoulder occasionally to scan the street.

What if from the column he tied his rope to the steel rod and hurled it up into the air? Activated it at his limit, climbed up, and then used it as a base to prop the bridge? Race across before it all fell, and used the rope to retrieve the rod?

Unshouldering his coil, he tied it experimentally to the rod. At first, he was sure it wouldn’t work—the rope refused to tighten sufficiently around the rod’s smooth surface to prevent it from slipping free.

Experimentation, however, resulted in his tying a cradle of sorts around the rod, with one length wrapped all the way around its long span. Using all his strength, he tightened it as best he could, and then gave it a few experimental whirls.

It held fast.

But at what range could he activate it?

Playing out the rope, he stepped back five feet and summoned his Heart. He reached out his senses, gratified to feel the rod with ease.

He’d grown more sensitive since the caverns when he’d first found the rod, it seemed.

Walked back another five feet.

Now it was difficult; the rod was barely detectable, a faint tug at the edge of his will. Swirling the Coal about himself, he directed it toward the treasure and found that he had to really focus to get it to activate—no longer could he do it reflexively as before.

Ten feet.

He edged back to the chasm and looked down. That’d put him twenty down, twenty out.

The bridge was some ten yards long. Could he balance it on the rod? Would it be enough to reach?

Taking up the rope and rod, Scorio spent a while practicing hurling it up into the air and trying to activate it at the right moment.

It was hard. Very hard. But by tying the rope around his waist, Scorio could ensure that he could take as many attempts as necessary.

Over and over again he whirled it around and threw it high, only to summon his Heart and seek to activate the treasure. At first, in his haste, he’d just activate it anywhere; but soon he learned to both measure his throw and time his activation.

After some fifty attempts, he felt confident.

Then he worked at propping the bridge upon the rod at a good forty-five-degree angle. That meant the rod had to be perpendicular to the bridge’s direction, which would endlessly complicate things.

Scorio stood there, thwapping the rod against his palm, until he realized he could wait for the rod to deactivate, position it as he began to fall, and activate it immediately again.

Once more he set to practicing, pausing only when a school of luminous jellyfish wafted by, yard-long tendrils drifting across the broken street. Second Clay was just about to end when he decided to give it a go.

He should be able to reach it. And if he did? It could prove the perfect site.

Fool, he heard Naomi whisper in his mind. You risk everything for-

He banished her voice and took a deep breath. Heart pumping, chest tight, he climbed down to the first ledge, then carefully leaped to the second. The albino spidercrabs below stopped their movements, lifting their forelegs to wave them at him as if trying to determine if he was coming farther down.

Scorio backed right up against the chasm wall. He had three good steps before he had to leap.

Taking a deep breath, rod clenched tightly in his hand, he ignited his Heart and ran forward.

Leaped, straining to get as far out as he could.

The urge to yell was overwhelming, but instead, he clenched his jaw, stomach inverting itself as he began to fall, and activated the treasure.

The rod stuck firmly in midair, and his whole body swung out beneath it, rocking back and forth until he hung still.

Hanging by one arm, Scorio looked down. Not quite over the island, but if he rocked again and released at the right moment…

He did so, the rod deactivating at just the right moment, and he fell once more, another ten feet.

He swept Coal into its funnel, and his fall was arrested once more. He was just over the island’s edge, so he swung back and forth, and with a final kick released the rod and dropped the last ten or so feet into a heavy crouch atop the island’s surface.

Grinning, pulse racing, he rose to his feet and looked around. The island’s surface was soft with what looked like granulated black sand, and it couldn’t be much larger than some fifteen feet a side.

The rod fell, and he pulled it in with his rope. Then, he crouched beside each Black Star plant, worked the seed up the stem, and then held them up to the red light.

Tiny dimples showed that they were almost ready to be extruded.

Taking out his simple knife, he cut them into quarters and dropped them into his sack.

Then he set to walking the little island’s surface from side to side and all around, pushing his fingers into the soil, pausing to gauge how far it was from the closest chasm wall.

Anything that wanted to feast on a Black Star would have to cross some twenty to thirty feet of perilous air over the raging heat below.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Scorio bit his lower lip, scrutinizing the tiny plot of land.

It was perfect.

He set his burlap sack on the ground, took out the first seed quarter, and dug a hole some six inches deep. Dropping a seed quarter within, he pressed the dirt back over it, and tamped it shut.

One seed quarter done, a hundred and fifty-seven more to go.

Chapter 26

“I can’t find a way across,” Scorio said, hunching over his plate and stabbing fitfully at the slice of grilled steak that lay across a bed of delicate purple leaves. “The direct approach is a broad bridge that looks structurally sound, but under which passes what must be a truly powerful current of Coal mana. A huge, eyeless toad lives at the far end of the bridge, in this ruined building that’s nearly toppling into the chasm, and it’s easily the size of a cart. It’s so infused with Coal that it looks like liquid mana is constantly oozing off its body. I’ve seen it capture all kinds of prey with its tongue. They go rigid the moment they’re hit, as if its tongue paralyzes them.”

“Cart-sized toad,” said Leonis sympathetically, nodding to Lianshi as if this was a problem they encountered all the time. “Paralyzing tongue. Rough.”

“So I explored off to the radial east, just a half-dozen blocks, and discovered that area is the domain of this… I don’t even know how to describe it. It has arms and legs like a person, but is massively hunched over, with… gills? Or vents? Running down the side of its head and ribs? From which copper light burns out as if it’s venting mana. Its head is just a massive snout, no eyes that I can see, with these huge… snaggly-looking teeth. And arms that reach down to its ankles.”

“You sound really upset,” said Lianshi. “I’m sorry.”

“And it doesn’t even… I mean, I haven’t seen it actually move, anywhere. It just seems to step out of shadows when prey comes close, and then drags them into the darkness and disappears with them.” Scorio cut a chunk off the steak and held it up, scrutinizing the rich meat. “And then on the other side, if I came at the Academy from radial west, there’s a huge white worm. Thick as a tree, and at first, I thought it had human arms just randomly sticking out of its snout like whiskers, but no. Of course not. The worm’s head is actually a man’s torso.”

“A man’s torso?” asked Leonis dubiously.

Scorio set the fork down and touched a finger to each corner of his mouth. “Imagine if my mouth didn’t end here but continued in a wide arc down my chest all the way to my hips. And all of that opened to reveal a massive maw. That’s this huge worm’s head, with the man’s face forming the very tip of its… nose? I don’t know. Add with a huge tongue lolling out from its massive chest-mouth. This thing swims underground, somehow, and just erupts out of cracks and holes or makes its own to swallow prey whole.”

“How about another drink?” asked Lianshi, raising the pitcher of dawn apple juice.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m fine.” Scorio slumped. “I was just on fire with determination to get there, you know? Show Naomi that it could be done. But everywhere I look, a new obstacle appears.” He picked up his fork and examined the chunk of steak again. “I really want access to that old Academy.”

“Well,” said Leonis, glancing at Lianshi as if to make sure she was ready. “We might be able to get you access to the new one instead.”

Scorio sat up. “You can?”

Lianshi grinned, clearly relieved to be finally discussing this. “Yes. Maybe. I mean, I know we can, but it’s still only a theoretical possibility. Leonis, tell him.”

Leonis leaned over his plate, grinning like a bear. “So we’ve been pretty busy while you were out there exploring your ruins. There are archives and—what do you call private libraries?”

“Private libraries,” said Lianshi.

“Right. There are private libraries that are off-limits to us. So I pretended to knock Lianshi out during a practice bout—”

“You pretty much did,” she grumbled.

“Oh, you were fine. And she was taken to the infirmary where the physician dosed her with tomb wort and a Thousand Step pill—”

Lianshi smiled and stretched like a cat. “Very nice, by the way.”

Leonis paused to regard her. “Can’t believe Emelos gave you one of those.”

Lianshi stuck her tongue out at him. “You should try making friends some time.”

“You’re friends with Emelos?”

She relaxed contentedly, obviously pleased with herself. “Let’s just say he’d very much like to be friends with me.”

“The point being,” said Leonis loudly, “that she was left alone in the infirmary long enough to make a copy of Emelos’s key.”

Which Lianshi pulled out of her pocket. It was crudely shaped and a dark ebon in color.

“That will get us access to the basilica?” asked Scorio. “And how did you make a copy?”

Lianshi considered the key with a critical frown. “I made a clay mold, then filled it with Coal mana and compressed it. Not the best job, but it worked.” She paused as her eyes flicked up to him. “Oh. You’ve not learned how to do that yet. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to boast.”

Scorio stifled his envy. “No, of course. I… I didn’t even know that was possible. You can solidify mana?”

“Everyone can,” she said. “It’s in effect how Great Souls summon weapons like Hell Whip does hers. Or armor, or any other technique. But at our level, as Cinders, we can simply direct and shape mana into a very rough—and very small—shape, and then with some effort lock it into place.”

“The point is,” said Leonis, “we used the key to get access to a private library, and there—after evading much danger and risking our lives—”

“It wasn’t that dangerous,” said Lianshi flatly.

“—and after risking our lives,” continued Leonis even more loudly, “we found some old maps of the Academy.”

“Maps,” said Scorio. “So you now know how to get to the basilica.”

“We now know where a secret passage exits onto a balcony on the basilica’s third level,” said Leonis, sitting back with great satisfaction.

“Oh,” said Scorio. “That’s good.”

“Right?” Leonis crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “So now we just need to smuggle you into the Academy proper, access the secret tunnel, and then avoid notice as you find your locker and open it.”

Lianshi smiled tentatively. “What do you think? A working plan?”

Scorio grinned. “Thank you. Yes. I couldn’t have asked for better. But how do I get in?”

“That’s easy,” said Leonis nonchalantly. “All sorts of people enter the Academy every day to operate it. Cleaners, cooks, servants, porters, you name it. I’ll put in a request for a special delivery of—I don’t know, dawn apple juice—and give you the permission chit so that you can deliver it.”

“You can put in special requests?” asked Scorio. “Must be nice.”

“It is,” said Leonis, expression turning rueful. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’d probably be using the same system if I was in your place. So how soon can we do it?”

Lianshi’s smile was that of a particularly contented cat. “How soon can you deliver the dawn apple juice?” And she flipped a golden oct with a crimson symbol onto the table.

Scorio’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s the special request chit?”

“You think we’re going to waste any time?” Leonis’s eyes gleamed with pride and pleasure. “You dare keep a Great Soul thirsty?”

Scorio laughed and took up the chit. It was like Madam Voras’s, but heavier, somehow more imposing. “I’ll bring a pitcher immediately.”

“You’ll need to wear a hood,” said Lianshi. “Most people only caught a glimpse of you on the first day as you were led out, but we can’t take risks.”

“Agreed,” said Scorio. “Can we do this now?”

“We should wait till the night cycle.” Lianshi’s expression turned serious, almost uncertain. “I don’t know how busy the basilica is, but the odds are it’ll be quieter at night.”

“Night cycle, sure.” Scorio flipped the chit into the air and then caught it. “Where do I go?”

“You’ll want to avoid the main entrance,” said Leonis. “Come in through one of the servant arches on the southern flank. Ask around for the blue kitchen entrance. It’s where private requests are delivered, no bulk drop-offs. Then ask for directions to our quarters. We’re suite three off the Hall of Golden Reflection.”

“Suite three, Hall of Golden Reflection. Got it. Will, ah, anyone challenge me?”

Leonis shrugged one massive shoulder. “If they do, just show them the chit, claim to work from a reputable vendor, and say the order was delivered this morning. Nobody should care to challenge you further.”

“Make sure it really is dawn apple juice,” said Lianshi. “Just in case.”

“Got it.”

Lianshi put a bun to her lips. “And deliver it at Second Clay. Might be too unusual to make a delivery after dusk.”

“Makes sense.” Scorio felt as if he were trapped in a state of permanent inhalation. “I can’t believe this actually happening. Thank you.”

“Pah, don’t think anything of it,” said Leonis, waving a hand lazily though he was obviously pleased. “You’d do the same for us.”

“I would,” said Scorio firmly. “Absolutely.”

“Oh! Scorio!” Lianshi’s eyes widened as she reached down to her side pouch. “I brought something for you!” And she drew out a tiny, parchment-wrapped gift tied up with red string.

“For me?” Scorio blinked. “I—thank you, but you didn’t have to—”

“Oh, just take it,” said Leonis. “Because she’s going to insist it’s nothing, you’re going to refuse further, and we’ll be here for another ten days before you’ll accept it.”

“Fine,” said Scorio, taking the small bundle. “What is it?”

“Open it up!” Lianshi shoved the rest of the bun into her mouth and clapped her hands excitedly just beneath her chin. “I shaved it afchur I won—” She paused to chew fiercely.

Scorio untied the simple knot. The parchment unfolded to reveal a large, jade-green pill.

“It’s a Sublime Purification pill,” Lianshi said, forcing the last of the bun down with a muscular swallow. “I won it after I—doesn’t matter. But I got to pick from a selection of Minor Augmentation prizes, and I saved this one for you.”

“What does it do?” asked Scorio, turning it around, its impossibly smooth surface glimmering in the lamplight.

“Well, you’re out here processing Coal mana, right? That will coarsen and reduce your control over your mana manipulation over time. This will undo much of that damage, though the benefits will be temporary.”

Leonis looked at the pill, expression thoughtful. “Though it can also be taken at the same time as poisonous mana, and will neutralize the toxins in low-grade extracts. Which is the part I think you’d be especially excited to hear.”

Lianshi blushed. “I mean, I figured you would be roughing it beyond the Final Door and might incur damage to your Heart. It made sense to save it. And…” She paused, then flushed. “Also, it was, like, a symbol of my faith in you—or—never mind, this sounds ridiculous. If you don’t want to take this now, I thought you could keep it on hand in case you ever get in trouble.”

Scorio felt his heart swell and his face grow warm as he smiled at Lianshi, whose blush only deepened. “This is… thank you. Do you know if I could dissolve it into a tincture? Would it lose its properties?”

“I don’t know,” said Lianshi, expression going blank. “I mean, you’re not supposed to use it to ingest even greater poisons.”

Leonis’s laughter boomed off the walls. “Are you surprised, Lianshi?”

“Thank you,” said Scorio, bowing low to her from where he sat. “This really means a lot to me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, looking away quickly. “But I’m happy you like it. It can’t be easy, out here without any resources. I plan to try and bring you something as often as I can, to help.”

Scorio beamed at her. “You’re the best. You really don’t need to.”

“That’s what I said,” protested Leonis. “Also, she’s making me look bad.”

“You don’t need any help in that department,” said Lianshi.

“So,” said Scorio, examining the pill. “Do I just drink it down with water or the like?”

“Mmhmm,” said Lianshi. “I’ve never had one, but it’s supposed to refresh you. Summon your Heart after you’ve swallowed it, and you should be able to sense its power within you. Then draw it into your Heart as you would mana, and it should do the rest.”

“Excellent.” Scorio beamed at her. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home.”

To which Lianshi just beamed back at him.

Scorio set the pill beside his plate. “Did you both learn anything more about your own pasts?”

“That’s right,” said Leonis. “You weren’t there for our own Archspire moments. Want to hear my titles?”

Lianshi set her cup back delicately. “The question is, can he stop you from repeating them all?”

“Leonis, once known as The Grim, the Golden King, Favored of Eragoth, and Wielder of Nezzar. The highest rank I ever attained was Pyre Lord—which I’m positive is wrong—and it’s been four years since I last died.” He rubbed at his bearded jaw. “I’ve been reborn a hundred and twenty times since the founding of Bastion.”

“He doesn’t die easily,” said Lianshi.

Leonis sat back, hands on his thighs, knees spread wide, at ease, smiling, relaxed. “So if you want to start calling me the Golden King—informally, of course—feel free. It’s high time I started living up to my old reputation.”

Lianshi threw a yellow rind of a fruit she’d peeled at his face, which he batted aside with ease.

“I don’t know,” said Scorio. “The Grim? That doesn’t exactly, well…”

Leonis’s wide smile collapsed into a frown. “I’ve thought on that, as well. Who knows what sort of life I lived? What I was forced to do? But… I’ve still got time to grow into it. I was clearly a man of great import. Someday soon I’ll have to start living up to that legacy.”

“Whereas I was once known as Lianshi, the Nun of the Red, Guardian of the Second Death, and Bestower of the Final Grace.”

“Impressive,” said Scorio.

“The highest rank I ever achieved was Charnel Duke, and it’s been sixteen years since I last died. I’ve been reborn ninety-seven times.”

“Only ninety-seven?” Scorio leaned forward on both elbows. “That’s rare, isn’t it?”

“Seems to be. Most of our peers fall in the same range—from about a hundred and fifty to two hundred times.”

Leonis smirked. “During the first few nights, everybody was trying to work out the math. Bastion was founded eight hundred and seventy-three years ago, right? So in my case, I’ve been reborn a hundred and twenty times. At first, everyone just divided the city’s duration by the number of rebirths, but that left out the time between reincarnations. Since that time seems to fluctuate, we took a poll and discovered that the average time between rebirths was three years. So multiply a hundred and twenty by three—three hundred and sixty—and that’s how many years I’ve spent actually dead. The balance, five hundred and thirteen, is how many of those years I’ve actually lived. Divide that by a hundred and twenty, and on average I live four or so years each time I’m reborn before dying.”

Scorio blinked. “That… you’re making a lot of assumptions there.”

Leonis shrugged one shoulder. “Just averages. And a way to pass the time.”

“Whereas I average about six years of life before dying,” said Lianshi. “Still a dismal number.”

Scorio frowned. “But what of those like Praximar? They look much older.”

“Life was much tougher in the beginning,” said Leonis. “Bastion was constantly besieged by the fiends we came here to fight. New incarnates like ourselves would be placed on the walls within months of being reborn, if not sooner. The attrition rate was terrible. Over time, the demons were driven back, and now we Great Souls tend to live much longer, with the best or most fortunate of us making an actual drive for the Pit. So no, the averages don’t tell us much. Hasn’t stopped people from trying to wrest meaning from them.”

“The Pit,” said Scorio softly. “That’s where the fiends come from?”

“Supposedly,” said Leonis. “The source of all mana. Only Imperators can survive the Curse that surrounds it. The goal is to enter it and destroy our enemies at their source, forever ending the war and becoming the Infernarch.”

“And that will open the Portal home?” asked Scorio.

Lianshi shrugged uneasily. “That’s what folks say the Infernarch will do.”

“But since the Empyreal Prophecy failed,” said Lianshi, her tone hesitant. “A lot of folks are doubting a lot of old truths.”

They sat in silence for a spell.

“But that’s why we’re here in the first place, right?” Scorio looked from one of his friends to the other. “The reason we tied our souls to the Archspire. To protect our homeworld?”

“Right,” said Leonis softly. “We were heroes back home. We fought and beat the demons back to protect our people. And then we agreed to defend Bastion for eternity to make sure the demons never, ever came back to wage war on our home again.”

Scorio nodded slowly, mulling this over. “Leonis the Golden King. Lianshi the Nun of the Red. Scorio the Bringer of Ash and Darkness.”

“Guess they weren’t being too choosy,” said Leonis with a humorless smile.

“Or perhaps we all stopped being enemies once the demons arrived, and fought together to defeat them,” said Lianshi.

Scorio continued to mull this over. “And nobody ever figured out why the portal home closed.”

Leonis spread his hands. “Just theories. No facts.”

“But the hope,” said Lianshi quietly, “is that by someone destroying the Pit and ending the war, they’ll become the Infernarch and the Portal will open.”

“And our souls will be unbound from the Archspire?” asked Scorio.

“That’s the hope,” said Leonis.

“Which is why we fight,” continued Lianshi. “To bring peace and an end to Bastion. To go home.”

“It’s a worthy cause,” said Scorio at last.

“It’s why we’re trained to focus our sights on Imperator.” Leonis sighed. “Though vanishingly few have the motivation, talent, and fortune to get that far. Only they can take the fight to the enemy in their home. Everyone else, from Crimson Earl down, is basically supporting that fight.”

Lianshi spoke with quiet conviction. “I made Charnel Duke once. This time, perhaps I’ll go all the way.”

“Whereas I, apparently, will settle down and open a bakery upon making Pyre Lord again.” Leonis grinned. “It seems my ambitions have been more easily settled than most in the past.”

Lianshi sat up straight. “But first we need to make it to Emberling. Speaking of which, we need to get back. Scorio—see you at dusk?”

“You can count on it.” He rose to his feet, sliding the golden chit into his robe. “Thank you again. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Ah, don’t mention it.” Leonis rose heavily. “It’s good to get out and see you. And who doesn’t want to get involved with a little nefarious skullduggery now and again?”

“That’s not quite how I’d put it,” said Lianshi with a quiet smile, “but yes. You’re welcome.”

They stepped out of the restaurant, and back into the early Second Bronze light. The air was rich and muggy, and wisps of cloud were burning off in the sky above them as they curved up toward the bright early afternoon sun-wire.

“Until dusk then,” said Leonis. “Find yourself a hood.”

“I hope this brings you answers,” said Lianshi with a quick hug. “See you soon.”

Scorio watched them go, hand raised, and when they turned the corner and left his line of sight, he stepped over to one side of the courtyard to sit on a plain bench. Taking the golden chit back out, he turned it over and over between his fingers.

What would he find in his locker? Leonis’s talk of averages had provoked a question he’d dared not ask: why had he only been reborn six times? Why had it been over two hundred and thirty-three years since he’d last been reborn?

With a little luck, he’d find out that night.

Chapter 27

Scorio hefted the amphora of dawn apple juice upon his shoulder and marched boldly up to the Academy’s southern side, melding with the flow of foot traffic that even at this late hour was intent on gaining admittance. Second Clay was soon to end, and already dark clouds spiraled around the sun-wire.

He felt fantastic. The Sublime Purification pill had renewed his Heart tremendously, and it felt like a long-standing fever had broken. He felt clear-headed and alert, and drawing on mana had become far easier than it had become of late.

If only he had another ten such pills.

Still, the power of the treasure had been wondrous, and he resolved to find a way to thank Lianshi properly in turn. The gift had meant more to him than she could ever guess.

But that would have to wait. As he drew closer to the blue door, Scorio schooled his features, attempting to appear both intent and bored, an unimportant courier determined to finish his assignment as quickly as possible. The hood hung low over his brow, shadowing his face in the already dim, reddish light of the last cycle. Heart pounding in time to his footsteps, he watched with avid interest as those ahead of him were processed and allowed in.

There was no actual door, it turned out, but rather a large archway whose framing stones were painted a faded blue; broad enough to admit five men walking abreast, it was guarded by two guards in rose and gray with a third reading permits and papers. The sight of them sent a chill through Scorio; for a moment he felt nausea roil his gut and grew light-headed—it seemed like just a moment ago that men just like these had tossed him through the Final Door.

But the process was efficient, and the line moved forward quickly. Scorio straightened, breathed deeply, and watched as those ahead were processed and sent on their way.

Scorio resisted the urge to look up. To take in the intimidating bulk of the Academy with a glance, from its improbably massive domes to its complicated accompanying halls, arcades, towers, and other architectural features he didn’t know the name for. But from a distance, it had seemed familiar, puzzlingly so, until he’d realized how well it resembled its larger, dour brother at the far end of the ruins.

“Cutting it fine, my lad,” said the guard as he extended his gloved hand for Scorio’s papers. “Cutting it fine.”

“Apologies,” was all he said, and handed over the golden chit.

A flicker of surprise passed over his face, and then he handed it back. “Personal delivery? You know where to go?”

“Hall of Golden Reflections,” was all Scorio replied, neither affirming nor denying.

“Right enough. You’ll be making a hard left when you reach the main corridor, away from the kitchens. Follow that through two courtyards, straight as an arrow, then take a left along the next gallery. Down the first set of broad steps, and the guards there’ll tell you where to go next. Clear?”

“Clear,” said Scorio, slipping the chit back into his robes.

“Mind, no wasting time, no wandering, no gaping. We find you anywhere but the straight path between here and your destination, you’ll be whipped. Now move on. Next!”

Scorio bowed his head gratefully, and passed through the blue archway, into the gloom whose darkness was soon dispelled by torches burning in iron brackets along the wall.

Dry swallowing, he turned left when the broad passageway opened into a busy corridor. Servants of all stripes were hurrying in every direction, many carrying packages, others pushing cleaning carts, some chatting rapidly as they went in pairs, others slipping through the crowd like eels.

Adopting his neutral expression once more, Scorio entered the flow and hurried along, doing his best to not stare around avidly and take in all the details. Everywhere he looked he saw signs of elegance and decay, of past glories and faded promise. Footfalls and voices echoed down from the high ceiling in a constant murmur, and every open door afforded him a glimpse of the great kitchens at work, from storerooms to bakeries to massive chambers filled with hundreds laboring over counters, pots, and turning spits.

The first courtyard was dominated by a massive fountain whose centerpiece was a much-eroded statue of a humanoid cat holding aloft a great gourd; from this, four streams poured into separate pools, at whose lips were lined dozens of servants, intent on refilling their buckets and pails.

Back into the body of the Academy, the hallway plunged, the crowd growing thinner as more and more servants branched off in different directions. A bold red stripe was painted along the walls here, and the iron sconces were now bronze. The kitchens were behind him, and he moved past storerooms of all kinds, catching glimpses of folded linens, crates, parcels, and jars through every open door.

A second courtyard opened on his right, visible through an arcade of columns, a large herb garden tended by weary gardeners who pruned and catered to the varied plants as if that were their eternal lot in life, hunched over plants of virulent yellow or blossoms that wept fire, weeding out ivy from between climbing vines of softly glowing vegetables.

What treasures grew within arm’s reach? The courtyard was imposingly large, its contents intimidatingly varied, but then it was gone, and Scorio hurried along an even broader hallway whose side was painted with an endlessly repeating geometric pattern in green and gold.

A gallery opened on the left, and Scorio rushed down it, glancing sidelong at the massive stone sculptures that lay strewn amongst knee-high grass, each a variation on a circular face whose perimeters were notched with regular markings, ornate spires rising from their centers like ceremonial spears.

He saw the broad steps up ahead on the right and hurried down into relative silence; only one other servant preceded him, this one carrying a small case with the utmost reverence. She was allowed past the two guards who stood at ease at the bottom of the steps with a nonchalant nod of their heads, but they glared at him suspiciously as he drew close and moved to stand in his way.

“Don’t recognize you, son,” said one of them, a man who couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than Scorio. “Let’s see your chit, then.”

“Of course.” Scorio set the heavy amphora down with relief and handed him Leonis’s coin. With scrupulous discipline, he kept the anger from his visage as he ignored their gray and rose-colored robes.

“Very well. What do you have there?”

“Dawn apple juice, sir,” said Scorio politely. He thought to embellish, say something about how it was the best in all of Ward 7, but opted to keep his mouth shut instead.

“A whole amphora, hey? Lucky Great Souls. That’s the life. Move on then. You know where you’re going?”

Relief flooded Scorio, and he heaved the amphora back up onto his shoulder. But before he could answer, a tall, imposing woman walked into view.

She had a natural air of command, was tall, handsome, and athletic, with skin the color of wheat and dark, chocolate brown hair worn in a thick braid that hung down over one shoulder nearly to her waist.

The very same instructor who’d marched him out of the basilica and down to his holding cell.

Both guards snapped to attention, their bodies nearly vibrating from how stiffly they held themselves.

“At ease,” she murmured, clearly intent on simply making her way up the stairs, but then held her casual glance at Scorio as she slowed and stopped, one foot on the lowermost step.

Scorio averted his gaze, his heart pounding, pounding, but it was too late.

Should he run? Throw the amphora at her? She’d been so strong, her powers mysterious—

“Who are you?”

One of the guards immediately answered, as if not trusting Scorio to know his own identity. “A courier, Instructor Helminth. Bringing dawn apple juice to one of the trainees.”

Scorio stared fixedly at the ground, one arm raised to balance the amphora, jaw clenched, mind whirling as he sought a means to avert the attention. Act a fool? Fake an accent?

“You’re more than that,” said Helminth, her tone assured, curious, almost lazy. “Look at me, boy.”

Scorio fought back a grimace and looked up, feeling at once panicked and defiant. It was all going to end here, it was over, he couldn’t fight her—could he?

Her eyes were large and the deepest brown, flecked with gold and rich with amusement and disdain. Her jaw was broad, and she exuded a natural vitality, a robust health, that made him wonder if she’d gone a day without training and eating the best of everything that Bastion had to offer.

“Not just a courier, are you?” Her voice was soft now, considering. She didn’t remember him, the ten hells be praised, but still—

She reached out and took hold of his chin between two strong fingers, turning his head from side to side. “You’ve training. Talent. Explain yourself, boy. How does a courier come to have such a powerful Heart?”

She truly didn’t remember him.

Both guards gaped, uncomprehending, but Scorio knew exactly to what she referred.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “My father, my lady. He’s a powerful bureaucrat in House Kraken. Fed me treasures and gave me the best training octs could afford since I was little. Wanted me to join the Academy.”

“He did, did he?” She released his chin. “Yet here you are delivering juice like an errand boy.”

“I didn’t want to join the Academy.” It was easy to make his tone sullen. “So I ran away from home. Didn’t want to deliver the dawn apple juice, either, but my employer gave me no choice.”

“Is that so.” He couldn’t tell if she believed him or not. The corner of her broad lips curled into a smile. “What astonishing talent. What is your name?”

His mind blanked, and he said the first name that occurred to him: “Memek.”

“Memek.” She glanced up the stairwell, as if recalling pressing business, then fixed him with her piercing gaze once more. “Deliver your juice, then ask one of these guards to escort you to my office. I would speak with you further. It’s been years since a commoner evinced such startling ability. Who did you say your father was?”

Scorio opened his mouth, uncertain as to how much credibility he’d retain if he got this wrong, but was saved by Helminth’s own impatience.

“Never mind. You can tell me everything later. Guards, make sure he finds his way to me before he leaves.”

“Yes, Instructor Helminth,” said both men, snapping out crisp salutes.

“Yes.” She hesitated, considering Scorio for a second longer, then quickly climbed the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and was gone.

Both guards let out sighs of relief when she rounded the corner. “You’d best hurry on then,” said one of them. “Come right back here and I’ll take you to Instructor Helminth’s offices when you’re done. We clear?”

“Absolutely,” said Scorio. “You were going to tell me where suite three was?”

“Third door on the right, my fortunate friend.” The guard’s smile was cold. “Don’t go wandering off, now.”

Scorio didn’t answer.

Instead, he strode along the broad hallway to the third door. It was large, made of solid bronze, and deeply recessed in the wall, its surface inlaid with an abstract pattern of pearl and silver. It glimmered in the shadowed recess as if viewed in a fever dream.

Stepping up, Scorio pounded his fist upon it, then stepped back.

The door jerked open, revealing Lianshi, clad in a comfortable interior robe, the material light and tightly belted at the waist. Her hair was damp and seemed to have more volume for being unbrushed, and she smiled nervously at the sight of him. “There’s our juice. Please bring it inside.”

Scorio fair leaped inside, then set the amphora down, finally allowing himself to gasp as his chest heaved in barely controlled panic.

But his roiling thoughts were smoothed away by the luxury of the room.

The suite was spacious, high ceilinged, with a natural slate floor whose subtle contours were smoothed by what might have been centuries of feet passing over it. A large fireplace was set just a few yards to the entrance’s right, with a sunken living room area beyond it in the far corner. A single shelf ran along the wall, its surface laden with intriguing objects and heavy books. Doors led off to the left and right, but Scorio’s attention was pulled past the dining table, past everything to the far wall.

Or lack of it.

Thick bushes and massive fronds framed a stone walkway that meandered to a set of three freestanding steps that rose to the right to a platform that was just barely in sight, a stone platform built at the edge of a luminous pool of azure whose extent was hidden by the steam that rose from its surface.

Scorio pointed. “That’s your pool?”

“That’s our pool,” said Lianshi, hands on hips. “Just took a swim in preparation for our activities tonight. Leonis!”

The large man emerged from the door to the left, his smile broad and narrowing his eyes to slits. “There he is. The plan proceeds apace!”

“Yes, except for one problem.” Both of his friends paused. “Helminth noticed me on my way here. She detected my Heart and demanded the guards escort me to her offices once I delivered the juice.”

“The Hell Whip saw you?” Leonis pressed his palm to his brow, took three steps backward, and sank into one of the dining chairs. “You’re joking.”

Lianshi had covered her mouth with one hand. “Did she recognize you?”

“No. I told her a story, and she believed it. Enough to let me deliver this juice first, at any rate. But what are we going to do now?”

“Thank every bleeding fiend in hell. She’s absolutely terrible with names and faces. It’s a running joke in class. But now we’ve got to hurry,” said Leonis, voice turning decisive. “I was going to wait till after dusk, but we no longer have that luxury. We’d best be gone before they come looking for you.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi, crossing to her door and disappearing inside. “Give me one second.”

“Ah, it’s bad luck,” sighed Leonis, rising to his feet and squeezing Scorio’s shoulder apologetically. “But we’re not done for yet. We’ll slip down to the other end of the hall, then take the long way to the cellar in question. If they come looking for you, they’ll guess you took off and raise the alarm, but they’ll not look for you where we’re going.”

“Good,” said Scorio, trying to reassure himself. “Good. So… I didn’t realize she was the Hell Whip. She seemed…”

Leonis pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “Yep. Exactly. Imagine facing her in a fight.”

“She can summon a hammer, you said?”

“Big as she is and wields it as if it weighed less than a feather. Amongst many other abilities. She’s a Dread Blaze.” And he shook his head as if that said it all.

“All right,” said Lianshi, emerging in a set of more practical robes. She’d twisted her hair into a thick bun and was jabbing ornamental sticks through it to hold it in place. “Let’s go.”

Leonis handed Scorio a sack, then opened the door softly and slipped outside.

Lianshi lightly touched his arm to hold him back and stepped out next, so that Scorio emerged last.

Together they crept down the hall, away from the stairway, the dim lighting working in their favor. Once they rounded the corner, however, Leonis straightened his back and marched boldly forward, greeting the occasional stranger they passed with a nod or quiet exchange.

Heart pounding, Scorio followed, and they led him quickly and confidently down several more levels and finally into the basement region that was comprised of a tangle of low-ceilinged rooms. At the door to the first Leonis drew out a lantern and lit it from the closest wall torch, then led them through the storerooms, pausing occasionally to check a rolled-up map.

“Here,” he said at last, stepping into a small room whose contents were shrouded in dusty white sheets. “The chute should be behind that far wall.”

“Look at the floor,” said Lianshi softly, and in the light of the lantern, Scorio saw a path of recent footprints through the dust and grime, leading from their doorway to an innocuous spot between heavy shelving.

“Subtle,” said Leonis, moving forward, lantern held high. “But I’m glad for the confirmation.”

“How many people know about this passage?” asked Lianshi. “You think other students?”

“Not first years like us,” said Leonis confidently. “Unless the Houses tell such secrets to their sponsored favorites. Now. The map didn’t actually reveal how we trigger the door to open.” He raised the lantern and scrutinized the rough stone wall. “Suggestions are welcome.”

“It can’t be overly complex,” said Scorio, stepping up beside him and running his fingertips over the wall. “Not if people are coming and going so frequently.”

Lianshi moved up to Leonis’s other side, and together the three of them examined the rough stone wall.

“Here,” said Lianshi, “look, there’s a gap in the mortar around this stone.”

Leonis bent down to look. “Should we press it?”

In response Lianshi did just that, depressing the fist-sized rock until a click sounded from within the wall and a vertical segment only a few feet wide slid inward. The outer edge of the “door” followed the contours of the rocks so that it appeared more a piece of a cunning jigsaw than anything else.

“That was simple enough,” said Leonis, surprised.

Scorio pushed the door in further to reveal a dark space. Focusing his darkvision, Scorio made out a narrow chute with handholds carved into the rock. “I guess the real protection comes from it being hidden down in this cellar. We go up?”

“Up,” breathed Lianshi, wiping her hands on her hips. “According to the map, we climb it three stories.”

“Up it is,” said Scorio, handing Leonis the sack and stepping inside, reaching for the first handhold. The stone was gritty, the cut slanting down into the rock to make grabbing it easier. He began to climb, and quickly realized just how narrow the chute was; Leonis was going to have trouble squeezing his way up.

“I’ll go last,” said Leonis, moving into the chute so that the lantern light filled the tight space with a warm glow. “Provide light for us all. Don’t like to trust in my darkvision yet.”

Scorio resumed climbing, the sound of his breath harsh in the enclosed space, handhold after handhold, nerves causing him to race up. He reached a claustrophobically narrow passage that branched off the chute and kept going. Passed a second, leading off in the opposite direction, and then stepped out into the third. Shuffled in deeper to make room for Lianshi, and then peered around as Leonis appeared, lantern raised high.

“Douse the lamp,” whispered Lianshi. “We don’t want light to shine through any cracks and give us away.”

Leonis grunted as he eased himself into the narrow passageway and killed the light.

“The exit is just down that way,” said Lianshi. “Feel along the wall as you go. I don’t know how it’s supposed to be marked.”

Scorio did as he was bid, focusing his gaze on the impenetrable dark till gray outlines appeared, revealing the walls on either side. Shuffling along the foot wide space, he palpated the wall as he went, till his fingers brushed across a vertical crack.

“Might be it,” he breathed, stopping and feeling around some more till he found a stone latch. “Ready?”

“Don’t take so long reincarnating this time if we die, all right?” Leonis’s voice was rough with humor and nerves. “I don’t want to go another sixty lives without the pleasure of sneaking you into ridiculously tight cracks.”

“Shh,” admonished Lianshi.

Scorio pulled on the latch till he heard another click, and the wall before him drifted forward an inch, revealing a vertical line of softer darkness. Palm on the stone he pushed till the crack widened and allowed a dim light to filter into their passage.

Silence.

Scorio pushed again and slipped out through the crack onto an ornate balcony that wrapped around the inside wall of the basilica high above the floor. He dropped into a crouch to get some cover from the stone balustrade and after releasing his darkvision, glanced around rapidly.

The inner wall was segmented into endless coffers, each spanning nearly from floor to ceiling and easily two yards wide. There had to be a hundred up and down the length of the balcony here alone. Ivy grew across some of them, had been torn from others.

Beyond the heavy balustrade, the immensity of the basilica yawned; Scorio crept forward and peered out through the curved balusters at the void below. The Archspire rose, imperious and solitary in the center, while the biers radiated out from its base in two series of curves winding in opposite directions, each bier sitting at a certain angle from its neighbor to create the illusion of interlocking spirals.

It was like gazing into a dream, a memory he’d examined, a sequence he’d played through so many times during his idle hours that to see it again was startling, surreal; he searched amongst the biers for his own, only to feel a hand slide gently onto his shoulder.

“Come back from the balustrade,” whispered Lianshi, drawing him away. Leonis had left his lantern inside the narrow passageway and was in the process of carefully closing the secret door without allowing it to click shut altogether. “Guards are stationed at each exit below and do constant patrols.”

“Right,” whispered Scorio. “Right. Just… never mind.”

In the gloom, he made out her sympathetic smile, and they turned to the coffer that rose behind her. “This is… Locker 244. You said you were 37, right?”

Scorio nodded.

“Looks like we need to go down to the first balcony, then. Leonis?”

“Ready,” breathed the large man, crouching beside them. “Follow.”

Leonis slipped away doubled over, moving with surprising ease despite his size, and they followed, slinking along the wall and as far from the balustrade as possible.

Second Clay had given way to the night cycle, and the sound of rain falling against the windows that ringed the base of the vast dome was a constant susurrus. They crept past endless coffers, and Scorio wondered what each contained. What cryptic hints at previous lives, lost identities, what treasures, what wonders.

They reached the end of the balcony, and there found a tight, spiral staircase embedded within the wall that wound up and down. Leonis paused, listening carefully, then gestured for them to follow and made his way down.

So tight was the stairwell, so steep the drop between each step, that they descended almost one above the other, turning constantly, hand on the inner column.

Down one floor, then out onto the lowest balcony, to crouch and pause as they pressed back against the coffers, waiting, listening to see if their presence had been detected.

Below, dangerously close, Scorio could hear the soft murmur of voices. Two guards were talking quietly to each other. How close were they? Was it a trick of the acoustics?

They weren’t on patrol, however, so Scorio ghosted forward, doing his best to make each step silent as he crossed over pockets of weeds growing out of the cracks and thick roots put out by the ivy plants that fingered out across the stone floor, along the coffers and marking the numbers as he went.

His pulse began to hammer the closer he drew to 37. When finally he found it, he stopped and simply stared, drinking in the anonymous coffer that blended in with all the others.

Its face was a series of subtly recessed and nested rectangles, the panels painted black, the drops between them gold. In the center was a large, dull gem.

“Place your hand on the gem,” whispered Lianshi. “That will cause the door to disappear.”

“Disappear?” asked Scorio, surprised.

To which Lianshi simply nodded.

And with the moment upon him, he found himself barely able to breathe, to think above the roar of his pulse in his ears. He reached out and palmed the gem. Its interior flickered as if it had become a miniature storm cloud and then the door faded away, revealing a spacious chamber large enough for a throne.

Scorio blinked, the shock of what he was seeing taking a moment to register, followed by crushing disappointment.

The locker was starkly empty.

Defeat closed its fist about his heart and squeezed.

Leonis patted his back sympathetically, and Scorio was about to turn away, drowning in a wave of bitterness, when Lianshi slipped past him and stepped inside.

Moved to the back wall and raised her hand, hesitant, only to trace something that had been incised into the stone itself.

“What is it?” whispered Leonis.

She glanced back reluctantly. “Scorio, come see.”

Not daring to feel hope, he stepped in beside her and realized that letters had been cut into the rock itself.

A name.

Carved in block letters, each an inch deep.

Jova Spike.

Chapter 28

They gathered in the abandoned cellar below, and as Leonis pressed the secret door closed, Scorio raked his hands through his hair and began to pace.

“What was that?” He reached the far wall, turned, and glared at his friends. “Jova Spike? What’s her name doing up there?”

“An autograph?” suggested Leonis weakly.

“Did she take all my history?” Scorio resumed pacing. “Leave her name behind to mock me? Were we enemies in a past life?”

“Doesn’t seem like her,” said Lianshi pensively, moving to crouch down, back to a large crate. “She’s quiet, composed, very intense. Close to a few friends but treats everyone else like strangers. If she made a move like that, I’ve the feeling she’d take your belongings and leave. Not take the time to carve her name on the wall.”

“And that wasn’t just a simple scrawl,” said Leonis. “You see how deep those letters were etched? And how carefully? Whoever did that wanted that name to survive the test of time.”

“Then…” Scorio stopped and stared blankly at the wall. “Then what am I to make of it?”

“Maybe whoever took your stuff wanted to aim you at her,” said Leonis uneasily. “Misdirect you. Start a fight.”

“Maybe,” said Scorio, and then with a sigh he let the tension go and dropped his hands to his sides. “But why?”

Lianshi was tapping her chin, eyes unfocused, deep in thought.

“What are the facts?” Leonis crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Your belongings are gone, and the name of the most dangerous Great Soul in our cohort was carefully carved into the wall. Carefully and cleanly carved. Whoever did that had time and firm intent.”

“How do people open other Great Souls’ lockers, anyway?” asked Scorio. “Do they manipulate the gem?”

“Shockingly, we’ve not yet been instructed on how to break into each other’s lockers,” said Leonis.

“We know more than just those two pieces of information,” said Lianshi quietly. “The locker belongs to one Scorio, a Red Lister who has reborn only six times.”

“Great,” said Leonis. “I approve of the completionist approach. What other basic facts can we establish? That we all tend to go to the bathroom approximately eight hours after a meal?”

Lianshi scowled at him. “We know that lockers can be raided by the sufficiently powerful. Scorio reached Blood Baron. That’s enough to warrant notice, besides his being a Red Lister. What are the odds that any treasure or memento he’d leave in his locker would go unmolested?”

Leonis smoothed down his short beard. “Practically none. They’d break in the moment he died.”

Lianshi smiled. “Correct. And who else would have known this?”

“I would have,” said Scorio slowly. “Wait. Are you suggesting I left the locker empty on purpose?”

Leonis pushed off the wall. “And that he wrote Jova’s name there himself?”

Lianshi shrugged. “Who knows? But Scorio is not obviously criminally stupid. If he’d reached a high rank and knew death was upon him, why would he gift his belongings to the Academy by leaving them in a soon-to-be raided locker?”

“She likes you,” said Leonis, smiling at Scorio. “’Not obviously criminally stupid’? That’s genuinely high praise.”

Scorio bit his lower lip, staring out into middle distance, mind racing. “That makes sense. I’d know the Academy would raid my belongings. The last thing I’d do would be to make an indirect donation.”

“But say you wanted to communicate something to your next incarnation. That’s what the lockers are for,” continued Lianshi. “We leave ourselves journals, directives, treasure. Things to help and guide our future selves. Say you wanted to do the same for yourself, but knew your locker would be raided. What would you do?”

“What would I do?” asked Scorio, eager to hear her opinion.

“No,” said Lianshi impatiently. “I’m asking you. You’re the one who did it. What would you do?”

Scorio cupped his hands over his mouth and nose and slid down the wall into a crouch. Pondered. “My locker would be of no use. There’d be no point in creating a hidden cache somewhere in Bastion, because how would I tell the new me how to find it? Any obvious clue would be followed up on by my locker raiders.”

Leonis grinned. “Perhaps you’d leave the clue or your information with someone nobody would mess with in their right mind.”

“Jova Spike,” they all said in unison.

A frisson of excitement passed through Scorio. “You think she might have something of mine in her locker?”

Lianshi was brushing the tip of her nose with a lock of hair. “Perhaps.”

“Problem.” Leonis grimaced. “Jova’s not exactly the approachable type.”

“True.” Lianshi bit the corner of her thumbnail. “And asking her would reveal that you’ve escaped the Final Door.”

“Do you think we could break into her locker?” asked Scorio.

His friends both stared at him.

“Not a good idea. At least, not yet. Fine.” He pondered further. “What if I approached her in the Graveyard? Made my case?”

“She doesn’t go to the Graveyard,” said Lianshi. “She spends that time training.”

“Oh. Well—what if I found a way to speak with her, or had a message delivered? How could I convince her to speak with me, to help me out?”

Lianshi and Leonis exchanged a look.

“What?” asked Scorio. “That bad?”

“She’s only friends with Juniper and Zala, that I know of,” said Lianshi at last. “Her roommates. Lots of other people have tried to get close to her, though. She has hangers-on. The Houses court her at all hours of the day and night. And she created a lot of controversy when she refused House Hydra’s offer of patronage.”

“She refused?” Scorio blinked. “But she came first out of the entire cohort. They must have offered her… everything.”

“She refused,” said Leonis flatly. “And hasn’t deigned to explain why. She’s not the talkative type.”

“So I’m starting to gather,” said Scorio. “So what does she do? Just train all the time by herself?”

“Or with Zala and Juniper, yes,” said Leonis. “And eat more than Lianshi and I combined. I mean, the amount of meat and vegetables she puts away is frankly—”

“Leonis,” said Lianshi. “But yes. She seems to live for training and fighting. Some people are speculating that her will is so strong that she’ll make Tomb Spark before most of us even get to Emberling. But there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Scorio.

“She takes the Academy’s rules very seriously. I mean, we all do, but she’s on another level.”

“Made waves when she returned an Apotheosis pill to the pharmacy,” said Leonis. “The winner of the first Gauntlet run gets one every week. Apparently, she was accidentally given two. Some think it was a ploy by one of the Houses to show her how much better her situation could be if she accepted patronage. Anyway, Grevelar was there when she returned it. Saw Emelos blanch and stutter as she just stared him down.”

“Not good,” said Scorio. “For me, at least.”

“No,” agreed Leonis reluctantly. “She’s not the type to engage in this kind of behind-the-scenes activity.”

“If anything,” said Lianshi, “she’d turn you in immediately.”

“Great.” Scorio leaned his head back against the wall. “Why did the dead me from two hundred years ago think it was a good idea to rope her into his plans?”

His friends just looked at him in helpless commiseration.

“Well, I’ll think on it,” sighed Scorio. “I had to have had a reason. An expectation that I’d figure something out.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Leonis. “Speaking of which, we should get out of this cellar before another band of nefarious ne’er-do-wells comes along and rumbles us.”

Lianshi rose smoothly to her feet. “True. Ready, Scorio?”

He accepted her outstretched hand and stood. He felt worn, tired, beaten.

“We can’t take him back to our rooms,” said Leonis, moving toward the cellar’s archway. “The Hell Whip might be looking for him.”

“Right,” said Lianshi. “Might have to take you to an exit so you can slip out unnoticed. Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, trying not to let his words reflect his disappointment. “You’ve both already done so much. Thank you.”

They moved through the basement chambers carefully, then up the stairs and down a sequence of corridors till they reached a square chamber whose walls were decorated with depictions of the Archspire under the different glows of the sun-wire.

“You’d best go on the rest of the way without us,” said Leonis. “We’d draw too much attention in the servant’s quarters.”

“Right. Right.” Scorio felt strangely light-headed, his emotions numb. “Great. Well. I’ll be seeing you guys around.”

“Scorio, wait.” Lianshi stepped up. “This doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to just continue meeting up for lunches as we continue to benefit from the Academy’s resources, and you’re forced to struggle out in the ruins.”

“Not much we can do about that though, is there?” asked Scorio, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Well, there might be.” She glanced to Leonis. “What if we accompanied him on his ruin runs?”

“Accompanied him?” Leonis rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. “You mean each Eighthday?”

“Right,” said Lianshi. “We could leave as soon as First Bronze began, and if we hurried, we could reach the ruins in—what do you think, Scorio—a quarter of a cycle?”

“Wait, come with me on my ruin runs?”

Leonis was mulling it over. “That would leave most of First Bronze, Amber, and Second Bronze to explore. We’d have to leave a little time at the end to make it back and clean up.”

Scorio looked from one of them to the next. “Hold up, are you even allowed to go to the ruins?”

They exchanged glances.

“Nobody’s ever told us not to,” said Lianshi at last.

“In the same way that nobody’s ever told us not to do flayleaf, but no. We’re expected to remain in the Graveyard, but there’s an understanding that the more adventurous amongst us might range a little farther.”

“The ruins are more than a little farther,” said Scorio.

Leonis grinned. “What the instructors don’t know can’t hurt us.”

“What do you think?” Lianshi smiled at him. “There room on your sojourns for a couple more?”

Scorio didn’t know what to say. “Are you sure? It’s dangerous.”

Leonis’s expression went deadpan. “You do understand that we’re also Great Souls, don’t you?”

“It would be an excellent way to train,” said Lianshi excitedly. “The best way to progress is to engage in actual fighting. This way we’d gain an edge on everyone else, including Jova Spike.”

Leonis inhaled strongly. “And see more of the world than the same collection of hallways and rooms and arenas. Sounds like a plan to me.”

Scorio looked from one of them to the other. It was too much—he didn’t know what to feel, could only marvel at how quickly he’d gone from despondent to euphoric. “If you’re sure—”

“Scorio.” Lianshi reached out and took his hand. “We’re sure. It would be good for us. It would be good for you. We all benefit.”

Leonis nodded. “Plus it’s dangerous to keep meeting at the same place in town. Someone’s bound to notice the pattern and spot you eventually.”

“Well—all right then.” Scorio grinned. “Next Eighthday. I’ll wait for you at the entrance to the restaurant’s courtyard, and guide you south.”

“Excellent.” Leonis grinned, the expression exuding warmth, enthusiasm, and encouragement. He clasped Scorio’s free hand and squeezed it hard. “The ruins won’t know what hit them.”

Lianshi rolled her eyes. “Won’t know because they won’t notice. Three Cinders will hardly make a mark. But yes. Next Eighthday it is.”

Scorio drew a deep, shuddering breath, smiled at them, and they all moved instinctively into a hug, holding each other tightly for a moment before breaking apart.

“Straight through that door,” said Leonis, nodding in the direction he had to go. “Leads to the kitchens. You should be able to get out easily.”

“I will. Thank you.” Scorio started walking backward, not wanting to take his eyes off his friends. “Be seeing you soon then, Nun of the Red. Golden King.”

“Yeah, yeah, take it easy, Quencher of Hope and Unmaker of Joy,” said Leonis, turning to return to their quarters. His grin was leonine. “And save some of that energy for us. You’ll need it if you want to keep up.”

“Take care, Scorio!” Lianshi waved, and then the pair of them left the chamber and were gone.

Heart pounding, feeling elated, Scorio passed through the indicated door and moved toward the kitchens, quickly joining the rest of the foot traffic. He pulled his hood down low over his face, clasped the golden chit in his free hand, and had to restrain himself from whistling.

The next Eighthday couldn’t come quickly enough.

Chapter 29

Naomi was awaiting him at the end of First Clay when Scorio returned from his run. Breathing lightly, brow damp with perspiration, he climbed in through his window and saw her leaning against the far wall, one of his last dawn apples in hand.

“Hey,” he gasped, swinging his legs over the sill and remaining seated, smiling at her. “Good to see you.”

“Don’t get too excited,” she said, taking a large bite out of the apple. “I’m of two minds about being here at all.”

“Oh yeah?” He wiped his forearm across his forehead. “How’s that?”

She chewed slowly, methodically, as if punishing the apple for numerous transgressions. “I was up late last night deliberating our arrangement. What the point of it was. Where it was going.”

“And?”

She took another bite. “I didn’t figure out any clear answers.”

He winced sympathetically. “Sorry about that.”

“But. One thing I did determine is that I’ve… enjoyed our training sessions these past few months. They give structure to my day. Have become something of a habit.” She considered the apple, its golden flecks gleaming in the gloom. “Before, I was… existing. Numb. Each day a tedious obstacle to be overcome. I wasn’t progressing, but nor was I giving up. I was in harmony with my small world. If I didn’t think too hard about the future, the present could be an endless series of similar days. I was… fine.”

Scorio carefully remained still, not allowing his face to betray his opinion.

“But then you showed up.” She stared accusingly at him. “Dared me. Provoked me. And somehow, against all the odds, trapped me into this arrangement. And I started feeling anger again, amusement. Both in equal measure. You’re infuriating and foolish, and I sincerely doubt you’ll live another couple of months, but I decided—well.”

She frowned down at the apple.

“Decided what?”

“That I might as well enjoy the diversion while it’s here. All too soon you’ll be gone, and then I’ll have to reconcile myself to tedium once more as I figure out my next step.”

“Glad to be of service,” he said with a grin. “Should have been one of my titles: Scorio the Abhorred, Destroyer of Tedium.”

Despite herself, the corner of her lips curled up. “You are such a fool.”

“You might be right.” He hopped down off the sill and padded over to where his pail of water sat. Dipped a ragged hand towel into the water and then washed off his face and the nape of his neck. “But I’m a fool that’s defied the odds thus far. Even managed to charm the Nightmare Lady into tolerating his presence.”

She scowled at him. “You have not charmed me.”

“Beguiled? Mesmerized? The alternatives sound far worse.” He flinched as she pretended to throw the apple at him, then laughed and took up the pail to drink several large gulps from it.

“Whatever the term, I’ll continue your training. It’s reminding me of things I’d forgotten. Opened avenues of exploration for my own development.” She sighed and bit another chunk from the apple.

“Excellent, thank you.” He wiped the smile from his face and bowed to her. “I don’t take even a moment of your time for granted.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, searching for a hint of mockery, but found none.

“Well,” she said, pushing off the wall. “You’ve so much to learn that I’m curious as to how much I can cram inside your brain before you die.”

“I love your motivation,” said Scorio, straightening. “Speaking of which, I got access to my locker last night.”

“You did?” She blinked at him. “How?”

“My friends helped me out. But it was all for naught. The locker was empty but for a name carved deep into the back wall. I think it’s a message from my previous self, telling me to check in with the Great Soul in question.”

Despite herself, she seemed intrigued. “What was the name?”

“Jova Spike. Which is as good as a dead end.”

“Jova Spike,” murmured Naomi pensively. “She’s a… Charnel Duke, isn’t she? Out at LastRock?”

“Was. She died a year or so ago and was reborn in my cohort. And, apparently, will turn me over to the authorities the moment I say hello. So, a dead-end for now.”

“You have my condolences,” said Naomi, her tone equivocal. “But at least you tried.”

“True.” He considered telling her of his plans to reach the Academy with his friends’ help, then decided not to tempt her ire. “So. Same training schedule as before?”

“Let’s change things up.” She took a final bite from the apple and then tossed it into the small pile of trash. “You can ignite your Heart, well and good. But you’ll often find yourself in a place that’s low on mana, or perhaps there’s plenty but it’s so thin that you’d need hours to draw in enough. How do you ignite then?”

Scorio hesitated. “Keep elixirs on me?”

“No.” Her frown was perfunctory. “You saturate your Heart and keep it saturated so that if later you need to ignite, you can do so immediately.”

“Oh,” said Scorio nodding. Then his face fell. “Oh.”

“Sit. Draw as much Coal into your Heart as you can.”

He dropped to a cross-legged position and did as he was bid; visualized his Heart, and then swept his will through the thin mana that suffused the room.

“Good. Now, holding the mana tight within your Heart, stand up.”

Scorio frowned and carefully, slowly, rose to his feet. It felt like trying to rise while balancing a glass of water atop a large sphere that he held in his palm. The mana within his Heart sloshed from side to side, seeping out here and there, but finally, he managed.

“There!” He focused on her, his smile immediate. “Did it!”

Naomi stepped forward and shoved him on the chest.

Scorio tripped backward, fought to regain his balance, and as he did the mana poured out of his Heart.

“Not as easy as it looks, is it?” asked Naomi.

“But when I was fighting that lobster monster—”

“Kitursk.”

“—I managed to draw mana into my Heart while running away from it. How come?”

“You weren’t trying to hold the mana in your Heart. You drew it in and ignited immediately. The act of saturating your Heart is like inhaling; anyone can do it under almost any condition. But holding the mana is like holding your breath; a babe can’t do so for more than a second or two, while a trained warrior can go minutes. As a Great Soul, you’ll train and improve until you can go days.”

“Days?” Scorio tried not to feel discouraged. “Very well. Again?”

“Yes. But pushing you is unfair. You need to learn to crawl before I start beating you about the neck and shoulders with a stick.”

“Beating—?”

“So first you’ll practice rising to your feet and walking from one end of the room to the other. When you can cross the room four times without losing a drop, we’ll make it a little more challenging.”

“Got it.” Scorio nodded decisively and dropped to the ground once more. “You want to meet up later when I’ve mastered it?”

“Mastered it?” She smiled in dark amusement. “Oh, no, I’m going to sit here and watch. Wouldn’t want to miss your moment of imminent ‘mastery’ for the world.”

Scorio snorted, closed his eyes, and got to work.

It was surprisingly difficult. The effort wasn’t one of will, but of balance. His Heart, which had always seemed so stable within its void, suddenly felt like a precarious vessel; the slightest distraction on his part, the merest loss of focus caused its hermetic walls to weaken and for mana to pour forth.

“It’s simply a question of practice,” said Naomi as he lost the mana for a third time before reaching the far wall. “Also, don’t forget that you’re working with Coal; it resists manipulation, has all the subtlety of an avalanche of gravel. Have patience, don’t grow frustrated, and try again.”

It was easy to tell him not to grow frustrated. Sometimes the mana would slip forth before he’d taken a few steps; sometimes he’d hold onto it right up to the point where he was about to touch the wall, but the very excitement of having almost achieved that record would destabilize him in turn.

But slowly, painfully, he made progress. By the time First Clay become First Rust, he’d managed to touch the far wall and return across the room, feeling all the while as if he were balancing spinning plates all over his body.

“That’s enough for now. Well done. I saw Great Souls who for weeks couldn’t rise to their feet without losing focus. You seem particularly motivated today.”

He smiled gratefully and remained silent again about his plans for the next Eighthday. If he was going to fight alongside Lianshi and Leonis, he wanted to be at his absolute best. He’d do whatever it took to maximize his gains before then.

“What now?” he asked, stomach gurgling with hunger.

“Let’s go for a walk,” said Naomi, rising to her feet.

“A walk?”

“A walk. You’re locked in the habit of all Cinders, where you must stop and focus, even close your eyes, to tell the quality of the mana around you. We’re going to walk, and you’re going to try and sense the quality, density, and quantity of the mana around you as we go.”

Scorio nodded slowly. “You can obviously do that yourself?”

Her smile was just shy of mocking. “Of course.”

“Great. Can our walk loop by a gruel fountain?”

“It can.”

They walked for the entirety of First Rust, moving slowly through the ruins, Naomi prompting him to check every now and again when the mana around them changed. The best he could do was narrow his eyes as he summoned his Heart, and only then get a rough sense of what manner of mana lay about them; his walk would slow, and he’d grow almost oblivious to the world around them as he focused on the dark clouds.

Each time he lost track of where he was, Naomi would shove him, sending him sprawling. Each time he bit back his anger, bowed his head in apology, and rose to try again.

And it was fascinating. At first, all Coal mana had seemed the same to him, but now that he was focusing exclusively on its properties, he started to sense fine differences. In some areas the mana moved fluidly through the air, blowing past him like a low wind; in others, it hung still and stagnant, heavy like a shroud.

“The slower the mana moves, the denser it is,” Naomi told him. “What is better, denser or lighter mana?”

“Denser,” said Scorio immediately. “The more mana is present around me, the quicker I can fill my Heart.”

“The answer is: it depends.” Naomi walked along the edge of the ruined street, constantly glancing about them as they went. “Dense mana doesn’t move, which means you‘ve got to move instead if there isn’t sufficient mana to power your techniques. The more insubstantial the mana, the more it will flow into areas that have been drained, so that you might be able to remain stationary and let the mana come to you.”

“So it’s all the same?” Scorio glanced sidelong at her. “You have to move to suck up dense mana, or stand still to let light mana come to you?”

“It’s not all the same. Some densities are such that you can fuel your power from one small area alone. Others are so light that no amount washing over you will allow you to ignite. You simply must be aware of the nature of the mana around you, and adapt your battle plan accordingly. That’s not to mention how Great Souls can weaponize their use of mana to the detriment of their foes.”

“How so?”

She smiled. “We’re getting further than what you need to know but suffice to say the more adept a Great Soul is at controlling and siphoning mana from the area, the better they can deprive their foes of the very same mana. One of the trainers at the Academy while I was there had this ability to draw on the mana around her foes, leaving them in empty bubbles and depriving them of fuel.”

“Oh…” said Scorio, picturing it. “So you can win a fight just by preventing your foe from drawing on the ambient mana?”

“Unless, of course, they’ve mastered the ability to saturate their Hearts ahead of time,” said Naomi. “Though techniques will burn through reserved mana quickly, forcing all but the greatest of Great Souls to reach out to that which is around them. Of course, that all changes when you reach Pyre Lord.”

Scorio nodded thoughtfully, knowing better than to ask for more details.

“It’s also why Great Souls leave Bastion once they grow more powerful,” continued Naomi, turning onto an avenue that Scorio knew led into Bastion proper four blocks away. “Even Iron will barely sustain a Flame Vault or Dread Blaze without their focusing on mana manipulation. Pyre Lords and up are supposed to feel as if they’re asphyxiating.”

“Huh. Except the closer they get to the Pit, the better the mana?”

Naomi nodded. “So don’t believe everything they tell you about our most powerful members dedicating themselves solely to the war against the fiends. They’re out there mostly to take advantage of the higher quality mana. Rare is the Great Soul that will settle for weaker technique to remain in Bastion.”

“Praximar is a Pyre Lord,” pointed out Scorio.

“Praximar is a weak excuse for a Pyre Lord,” said Naomi, “who is content to lord his rank over everyone else at the expense of never gaining more power. It’s a miracle he passed Dread Blaze.”

Scorio walked in silence for a few moments, avoiding clumps of rocks and ankle-twisting cracks, and then smiled at her. “You seem very knowledgeable about all this, given that you claimed to know next to nothing before.”

Naomi blushed and looked away angrily. “I overheard a few things while sweeping the Academy’s halls. Found some hidden places from which I could listen in on lectures.”

“I’m sure you did. Were any of them hidden passageways? We used one last night to access the basilica.”

She couldn’t resist a complicit smile. “They might have been.”

He laughed. “I bet the Academy is riddled with them.”

“You’ve no idea,” said Naomi. “There are degrees of secret passages. Those known by the servants who use them for shortcuts. Those known by the bulk of the students, those the trainers turn a blind eye to being used, those that you’d get in real trouble for using, and then all the genuinely secret ones that aren’t on the maps.”

“Huh.” Scorio mulled that over. “Any that allow students to get out of the Academy? Or others to get in?”

“Sure,” said Naomi, “but those are dangerous to use.”

Scorio nodded soberly.

They entered Bastion, made their way to one of the gruel plazas, and there lined up to refill their pails. They stood in companionable silence, shuffling forward every few moments, until Naomi said lightly, gaze resting easily on the rooftops across from them, “Don’t look, but there’s a man dressed in black robes on the northern side of the plaza who’s trying very hard not to glare at you.”

Scorio stiffened but then forced himself to relax. Kept his gaze on the great clamshell fountain, watching as an elderly lady laboriously dipped her pail into the simmering, pale green gruel. “That so?”

And casually he knelt to tighten his sandal, and while doing so looked toward the north.

A round-shouldered man in faded black robes immediately looked away and then slipped into a side street and was gone.

“Great,” said Scorio softly, rising once more to his feet. “I think I recognized him. Part of a crew that works the Narrows. They waylaid me when I first went to see Dola.”

“Had to happen eventually,” said Naomi. “You’d best be much more careful, moving forward.”

Scorio scowled and pulled his hood lower over his face. “Should we leave?”

“We’re only four spots from the fountain. No. If they give us trouble, I’ll take care of it.” Naomi sniffed. “I don’t want to have stood here for an hour for nothing.”

Scorio watched the plaza’s edges carefully until they dunked their pails in and walked away, hurrying back toward the ruins. He insisted on a more circuitous route, and only breathed easy when they slid back into the shattered streets of gray stone.

That afternoon Naomi taught him what she called the First Form; it was a slow and elaborate dance against invisible opponents, each step laid out, each blow pre-determined. It reminded Scorio of his rhythm work against her, where they traded parries and blows, but this was one he could work alone.

High up on the rooftop, Amber giving way to Second Bronze, he walked the capital “I” shape of the form, starting at the base, moving to his left with a series of blocks and blows, then returning to move to the right, then striding up the length of the center, to turn to the left at the end, back to the right, and then return to the same spot where he’d begun.

“It’s pretty simple,” he grumbled, feeling decidedly unimpressed.

“Watch,” said Naomi with an amused smile, moving to take his place.

Scorio stepped to the edge of the roof and crossed his arms.

Something came over his trainer. Her whole body tensed without moving a muscle, as if the very air about her had begun to coil. Smooth as silk she wheeled to her left and flowed through the series of blows, each movement precise, each blow violent yet controlled. Retracted, spun to face the other side, continued.

And it really did become a dance. With no effort at all, he could visualize her opponents, could see their strikes being blocked, her own blows destroying them.

There was a logic to it. The movements weren’t arbitrary, but rather a choreograph that might have been drawn from an actual fight of a master. He’d have thought it so were it not for the artificial mirroring that happened on either side.

When finally she drew back to her starting space, she inhaled audibly, and Scorio felt the mana around them shiver, only for it to settle as she exhaled once more.

“What was that?” he asked, impressed.

Naomi relaxed, and the intensity blew away like smoke in the wind. “The First Form marries precision with intent, control with aggression. Ambitious, hungry Great Souls like yourself find it hard to dedicate time to, but in time it’ll become natural for you to move through its steps, and when it does, you’ll learn how to inhale and exhale mana from your Heart as you go. It’s the first step on the road that leads to your reflexively drawing as much mana as you need when you need it.”

“Reflexively?” Scorio’s eyes widened. “You mean I won’t even need to think about it?”

“Not at the higher ranks, no. I still need to, myself, but when I truly lose myself in the Forms, I catch a glimpse of what it will be like as a Tomb Spark.” Her smile was genuine, and her face was flushed with something that might have been exhilaration.

“It’s been a while since you did the First Form, hasn’t it?” he asked.

Naomi frowned, sighed, then kicked a rock, sending it skipping over the lopsided rooftop to disappear into the air. “It has. Perhaps for that very reason.”

They sparred then, a good hour of working on technique and going back and forth, with Naomi setting limitations or goals for him to work around or towards. When finally the clouds ceased to burn off before Second Rust and began to wind their way up to spiral around the sun-wire, presaging Second Clay, she called for them to stop.

“It’s been a good day. You’ve got lots to work on. But for now, I want you to go for a walk through the ruins instead of a run. As you go, try to draw in as much mana as you can. Hold it, and when you think you’ve reached your limit, try to draw a little bit more.”

“Oversaturation?” asked Scorio from where he’d dropped into an exhausted crouch, sweat running from his face.

“Oversaturation,” agreed Naomi. “Don’t ignite. You need to stretch your Heart to its greatest extent, deepen it to the point where you can barely ignite it. That’s the only way you’ll ever make Emberling, and the first step is in testing your limits.” Her eyes gleamed. “Might as well do it while walking.”

“Got it.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you. See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed. “And be careful. Now that I’ve really started your training, I’d hate to lose you to some stupid accident.”

He laughed. “I’ll do my best. Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She moved to the edge of the roof where she hesitated.

“Naomi?”

She turned back to him, about to say something. But then he visibly saw her change her mind. She gave him a tight smile. “Be safe.” And only then did she drop out of view.

“I will,” he said softly. Picking up his sodden towel, he stepped to the roof’s edge and leaped down to the great block just below his window. Climbed inside and drained the water pail dry.

He allowed himself five minutes to rest and eat a quarter of his gruel, and then, replacing the lid, stood with a sigh.

Time to get back to his training.

Grabbing his rope and burlap sack, he paused, an idea occurring to him, and turned to the hundred or so small reeds he’d been whittling during the few moments before sleep. He placed them carefully in the sack, and then slipped out and down into the street.

The sun-wire was dimming, the clouds of steam rising in ragged, curling tendrils into the sky, and the temperature slowly getting cooler. Moving through the deep, bloody dusk, he focused on Naomi’s instructions and attempted to draw in Coal as he walked.

It was an exercise in frustration, but he kept at it, at times managing to reach saturation while keeping his wits about him. Each time he tried to draw in more Coal, however, he’d begin to lose focus, would panic, and release the mana to regain his clarity of vision.

Wandering around the ruins half-blind was the best way to get yourself killed. Still, it kept him busy, so that he was almost surprised when he made the final turn and saw the brutal bridge over his chasm ahead.

Suppressing the flicker of excitement, he jogged forward. They’re all gone, he told himself. Something ate them up. Or they failed to grow. It’ll be a big, barren expanse of rock and nothing more. Relax, don’t get excited.

He jogged right up to the chasm’s edge and peered down, into the gloom and fiery glow, to look at his island.

“Yes!” He straightened and punched the air, a wash of elation and satisfaction coursing through him.

Then he just stood there, staring down at the little island, feeling pitifully proud as his throat closed and his eyes prickled, hands on his hips, lips pursed as he fought the emotions roiling within him.

“All right. Enough. Just get down there and take a look. Calm down already.” And with a deep breath, he dug out the steel rod, tied the cradle to its length, and made his way down to the second ledge.

The albino spidercrabs below paused once more, forelegs waving before them as if they’d suddenly lost the ability to see and were fumbling in the dark, but Scorio ignored them. He ignited his Heart, took a deep breath, and he burst forward into a flying leap.

Out into the air, and then falling, faster and faster, till he activated the rod and jerked to a stop. Clutching at it with both hands, he swung, allowed the rod to release, and this time simply dropped all the way to land in a crouch at the island’s edge.

And there he marveled at the hundred and fifty or so slender plants that had thrust their way out of the black soil to probe at the air, luscious black petals opening wide to reveal their complex, patterned hearts to the cloying winds of Coal.

This time he stood up and was unable to restrain a booming laugh; he felt larger, taller, bursting with energy. Filling his lungs, enjoying the sensation of his chest expanding, he carefully stepped forward, placing his sandals between the delicate Black Star flowers as he crossed the island slowly.

A hundred and fifty-five plants. He’d not expected them to grow so quickly, but two Eighthdays and the sheer weight of Coal mana down here had been enough.

After endless cycles spent hunting down an errant plant, after all the risks he’d taken to reach them at their most hidden and recondite, it was stunning to see so many growing in orderly rows before him.

Reaching into his sack, he drew forth a slender reed. He’d cut them so that one end terminated at a node, while the other was a narrow spike. Carefully lowering himself to his knees, he pressed the sharp tip against a flower’s stem, and slowly inserted it at an angle, just deep enough to ensure it would cross the central channel.

The treatise had recommended little cups placed beneath each straw, but Scorio had decided to keep things simple; the open, spiked end in the plant would draw the bead of mana down into the reed, where it would roll and come to a stop at the node’s partitioning wall.

To harvest the mana, he’d simply draw the reed out, upend it into a small container, and let the bead roll back out.

Better yet, this would keep the bead hidden, trapped within the reed, and perhaps preventing flying scavengers from noticing it too easily.

Scorio delicately inserted the reed, then slowly withdrew his hands, watching it intently. The fibrous nature of the stem clutched it tightly, and it didn’t look likely to slide out. Would the weight of the bead cause it to drop?

Only one way to find out.

Reaching into his sack, he drew out another reed and turned to the next plant. Smiling contentedly, humming under his breath, he set to work.

Chapter 30

The next Eighthday finally arrived, and Scorio left his room before First Clay dawned to take a torturously long and circuitous route to their agreed-upon rendezvous spot. He jogged most of the way to burn off some of his nervous energy, slowing only to indulge in mana retention exercises which he soon found himself too impatient to excel at. Each time he started to find a measure of equilibrium his thoughts would stray to what they were about to attempt this day cycle, and his mana would spill out of his heart like water from an elbowed cup.

He arrived too early and found a recessed doorway in which to wait. Watching as the bloody light of First Clay finally gave way to First Bronze, he forced himself to breathe slowly, trying again and again to focus on the ambient mana, relishing the faint wisps of Copper that he sensed streaming through the air. Thin, obviously, with no great regenerative rate, but still more potent and pliable than that which he was used to. Eyes narrowed, he focused on nudging the wisps toward his Heart, guiding them as one might eels slipping through a pond, the touches of his paddle gentle, cautious.

The copper mana felt smooth to the touch, lithe somehow, limber. Where Coal was a great and static mass, a crunchy cloud that reluctantly obeyed the force of his will, the copper was almost too supple, slippery to the point of infuriating. Each sliver he pulled into his Heart felt alive and vital, swirling about within the obsidian confines as if seeking a way out.

So involved did he become in the analysis that he didn’t see his friends approach; one moment he was staring blankly out into the alleyway from his doorway, the next they were both there, both of them freshly scrubbed, hair still damp, wearing sturdy combat robes with reinforced patches neatly sewed onto their elbows and knees.

“Scorio?” Lianshi bent her head down to enter his line of sight and gave him a little wave. “You there?”

He blinked and smiled self-consciously at them. “Hey, good morning. You made it.”

“We did,” said Leonis, hands on his hips, standing in the alleyway as if it were his private quarters, at ease and confident. “You think we’d be late? We’ve been looking forward to this.”

“A chance to test what we’ve learned,” agreed Lianshi. “To put into practice what has been only theory and training.”

“You’ll get your chance,” said Scorio, glancing both ways before stepping out of the doorway and pulling down his hood. “Let’s get going.”

“Are you all right?” Lianshi fell in companionably beside him. “You look…”

“Nervous,” completed Leonis.

“Maybe just a little.” Scorio led them south along the avenue, staying to one side. “Just trying to avoid attention. There’s a lady looking to have a word with me.”

“A lady, hey?” Leonis grinned. “I see you haven’t just been training out here. Must be nice, to not be supervised at all hours.”

“No,” laughed Scorio. “No, nothing like that. The thought of me and Dola… no. No no no. She runs a team of… how to put it? Mercenaries, I guess. A criminal ring that helps the Houses acquire goods from each other indirectly.”

He could feel both of their stares.

“What? Oh—right. You’ve probably not been told.” And he spent most of the walk south toward the ruins telling them what he’d learned, how the Houses employed teams to steal from each other, which naturally led to his explaining how he’d become involved, who Dola was, and why he’d finally chosen to run away with the sapphire vials.

“Sapphire vials?” Leonis let out a low whistle. “I can understand your motivation. The most powerful Great Souls in Bastion need that kind of quality mana or lose their power. Someone very important must have become very upset when their shipment failed to materialize.”

“So now she’s looking for you?” Lianshi glanced about uneasily. They’d left the nicer wards behind, and were now moving through Ward 4, which was a few wards rotated around from his own immediate ward. Still, it felt as familiar as Ward 1; the buildings were run down, the streets crisscrossed by drying laundry, the paint faded, the promise of the encroaching ruins just a breath away.

“Yes. But that’s nothing for you both to be concerned with. Let’s just get into the ruins.” Scorio picked up the pace. The farther south they’d come, the more Lianshi and Leonis had stood out, their robes spotless, their fresh faces speaking of good food and privilege.

The ruins reared up before them at last, and to Scorio it felt like coming home; the blasted buildings, the hollow windows like gauged-out eyes, the streets strewn with rubble and chips of stone, the omnipresent and brutal gray.

His companions both slowed as they walked their first block, Lianshi leaping aside as a large piece of slate cracked apart under her foot.

“Incredible,” breathed Leonis, trying to take it all in at once. “I’ve seen the ruins overhead from the Academy, but they’ve always felt so abstract. More a distant threat than a reality. And you live out here?”

“It’s not so bad,” said Scorio. “There’s beauty to be found. Its own strange ecology. Come on, we’ve got to cut radial to get back to my own area. Then we’ll strike south. Just wait till you see some of the wildlife.”

Scorio found himself taking an almost proprietary pleasure in showing his friends the hidden wonders of the ruins; led them down rough streets whose walls were covered in dormant mollusks; showed them avenues down which thick, redolent rivers of Coal mana poured like treacle; the numerous mana traps set out by enterprising harvesters; chasms that plunged down into the dark depths.

“And this is with us hugging the border next to Bastion. Wait till we strike in deeper,” said Scorio, glancing up and gauging how far they’d come. “Actually, we can turn inwards now. Remember, the deeper we go, the more dangerous it becomes.”

The other two followed in silence, taking everything in, moving with admirable silence as he led them down a familiar street. He felt a combination of pleasure and strangeness to be walking along the broken sidewalk with his friends in tow.

“What’s that?” whispered Lianshi, dropping to a crouch and staring down a side street in awe.

Scorio stepped back, looked down the street, and saw a medium-sized nautilus floating a few feet above the pavement, its black shell raggedly striped with crimson, its tentacles floating out behind it, drinking in the mana.

“Amazing, right?” Scorio grinned at them. “I’ve never gotten close enough to see if they’re dangerous, but they’re pretty rare. You’re lucky to see one on your first outing.”

“It’s flying,” said Leonis.

“Kind of.” Scorio watched the graceful and alien creature slowly approach. “I don’t think it has too much control over where it goes. They tend to just drift with the mana.”

“It’s so large,” said Lianshi. “So beautiful. I’d no idea something like this was out here.”

“Medium-sized,” corrected Scorio. “I once saw one that was easily seven or so yards in diameter. Drained the entire street of mana as it went.”

Leonis just shook his head in wonder.

They continued deeper into the ruins, Scorio guiding them around the worst threats and avoiding the dangerous zones until at last First Rust gave away to the brighter, brassier First Bronze, and he slowed, dropping into a crouch behind a rooftop’s jagged retaining wall.

The other two did the same and peered at the final stretch of ruined blocks that lay before the Portal wall.

“There’s the old academy, see?” Scorio nodded ahead, not needing to point; the vast building was obvious, as was the stretch of hellish urban landscape between them.

“Strange,” said Leonis. “It looks like a nightmare version of our own.”

Lianshi curled her fingers around her ear reflexively, as if tucking away a strand, though none had escaped her thick braid. “Amazing. To think that was once vibrant and filled with life. It looks like a mausoleum.”

“The trick will be getting there.” Scorio shifted his weight and pointed. “See that broad bridge that flies straight like an arrow toward the Academy? That mass of rocks at its far end on the right is where the black toad lives. Now, west over that way, see that series of shattered gray fields? That’s actually a covered market of some kind, I think. The white worm monster lives inside it. And to the east, that way? Those towering buildings, all pressed tightly together? That’s where I’ve seen that strange shadow-jumping fiend.”

“We’ve spoken endlessly about it,” said Leonis. “We want to tackle the toad.”

Lianshi nodded firmly, though her face had grown pale. “The shadow beast sounds the worst—its ability to appear and disappear will be extremely hard to counter. The white worm sounds both disgusting and benefits to a degree from the same ability to surprise us.”

“But the toad,” said Leonis, shifting his weight. “You described it as oozing tar-like Coal mana, right?”

“Right,” said Scorio. “What of it?”

“I spoke with Feng, one of our trainers. He’s an expert on fiends.” Leonis turned to sit, putting his back to the retaining wall. “When a fiend’s oozing mana like that, it means they’re an engorger; they’ll find a truly deep well of their mana type and just float in it, like a fish in water, till their very substance becomes infused. You’ve heard how we can cannibalize our own Hearts in time of great need for power?”

“And how we shouldn’t,” said Scorio.

“Right. Engorgers can do the same. They can fuel their powers with their own, hyper-infused substance. They basically don’t run out of power.”

Scorio nodded slowly. “And this helps us how?”

Leonis grinned. “They’re walking reservoirs of mana. Which means a hungry Great Soul can draw on them as if they were an ambient cloud. It’s harder, but theoretically, we could drain him dry from a distance.”

“At the very least weaken him,” said Lianshi. “I doubt the three of us combined have the capacity to destroy him.”

“Wait.” Scorio licked his lower lip, thoughts tumbling. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Nope,” said Leonis, clearly excited.

“It can’t be as easy as harvesting ambient mana. And that’s something I—well.” Scorio bit back his pride. “I’m working on it.”

Leonis smiled, eyes disappearing as laugh lines radiated out broadly from their corners. “Don’t worry. We’ve got some practice between us, Lianshi and I. Here’s the plan. You’ll walk down the bridge. Draw it out. We’ll climb along the underside, out of sight. When it appears, we’ll drain it, you finish it off.”

“It’s a terrible plan,” apologized Lianshi.

“It does sound… risky.” Scorio sat back on his heels. “Its tongue paralyzes its prey.”

“We’ll disrupt the effect with our draining,” said Leonis.

“I’ve a less glamorous but safer idea,” said Lianshi. “We wait for some natural prey to stumble along, and when the toad attacks, so do we. Drain from a distance, and then close and kill it.”

“A worthy plan,” said Leonis in a dismissive tone, “but Scorio, tell us if you will: how often does prey come across this area?”

“Not often,” said Scorio. “I’ve seen it strike twice over the course of several days.”

Leonis gave Lianshi a fake smile. “Alas.”

“This is what I’m thinking,” said Scorio. He’d been mulling this plan over in his mind over the course of the past Eighthday, examining it from every angle as he trained. “You two cross over the narrow part of the chasm to the west over there with my bridge.” And here he took it out from within his robes and balanced it on his palm. “That promontory is far enough away that it shouldn’t attract the toad, but you’d best move quick not to draw the shadow beast. You’ll then make your way back being careful to not be seen. Meanwhile, I’ll cross the bridge—”

Leonis nodded approvingly.

“—and I’ll have my chalk handy.” He drew it out next. It was down to a quarter of its original length, and the thought of losing it gave Scorio a pang of mild panic. “When the toad emerges, I’ll draw a line before me to block its tongue attack. That’s got to use up some of its mana reserves. Once the attack is foiled, I’ll slip around the invisible wall and wait for its second attack, and block that. I’ll keep blocking till it gives up, by which point it will hopefully be partially drained already. Originally, I’d thought you both could attack it from behind, but perhaps that’s when you can launch your drain attack.”

Both were nodding slowly.

“I like it,” said Lianshi. “We weaken it, drain it further, and then when we’re ready we all close in for the kill.”

“Feng said engorged fiends are very advanced, and can be quite intelligent,” warned Leonis. “So don’t underestimate it.”

“Then maybe we’ll drive it off,” said Lianshi. “That would be even better. If it’s smart enough to know it’s been outwitted, it might just flee.”

“Feng also said that engorged fiends have incredibly rich heartstones. So if we do kill it, we’ll profit greatly.”

“Heartstone?” asked Scorio.

“The focal point of their powers,” said Leonis in a business-like tone. “The more powerful the beast, the more potent the heartstone, and the more mana or derivatives that can be extracted from it via alchemy. Heartstones form the basis of most elixir and pill creation, as well as being the foundation of mana traps.”

“Got it,” thought Scorio, thinking the kitursk heartstone he had back in his chamber. “Interesting. Are they valuable?”

“Can be,” said Leonis. “Depends on the Heartstone. But sure. I mean, the Academy has to get its pills and treasures from somewhere, right? And those folks have to have the resources to make them.”

“Right,” said Scorio, rubbing pensively at his jaw. “Right.”

“So,” said Lianshi, rubbing her palms nervously on her thighs. “Is that the plan? We cross with your bridge, you wait for us to signal you, then you cross in turn?”

“At what range can you begin draining?” asked Scorio.

Leonis frowned. “About ten yards? We’ll have to get in very close. Best if you distract it before we move in.”

Ten yards. Scorio could barely sense his iron bar at three. But he bit back his bitterness and nodded decisively. “Sounds like a plan to me. You both ready?”

Leonis held out his hand for the bridge, then examined it, turning it about. “This is a potent treasure. You really lucked out in finding that corpse in the caverns.”

“I know it,” said Scorio softly. “I still mean to honor Radert at some point. Without his treasures, I’d have died down there.”

“Lucky for us all you didn’t,” said Lianshi. “Let’s get moving. Good luck!”

“Good luck!” said Scorio back, and her smile was bright and hopeful as she gave a small wave and scooted off down the length of the retaining wall toward a western drop-off point.

“Play it safe,” said Leonis, giving him a light punch in the shoulder, and then he, too, hurried off, bent over nearly double behind the wall.

He watched as they scaled down the building, made their way carefully a good two blocks west, losing sight of them intermittently, then saw Leonis creep out onto the jutting outcropping and activate the bridge.

Scorio had to stifle a laugh when both Leonis and Lianshi jerked in surprise as the bridge exploded forth, extending out over the fiery gorge at a steep angle and then dropping down to lie solidly across the chasm.

The two Great Souls wasted no time, however, and raced across, collecting the bridge when it retracted, going to ground amongst the distant ruins.

His turn.

Scorio slid and hopped, jumped from rock to ledge, until he reached the fragmented avenue that culminated in the broad bridge.

Nothing moved. First Bronze was still bright all around them, the shadows attenuated, the light bright and syrupy.

Taking a deep breath, Scorio began to stride toward the bridge, chalk in hand. The toad struck with terrible speed—he’d have to be ready to scrawl his line the moment it appeared, because by the time he saw it the tongue would already be hurtling toward him.

Scorio stepped onto the bridge and paused. His skin goosebumped with nerves. Were his friends in place? Was he timing it right?

No way to know but to proceed.

Moving carefully, not wanting to look too brazen, he made his way across. The bridge was easily five or six yards wide, a massive stretch of rock without guard rails or any distinguishing features. Just a broad expanse of gray, cracked stone that extended over the roiling furnace-like depths below.

He kept his gaze fixed on the demolished house at the far end of the bridge. Was that movement? No. Or—no. Not yet.

He was about halfway when the toad appeared. One moment the landscape was desolate, and then it was there, having hopped up onto a rough-edged boulder, facing him with all the stillness of an eerie statue, massive and malevolent.

Its back and legs were black as the densest shadows, Coal mana oozing off it like thick oil onto the boulder. Its stomach and the soft underside of its jaw however were a lighter gray, the skin dusty and textured like that of an old man.

But its face. Its brows above each blank hollow where an eye should have been extended up into sharp ridges that were almost horns, and there was a depth of intelligence to the cast of its impossibly broad mouth that made Scorio think it was smiling, smirking, perhaps, pleased with itself and contemptuous of the world.

All this he registered in a fraction of a second, and then he was down on one knee, ripping the chalk across the rock as a sense of motion hurtled at him, a dark cloud, a burst of violence.

A second later a large, oily black cushion spludged against the invisible wall thrown up by the chalk-line, compressing and wiggling just a foot from Scorio’s face, spattering gray mucus to the sides as he felt an explosion of Coal mana.

Reflex kicked in, and Scorio fell back on his ass as he jerked away, just as the tongue retracted, shooting back into the toad’s gaping maw with impossible speed.

It shifted in annoyance upon its boulder, as if seeking a better stance to compensate for its failure.

Scorio waited, expecting his friends to begin their assault, and then remembered he was meant to draw out as many tongue strikes as he could. Summoning his courage, he rose, stepped around the invisible wall, and began striding toward the toad once more, chalk held at the ready.

It ceased its fractional adjustments, and then once more launched its tongue, the strike almost too quick for Scorio even though he was prepared. Even so, he barely got a foot of chalk drawn out before the tongue impacted, spattering him with gluey mucus and another wash of Coal.

The goo was gray and impossibly sticky; his robes immediately congealed and held together wherever dollops sprayed him, and he resisted the urge to wipe a wet mass off his chin for fear that his sleeve would stick to his face.

Taking another deep breath, he hurried around the barrier, chalk hand trembling with anticipation. The toad moved its bulk back a little, wiggling from side to side as if unsure, and then instead of attacking again it hopped down and off the rock.

Immediately Scorio sensed the Coal mana in the air begin to swirl, and saw thick, black vapor begin to stream from the toad’s form toward where his friends were no doubt hidden behind a screen of fallen rocks.

Scorio broke into a run, pounding across the rest of the bridge as the toad oriented itself on Leonis and Lianshi. Its form was lightening, the loss of the black smoke causing the dense darkness of its back and limbs to pale.

But then, before Scorio could draw mana into his Heart, it opened its mouth and inhaled.

All the Coal mana in the air rushed toward it in a roar, draining the air in seconds, a vast and powerful inhalation that caused its cheeks to balloon out grotesquely even as its hide turned jet once more.

Scorio staggered, almost lost his balance, the paddle of his will suddenly finding nothing to work on. The immediate area had been completely scoured of mana.

Leonis and Lianshi’s burst out of hiding, each running in an opposite direction as they abandoned their cover, and the toad edged first one way then the other, picking a target.

“Hey,” shouted Scorio, racing forward, trying to close the distance, waving his arms as he went. “Look at me! Hey, toad head, look at me!”

His friends weren’t moving with the alacrity of ignited Hearts; they’d lost whatever mana they’d built up.

As such, Leonis was unable to duck when the toad finally gulped down all the drained mana, opened its mouth, and hit him with its elongated tongue, slamming the oily, mucus-covered tip into his side, engulfing his arm and hip.

“No!” Lianshi cut back from the angle she’d been running to intercept, but she’d gone out too wide.

Leonis went stiff, eyes bulging, and the tongue retracted, hauling him through the air as if he were little more than an insect.

Scorio dug the steel rod out from his robes, took three lunging steps, and leaped at the expanse of tongue right before him.

And as he flew forward, he reached out with his will, yearned to find some wisp of Coal, the faintest hint of power.

There—already the mana was regenerating, the locale so rich in power that it had attracted the toad in the first place. A few wisps, just enough for him to desperately swirl them about his Heart as he came crashing down upon the tongue, and stabbed the rod into its glistening gray expanse, pinning it to the ground.

In that very moment, he swept mana into the treasure and felt it lock into place.

The toad let out a panicked Uarghp! sound as it strained back, yanking at its tongue, and then Lianshi was by Leonis’s side, grabbing his free arm and trying to haul him free.

“Stop!” shouted Scorio, pulling forth his knife and placing its edge across the taut skin of the tongue. “Release my friend or I’ll cut straight through!”

The toad ceased its backpedaling, its chest heaving, the ropey muscles along its large limbs straining. Oriented its blind face toward him and Scorio felt the cone of its attention fall upon him like a mantle.

“Release my friend,” said Scorio deliberately, climbing up to his knees and then standing. “I’m going to count to three—”

“Can’t,” said the toad awkwardly around its outstretched tongue. Its voice was gravelly and low, just shy of a croak.

Scorio froze. “So you can speak.”

Coal mana was slowly trickling into the air as it regenerated, and Scorio felt a blaze of pressure from Lianshi. She must have ignited her Heart. With a cry that was half-panic, half-outrage, she tore Leonis off the tongue, long strands of gluey ooze stretching in thick ropes from him to the great blob at the end of the tongue as it dropped to the ground.

Thinking quickly, Scorio swept more Coal mana about his Heart, but instead of igniting he restored the quickly expended amount within the rod, renewing its duration.

“Make leal,” croaked the toad, edging closer to remove some of the strain.

“Leal?” Scorio hesitated, knife still pressed firmly to the tongue.

“Wileathe tongue and I go,” it responded, taking another few steps closer.

Scorio glanced at Lianshi, but she had Leonis propped up on her lap, his expression still dazed, eyes staring unblinkingly at nothing.

“How can I trust you?” It felt like a stupid question to ask, but nothing else came to mind.

“Thwear it,” croaked the toad, tone growing increasingly distressed. “Thwear on heartthtone.”

Again Scorio swept Coal into the rod. He rippled his fingers on the handle of the blade. If the creature was lying to him, it’d attack the moment he withdrew the rod. But with Leonis down and it able to drain the air of mana, how much of a fight could they put up against it anyway?

And something about its tone. The anxious way it was waddling forward, hesitant, half-panicked.

“Fine,” said Scorio, taking hold of the rod. “I’ll hold you to your oath.” And when the rod’s mana burned away, he pulled it up and back.

The toad’s tongue shot back into its maw, its lips sealed tightly, and its soft throat worked several times as if it were swallowing or working its tongue about.

Breathing heavily, Scorio watched it, chalk held at the ready.

But then the huge toad turned slowly, tensed, and leaped away, its leap carrying it completely over the tumbled house of fallen blocks, to fall out of sight on the far side.

“Leonis?” asked Scorio, hurrying to where Lianshi was pouring water over the large man’s face.

“Why’s it always got to be me that falls first?” murmured Leonis, blinking his eyes in a daze.

“He’s fine,” said Lianshi. “Let’s get him up and out of the open.”

“Agreed,” said Scorio, and together they led him, stumbling and dragging his feet, into the closest building.

Again Lianshi poured some water over Leonis’s face, and he reached up with clumsy hands to wipe it away.

“I’m all right,” he said, voice still thick. “Feeling’s coming back quick.”

“Talk about quick,” said Lianshi, “that was some good thinking out there with your steel rod.”

“Thanks,” said Scorio, still feeling jumpy and on edge. He moved to the doorway and peered out over the street. “No sign of the toad. You think it’ll honor its oath?”

Lianshi shrugged one shoulder. “We should move before we’re forced to find out.”

“I’m ready,” said Leonis, struggling to his feet. “Aurgh. That was disgusting.” He studied his slime-saturated robes and grimaced. “What a tragedy. Let’s go.”

They emerged cautiously from the building and examined the immediate environs. There was no sign of the toad. After careful scrutiny, Scorio led the way, moving at a lope along the catastrophized street till it gave way to another gulf, upon which they scrambled up onto a rough rubble-strewn field of a rooftop. He darted from boulder to eroded spire, up onto ledges and along the facades of gutted towers, till at last, they dropped back down before the Academy itself.

It loomed above them, dour and forbidding, its massive domes cracked and pitted with holes. The walls rose thick and mighty, pierced by windows whose depths defied the light of First Bronze. Here and there a buttress had collapsed, or an entire hall folded in upon itself, but it had survived the ravages of time with grim dignity.

Scorio drew a deep breath. “You ready? Naomi told me not to expect much within. That it would have been picked clean centuries ago.”

Leonis punched one hand into his other palm. “I’ve already received my day’s work-out from the toad. Everything after this is gravy.”

“And you never know,” whispered Lianshi, clearly awed by the grandeur of the soaring edifice. “Perhaps everyone’s been telling themselves the same things for centuries.”

“One way to find out,” said Scorio. “Here, Lianshi, hold onto the steel bar. You’ve got the bridge, Leonis?”

The large man nodded, patting his robe where the bridge no doubt safely lay.

“Then let’s see what we can find inside,” said Scorio, moving forward. “Let’s see what treasures may have been forgotten and await us within.”

Chapter 31

They entered through a rent in the wall, a tear that had spilled blocks of stone larger than wheelbarrows across the hallway within. The air was still, as if the ancient Academy were holding its breath, and great shafts of First Bronze light sluiced in through cracks high above, illuminating the buckled flagstones and the huge columns that stood like adumbrated giants within the gloom.

“Feels different,” whispered Leonis, turning in a circle as he went, gazing about with avid interest.

“Shocking observation,” said Lianshi from behind Scorio.

“No—I mean, the whole place, the atmosphere. The Academy proper feels alive, but this… this place feels drained. A husk. You feel it?”

And Scorio did. The ubiquitous gray of the ruins was present, of course, the walls cracked, the floor covered in detritus and large flakes of stone—but there was a sense of it being a cadaver, of walking through the bones of a giant long dead.

“Do you think the new Academy has the same floorplan as this old one?” asked Scorio as they drifted across the hall, careful not to dislodge any rocks or make noise.

“If so,” whispered Leonis, “then we’d be in the northern part. The domes at least looked the same, if larger.”

“Do we have a goal?” asked Lianshi, glancing into the rooms and narrowing her eyes over and over again. Belatedly, Scorio realized that she was summoning her darkvision as she peered into the gloomier corners.

“Let’s go to the lockers,” said Scorio. “Maybe there’s something left in our old ones worth revisiting.”

“Good idea,” said Leonis. “The main basilica would be directly ahead, if so. Follow me.”

The air was rich with Coal mana, but it was unsettled, swirling as if in a draft through the great rooms, the broad hallways, and up from the half-collapsed basements. Several times they were forced to turn back when either the flooring became too precarious, or they entered an area that was completely caved in.

They weren’t alone; crab-like creatures the size of Scorio’s fist scuttled away, hiding quickly whenever they entered sunlit rooms; great ferns grew from the naked rock, their delicate fronds waving gently back and forth as they drank of the mana streams. They backed out carefully of one chamber in whose depth a great, hissing serpent coiled, and Scorio never quite shook the feeling that they were being followed.

But by dint of sheer determination, they made their way deeper into the complex, igniting their Hearts when they had to leap over broader cervices or deploying the bridge when they came across completely sunken rooms. The interior of the old Academy didn’t map perfectly to the new one, but near enough that Leonis and Lianshi were able to guide Scorio ever onward, commenting quietly to each other how eerily similar certain segments were, pondering what new rooms could have been, arguing quietly about the value in trying to visit the vaults and off-limit areas that aroused their curiosity so back home.

Scorio remained quiet, testing the quality of the mana carefully as he went. He’d hoped for areas saturated in Copper or Iron, but found nothing but the endlessly flowing Coal, too insubstantial to nurture a large colony of mana feeders, too thin to even warrant coming here to train.

The Academy was barren, devoid of any signs of habitation, and only rarely did they come across scraps hanging from walls which might once have been tapestries or faded and badly worn murals, depicting indistinct heroes from that bygone era. Occasionally they stumbled across badly rusted metal fragments trapped under rocks, or the rare piece of wooden furniture that would collapse into dust and fragments if they touched it.

The cumulative effect was one of melancholy; the farther they walked, the more Scorio wondered if this wasn’t the future that awaited all of Bastion. Ten years, supposedly. That was all they had before every ward and even the new Academy became haunted copies of this desolation.

“Up ahead,” whispered Leonis. “The Aureate Hall. It opens to the basilica.”

They emerged from the narrow side corridor into the hall proper, and if Scorio squinted he thought he could recapture some faint echo of its former grandeur. The brilliant yellow light of Amber now poured in through the cracks in the ceiling high above, causing the floating motes of dust to glitter, and desiccated trees that centuries past had tried to grow here stood in all their brittle glory, rising from the ruined stone floor, their branches marble white.

“So eerie,” said Lianshi softly, turning in a circle to take in the large hall’s ruined splendor. “If I squint, I can almost see it… I wonder why they copied the layout so slavishly?”

“Must have meant something to them,” said Leonis, sandals crunching on the stone fragments. “But the double doors are there. Let’s take a look at the basilica proper.”

“What’s that?” asked Scorio, staring at a huge mosaic that dominated one wall. It was greatly faded, pocked with fallen stones, but the art was still striking; a tree dominated the center, its trunk banded by different materials, with fiends and heroes gathered around it.

“That’s the Path of Ascension,” said Leonis. “That’s right. You’ve not seen the one we have in our Academy.”

Scorio drew closer, drawn by the majesty of the mosaic. “Path of Ascension…” Half of the tree was its root system; these wound and coiled beneath the trunk like huge snakes, with the lowest tips gleaming jet black, then the band above a reddish-brown metal—

“Those are the ranks we ascend through,” he blurted out.

“He’s a quick one, he is,” said Leonis in amusement.

“Coal, then Copper…” Scorio traced the bands of colors as they rose up the roots. “Iron, then… is that Bronze? Silver, Gold…”

Lianshi stepped up beside him to gaze at the tree. “It’s the path we all follow. We start as Chars, lowest of the low, but then ignite our Hearts and become Cinders, leaving Coal for Copper. Then, as Emberlings, we burn Iron, only to move on and become Tomb Sparks and burn Bronze. Flame Vaults burn Silver, and finally Dread Blazes who burn Gold.”

Scorio drank in the sight. “Char to Cinder, Emberling to Tomb Spark, Dread Blaze to… Pyre Lord?”

“Pyre Lord,” confirmed Leonis, moving up on his other side. The base of the trunk that corresponded to that rank was a glittering green gemstone. “Sapphire. That’s where ol’ Praximar’s at. You can’t get higher and remain in Bastion.”

“Then what?” Scorio’s gaze rose higher to the sapphire band.

“Blood Baron.” Lianshi’s voice was hushed. “Few get so far. Above them are the Charnel Dukes like the White Queen with their Ruby mana.”

Scorio’s gaze rose higher, to the branches of the tree which glittered even now with glass-like beauty. “Is that Diamond?”

“Diamond,” confirmed Lianshi. “For the Crimson Earls. And the leaves—see those hundreds of grooves? They’re empty because Noumenon is too precious to waste on a mosaic like this. The final and most potent form of mana, found only at the Pit of hell itself.”

“Imperators.” Leonis’s voice had become grim. “Only been seventy-six of them in the whole history of Bastion.”

“Huh.” Scorio stepped back and took in the whole tree at once. “From Coal to Noumenon. Why is everyone up to Dread Blaze merely the roots?”

Lianshi’s tone turned wry. “Because supposedly it’s only once you ascend to Pyre Lord that your true journey begins. Everything before that is just preparation.”

Scorio wheeled to stare at her. “Preparation? Even Dread Blaze?”

She shrugged apologetically. “That’s when we Great Souls start developing our true powers. Shrouds, Ferulas, and such-like. We’ve not yet covered that material in class.”

“But I can’t wait to get mine,” rumbled Leonis. “Speaking of which, we done admiring the artwork? I thought we came here to find treasure.”

“Sure,” said Scorio, following after him toward the huge double doors. He looked back at the tree. His gaze lingered on the Coal-black tips of the roots and the copper band just above. The knowledge of how far he had to go was both dizzying and dismaying. “Let’s get to exploring.”

The trio crossed the massive hall, footsteps echoing with each brittle crunch, until at last, they reached the giant-sized doors. One lay askew on its hinges, as if wearied by the centuries and trying to catch its breath. Through that gap they stepped, and into the vast basilica, the huge dome floating so improbably overhead, the light of Amber pouring in through the forty or so narrow rectangular windows that encircled its base. Other tall windows punched into the massive walls along the flanks provided further illumination, but the room was so cavernous that even this light failed to dispel the twilight feel of the chamber.

“Look,” said Lianshi, reaching out to grab hold of Scorio’s arm. “The biers.”

Scorio saw them, hundreds arranged around a ruined Archspire, their surfaces resplendent as if they alone had been untouched by the ravages of time. Many were toppled over, a good many crushed by the collapse of the upper half of the Archspire or the falling of huge stone blocks from overhead, but here and there, he saw some that remained pristine, gleaming with mesmerizing allure.

“What is that?” hissed Leonis, raising a finger to point at a great web that was stretched across a quarter of the huge chamber, each strand as thick as Scorio’s wrist. The light of Amber caused a few segments to glow as if the strands were made of glass hidden under centuries of dust.

“Whatever made it is long gone,” said Lianshi after a tense spell of silence. “No spider or whatever made it would let their web fall into such disarray.”

Scorio released a sigh. “I’d hate to have arrived here a century ago when the spider was still in residence.”

“With a web that big?” Leonis let the question hang as he pressed on. “Hey, look. No dust on the undamaged biers.”

He was right. All those which had been damaged or crushed were faded and dilapidated like the rest of the buildings, but those which had miraculously survived the test of time shone as if recently wiped down.

“What does that mean?” asked Lianshi, trailing her fingers over one. “Perhaps they still collect ambient mana in some way?”

They approached the Archspire, and as they drew closer Scorio caught sight of the upturned and in-curled legs of the web’s owner on the far side of the basilica beneath its web.

He froze, eyes widening at the size of it. Each leg had to be six or more yards long, and though the biers blocked his view of the body, he could only imagine how big it must have been.

The other two saw the dead fiend a moment later, or at least, its legs, and froze as well before they all relaxed.

“I wonder what it used to catch,” whispered Lianshi, glancing about. “I wonder if it died because its prey stopped coming, or if it was killed by something worse.”

“Bad questions,” said Leonis. “Let’s just revel in our ignorance till we’re forced to deal with the answers.”

Scorio looked up at the balconies and narrowed his gaze. The dark recesses defied his normal vision, but a patch lightened, outlines appearing that revealed coffers ranged across the walls. They looked more ornate than the ones he’d seen, but there was no mistaking them.

“Strange to think we were reborn here, ages ago,” said Lianshi, hugging herself. “That once this was full of life, and we sat up on these very biers after going through the Gauntlet. I wonder if mine is still here…”

And she slipped away between them, till she reached the very base of the ruined Archspire.

“Here,” she whispered loudly. “I think this one’s mine.”

Scorio approached and stared at the bier beside her. His was crushed, cleaved nearly in half by a fallen spar. “So much for mine.”

“Doesn’t really matter,” said Leonis. “The coffers are keyed to us, but not the biers.”

Scorio frowned at him. “So any bier works?”

He shrugged. “Supposedly you always arise from the same tomb from within the Gauntlet, but how you get there doesn’t matter. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

Scorio walked slowly around Lianshi’s. Fingers traced the golden edges, the pebbled blue stones. “And how does it work? How do you go back to the Gauntlet when you’re not dead?”

Leonis frowned. “What are you thinking?”

Lianshi’s eyes widened. “You think we could?”

Scorio kept his eyes on the jeweled surface before him, clean and resplendent. “Might do.”

“You activate the jewel at the base with mana,” said Leonis slowly, as if hesitating to reveal the information. “Then lie on it. It’s supposed to be simple.”

Scorio stopped and looked at the pair of them over the top of the bier. “Why aren’t you allowed to visit the Gauntlet whenever you want?”

“Because it’s an exam,” said Leonis, his frown deepening. “It’s meant to measure your progress.”

“But we’ve all been told the best way to progress is to fight for our lives, right?” Scorio raised an eyebrow. “And the Gauntlet allows us to simulate that. Why not use it whenever we want?”

“I…” Leonis trailed off, turned to Lianshi. “You answer him.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well.” Scorio placed his palm flat on the bier. “I came here looking for treasures, or some Iron mana. But if this works…”

His words hung in the air.

Lianshi bit her lower lip, then glanced up at the ruined Archspire. “What if some aspect of it is broken? What if it doesn’t send us to the Gauntlet, or we don’t return when we die?”

Scorio shrugged. “Good questions.”

“What if they can tell we’ve accessed it?” asked Leonis. “When we awoke, they had detailed records of our entering. What if our entry registers and they call us on it?”

“Did anyone forbid you from accessing the Gauntlet through these forgotten biers?”

To which Leonis merely frowned, clearly not deigning to answer the question.

“I’ll go first,” said Scorio. “If they see me appear on any records, what will they do? Send out search parties to scour the ruins?”

“Scorio, wait.” Lianshi was clearly searching for an objection. “You’re taking an incredible risk. We don’t know if this works, or if you’ll return. This isn’t worth it.”

“Not to you, perhaps.” Scorio stepped to the foot of the bier and placed his hand over the large, dull crystal. “But to me? You’d better believe it’s worth it.”

They both stared at him helplessly as he drew on the ambient Coal mana, swirled it about himself twice, and then infused it into the crystal.

It flickered, blue lightning dancing within the gem, then lit to fitful life.

A second later the sides of the bier began to burn with that pure blue light.

Scorio climbed up and stretched himself out.

“Scorio,” protested Lianshi.

“He’s made up his mind,” said Leonis grimly. “We’ll wait for you. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” he said, but already he felt himself sinking, darkness swimming over him, stealing his vision.

The pebbled surface of gems and precious stones grew soft under his back, and he felt himself begin to fall, sinking into an enveloping darkness.

“Good luck!” he heard Lianshi cry, then her words were stolen by the void, and he was gone.

Chapter 32

Scorio awoke into a tomb of hammered copper. The space was lit by a pale, golden light that seeped in from the rectangular hole in the ceiling above, and he lay there for a moment, blinking and looking up. That’s different.

He summoned his Igneous Heart and sensed the thick Coal mana all about him; a couple of deft sweeps of his will, and he pulled it all into his Heart and lit it up.

The mana was so thick, so turgid, that he barely disturbed it with his efforts.

Power flowed into his limbs as he rose to a crouch. The tomb was familiar in all respects but for the dawn-like light filtering in from above. He leaped; this time his Cinder body made his exit easy. He grabbed hold of the upper rim and hauled himself out in one smooth movement, landing in a crouch just beyond it.

Where he remained, taken aback, gazing about himself slowly as he took in the changes.

The vast, cathedral-like space remained as before, but the beam of blood-orange light was gone. No platform arose before him, no broad steps lead up to it. Instead, a searing white column burned in the distance, accessible through a gap between three rows of successive iron walls whose tops disappeared into the gloom, each gap narrower than the last. Fifty men might walk through the first, thirty through the second, perhaps only ten through the last.

The ground was greatly changed as well; gone was the beaten copper, and in its place, Scorio saw uneven stone akin to a cavern’s floor. This rose and fell like frozen waves of some storm-tossed sea, growing rougher as one drew close to the walls, so that at the last great serried ridges jutted across the gaps, creating a tortured path toward the white beam that wound back and forth as it navigated around them.

Scorio rose slowly to his feet, taking it all in. The ground around and behind him was crosshatched with endless tomb entrances like before, but most were little more than crumbling holes, destroyed by time or some nameless violence.

Everything had the air of decay, as if the great chamber might once have been smooth and orderly, and had over the centuries atrophied, lost its original shape as chaos had encroached in the form of the rocky waves and desolation.

Breath pluming before him, Scorio glanced down at himself. He wore the same functional robes as the first time, the same sturdy sandals. Almost he expected to hear Leonis’s cry ring out, to see some hint of movement in the darkness about him.

But there was none.

He was absolutely alone.

The thought chilled him, though of course, he’d known he’d assay the Gauntlet by himself. The sheer scale of the place challenged him, however; he felt insignificant, possessed by hubris for having dared come back here by himself.

With no other option, he approached the broad first gap, stepping over sharp, angular ridges of stone, walking around the steeper eruptions. A haze hung in the air, causing everything to appear vague and indistinct, and taking on an incandescent glow where it lay directly before the beam.

Scorio strode through the first gap. The iron walls were truly massive, four yards thick, more metal than he could conceive. He crossed the rugged space, moving around the oblique ridge that had shouldered its way out of the darkness and across the path, and then through the second.

The beam in the distance was a gap in a final wall, he saw, perhaps five yards wide. It shone with the same painful white glow of a heated blade drawn from a smith’s fire; it was too intense to gaze at for long, so Scorio approached with his eyes downcast, his heart pounding steadily.

He passed through the third gap just as his Igneous Heart guttered and went out. The sweet strength flowed out of his body, and for a moment he was tempted to summon it back, but then he let it go.

Best to summon it the second before he stepped into the light.

The last stretch was so encroached upon by the raw rock that it was but a narrow path winding between the cliff-like slopes. He walked slowly, steadily, attempting to master his nerves, and then stopped when he was but a few paces from the burning light itself.

There was no heat. His breath condensed before him with each exhalation. He squinted at the bright light and considered.

This was all wrong. So different from the Gauntlet the first time he’d gone through.

Was it a second Gauntlet, then? Or perhaps the true original? Abandoned when the Great Souls had left the old Academy to be consumed by the ruins?

A thrill of excitement ran through him. What if it was?

What if he was the first to attempt to run it in half a millennium?

He stepped right up to the burning light. Extending his hand, he then paused. Summoned his Heart, swirled the thick Coal mana about and into it, then willed it to ignite.

The moment his Cinder strength flowed into his body again, he stepped through.

All he saw for a moment was overwhelming light, and then he blinked and was in a rough hallway, broad and high ceilinged.

Scorio immediately sidestepped, hoping to avoid the expected bolt, but instead, he evaded a curved blade that swept down at an oblique angle. It hewed so close that he was forced to sway back as it skimmed down his length, a slash so vicious it would have severed his head and shoulder from his body.

It wasn’t the only attack.

A second blade hung in the air, pointed right at where he’d sidestepped. It slid forward, fast as thought, and into his side. Slid between his ribs and right out through his back.

Scorio’s eyes bulged as he gripped the naked blade with one hand, only to scream as a third weapon—a greatsword or ax, something—swept right through his shins, hewing them cleanly off below the knees.

The pain was immediate, all-consuming. He fell, his scream stifled by agony as the sword in his side tore free, ripping out in a welter of gore.

Scorio crashed to the dirt amidst his legs, gasping and staring, mind blank with pain, overwhelmed by the suddenness of the violence. Blood was pouring out of him in great, gouting pulses, and already the room was growing distant.

“Damn,” he whispered, gazing up where the three blades hung suspended in the air, his blood running down the length of two of them.

With effort, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. Though the pain was terrible, though he felt as if he were genuinely dying, still his lips pulled into a grimace of a smile.

Won’t fall for that again, he thought, then the world went dark.

* * *

Scorio awoke atop the bier, his wounds healed but wracked in pain. With a grunt he sat up, his muscles clenching, one fist pressed to his side, his eyes screwing tightly shut.

“Scorio!” Lianshi was by his side, her hand on his shoulder, her concern palpable. “What happened? What is it?”

Beneath each knee, a line of fire burned, as if red hot coals had been thumbed under his skin and between the muscles. Sweat prickled over his brow, and he clenched his teeth so tightly he thought they’d crack.

“Something’s wrong,” he heard her say to Leonis. “He shouldn’t be in pain. We didn’t awaken in pain. What happened? What—?”

“Peace,” came Leonis’s rumble, then even through that ghastly pain Scorio sensed his friend step up on the other side of the bier. “Scorio? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Scorio managed to say, his chest finally unlocking so that he could inhale deeply, rapidly, as if sucking in air could quench the pain. “Ears are working fine.”

“You’re not hurt,” said Leonis quietly, calmly. “I don’t see any blood. The Gauntlet’s wounds don’t transfer to the real world. It’s in your mind.”

Scorio’s grimace turned into a pained smile. He wanted to say something wry, but it took all his focus to slow down his breath. The pain, however, continued, a tunneling well of agony in his side, oblivion beneath his knees.

“That’s better,” said Lianshi, hopping up to sit before him on the bier and placing both hands on his shoulders. “Breathe with me, Scorio. Slowly. Draw it in. Now hold. Now exhale. Slowly.”

Scorio lost himself to her guidance, forcing himself to pace his breaths with her instructions, and slowly, terribly slowly, the pain receded. It must have taken ten minutes of raw torment before at last he was able to blink away the sweat, slowly unclench his muscles, and look up to meet his friends’ concerned gazes.

“Better,” he said, lowering the fist he’d jabbed into his side. “Thank you.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” said Leonis, face grave. “What happened?”

Carefully, exploring how it felt, Scorio stretched, reaching up with one arm to pull at the muscles of his side. “It’s not the same Gauntlet.”

Lianshi placed a hand over her mouth. “An older version? Like this Academy?”

“Precisely,” said Scorio, reaching down to rub at his shins. “Same kind of layout, but everything appears worn, half-broken down. I entered this great beam of pale light and was slashed apart by a trio of blades.”

Leonis frowned. “Three blades? That’s some serious escalation from one crossbow bolt.”

“You’re telling me,” said Scorio. “But before I died, I memorized their attack pattern. Assuming they don’t change, I’ll be able to evade them next time.”

“Next time?” Lianshi’s eyes went wide again. “You’re going back in?”

“Of course,” said Scorio simply. “It’s the perfect resource. Don’t you see? We get to throw ourselves endlessly at it. If the best training is the most lethal, it won’t get better than this.”

“But the pain,” said Leonis, tone sober. “It lasted. This isn’t the same.”

“It’s not,” agreed Scorio. “But pain I can handle, as long as it’s not permanent. I’m not saying it’ll be enjoyable. But this is effectively our own private Gauntlet. We can run it as many times as we’ve got the resolve. Can you imagine what it will do for our training?”

His friends stared at him, and then Lianshi gave a curt nod.

“He’s right,” she said.

Leonis turned to stare at her.

“There’s no better training,” Lianshi said, drawing herself up tall. “I’ll take the pain if it means I can advance.”

“You’re both mad,” said Leonis in wonder, shaking his head. “But fine. If you think I’ll let the both of you wander around in there without me to take care of you, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Scorio grinned and reached out to clap Leonis on the shoulder. “Excellent. Now, let me show you the pattern.”

Swinging his legs over, he hopped off the bier and promptly collapsed to the ground.

“Scorio!” Lianshi was down by his side in a moment, Leonis hurrying around the bier a moment later. She grabbed him under one arm and helped him rise. “Your legs?”

The pain had flared suddenly, but worse was the sense that he’d simply been unable to direct them as he was accustomed. As if they’d forgotten they were attached to his body.

“Not a problem,” he said, leaning heavily against the bier. “Just need a little more time to recover from having them chopped off.”

“Your legs were chopped off,” said Leonis, tone deadpan.

Scorio leaned back against the bier, bracing himself against the beveled edge. “It was just a little chopping off.” He saw them exchange looks once more, and forced himself to stand up straight, his legs still numb and prickling beneath the knees. “I’m fine. Look. They came at me like this.”

And he demonstrated each cut. The first scimitar had slashed down at an angle, forcing him to sidestep straight into the rapier-like blade that had stabbed him through the side.

“Second blade came in at about three feet above the ground, maybe a little higher,” said Scorio, tapping where he’d been wounded. “Then an ax cleaved through my shins at just about over a foot’s height.”

Lianshi frowned, visualizing the setup. “So if we sidestep the other direction, away from the second and third blades, we’ll be cut by the angle of the first.”

“Unless we dive and roll away beneath it,” said Leonis, moving to stand alongside Scorio. “The blade comes down like this, from high left to low right. If you step to the left, avoiding the strike, you get stabbed. So either you roll hard to the right, or perhaps dive forward?”

“Maybe if you hit the wall of light at a run,” said Scorio. “And went straight into a forward dive. Perhaps you could avoid the downward sweep that way.”

“You tell us,” said Leonis, turning to him. “You’re the one who saw the setup.”

For a few minutes, Scorio mimed the different options, trying to recall the exact speed and angle of the blade. Which to do? Down and to the side, or forward dive.

“Dive it is,” he said at last. “I don’t know how far the scimitar cleaves. It could flow all the way down or even follow us. Best bet is to go straight and get out of the trap altogether.”

They both nodded.

“This means we can expect two things,” said Lianshi. “The first is that each subsequent encounter will be tougher than what we faced in the original Gauntlet. Second is that the second room will hold some kind of melee combat against three foes.”

Scorio punched a fist into his other hand and grinned. “It’ll be fun not to hold back. To see what our Cinder-level bodies can do.”

“I’m going to remind you later that you said that,” said Lianshi.

“You guys ready?” Scorio stepped to the foot of his bier. “It’s still Amber. That means we’ve got the rest of the cycle and all of Second Bronze to train. Let’s not waste time.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi, moving over to the closest bier.

“You’re both crazy,” said Leonis, wandering off and shaking his head. “See you both in there.”

Scorio swept Coal into the large crystal, and when it flared to life, he climbed onto the bier and lay flat.

Darkness swept in to carry him away once more, and a moment later he awoke in the tomb of hammered copper. It was exactly the same as before, the pale light filtering in from the rectangle above.

“Here we go,” he whispered and flipped up to a crouch. Drank deep of the ambient Coal, ignited his Heart, and leaped out once again, clearing the hole easily and landing on the balls of his feet.

To one side Leonis blew out of his own tomb, leaping so high that he was able to land fully standing, his full mane of hair hanging loose past his shoulders. Behind them, Lianshi leaped into sight, lithe and limber, her hair hanging free of its braid as well.

“Look at that,” said Leonis, voice soft with awe, taking in the huge chamber, the raw rock formations, the pale blade of white-hot gold.

“I see what you mean,” said Lianshi, stepping up to stand close to Scorio. “It has the air of neglect, of… some ancient force encroaching upon it.”

“I’ll go first,” said Leonis, moving toward the distant shaft of light.

“As you wish.” Scorio’s resolve was indomitable, but even so, he wasn’t eager to face the three blades. “Remember to leap straight and high.”

“You’ve got it,” rumbled Leonis, biting at the hem of his sleeve as he strode ahead and then tearing a strip of cloth from his robes. “Don’t worry about me.”

When they reached the great beam of pale light both Leonis and Lianshi had tied back their hair; for a long moment they simply stood there, squinting and drinking in the light’s terrible glory, and then Leonis clapped his hands loudly, taking a few steps back.

“Make room! Leonis the Golden King’s going in. Prepare yourself, oh Gauntlet, and tremble!”

And with a great, wordless cry of defiance, he ran right at the blade of light and dove into it.

“See you on the other side,” said Scorio, smiling sidelong at Lianshi, and then he ignited his Heart. Immediately welcome strength and warmth flooded through his frame. Feeling light on his feet and infinitely dangerous like some monstrous predator, he ran right at the light, picking up speed, his last steps broadening so that at the last he threw himself into a dive, forearms crossed before his face.

There was a flash of blinding light, and then he was diving through the air, the blade a flash to his left, passing beneath him even as he curled down to the ground and tucked his head, hitting the dirt smoothly and coming up onto his feet, Leonis catching hold of him before he could stagger forward, the large man’s face alight with joy.

Scorio allowed his Heart to die just as Lianshi sliced out of the wall, her form perfect, her grace liquid, diving high above the slashing scimitar with ease. She dropped into a natural roll and came up, all poise, chest heaving as she turned to stare at where her set of blades had materialized.

“Now that’s how it’s done!” roared Leonis, clasping each of them under one of his arms. “One chamber down!”

“A thousand more to go,” said Lianshi, a tentative smile appearing on her lips. “Well. The next room will no doubt prove more formidable. Are we ready?”

“Are we ever.” Leonis clapped his hands together again, rubbed them vigorously, then turned to face the rear wall where the large black door had appeared. “Let’s have at it.”

“Word of advice,” said Scorio, crossing the chamber with the others. “If we’ve the ability, let’s focus our attacks on one foe first. The quicker we drop one of the enemy, the sooner the odds will be in our favor.”

Both Lianshi and Leonis nodded.

They paused before the plain black door. Leonis pulled it open, revealing an equally black space behind it.

“Well, then.” He took a deep breath, held it, and glanced sidelong at either of them. “You both ready?”

“Ready,” said Scorio. “Let’s wait to ignite on the other side.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi. “But saturate your Heart now. We don’t know what the mana situation will be.”

The three of them drank deep of the Coal around them, and when each was filled to bursting, Leonis squared his shoulders and stepped through the door.

Scorio didn’t hesitate, and carefully balancing the power in his Heart as if walking with a glass of water on his head, stepped in after.

The next room was large and steeped in dramatic darkness but for the dozen cones of frosty light that plunged from the ceiling to bathe twelve statues in radiant light. The statues were arranged down the length of the hall, six to a side, each facing its partner across a river of absolute shadow.

None of them moved. All were carved from the same pale gray stone, the detail so painstaking that they could have been petrified but seconds ago.

Scorio activated his darkvision, and immediately the dark river down the center of the room relinquished its secrets, which in this case proved to be blank floor all the way to the far wall.

Lianshi emerged next to them, and together the three of them stared at the statues on their short plinths, drinking in the individual nature of each.

For each was utterly dissimilar to its neighbor. All were roughly the same height, but some were clad in bulky cloth armor, others in robes, some were broad-shouldered, and others lithe. A couple were hooded, three bare-headed, the rest with different manners of helms.

A wealth of detail, but each displayed the same martial nature, a club or short sword or numerous knives in evidence.

Scorio realized he was holding his breath, and carefully exhaled, losing his grip on the Coal mana as he did so. “At least they didn’t all come to life immediately.”

“If my theory holds,” said Lianshi, voice barely above a whisper, “then three of them should animate when triggered.”

“Triggered how?” Leonis rubbed at his jawline, uneasy. “Walking down the center? What if we squeeze in behind them?”

“I doubt it would be so easy to evade the room’s challenge,” said Scorio. “What if we attack the closest statue before it animates?”

“What if that causes all of them to animate?” asked Lianshi. “I think we have to make our way slowly to the far side and be ready to react when they come to life.”

Leonis scowled. “What if we sprint to the far side? That way we won’t be surrounded and can put the wall to our backs.”

“Sure,” said Scorio. “That works for me. Lianshi?”

She licked her lower lip, studying the statues, and then nodded. “Fine. Something tells me we’ll be trying this room again shortly, so we may as well be experimental.”

“That’s the spirit,” grinned Leonis. “We ready? On the count of three. Single file, right down the center.”

“I’ll bring up the rear,” said Scorio. “Leonis, you’ve got the lead.”

“Very well.” He rubbed his hands together again and bent over, ready to break into a run. “One.”

Scorio took a deep breath, spent a few moments refilling his Heart, then caused it to ignite. The obsidian rock lit up with a whoomph, and he immediately sensed the thick Coal mana that blanketed the room, so ponderous and heavy as to be cloying.

“Two.”

Both Leonis and Lianshi ignited their hearts, the action just barely discernible as a sudden pressure at the edge of his perception.

“Three!”

They took off at a sprint, racing as quick as they could past the statues. The balls of Scorio’s feet barely touched the ground as he ran, and a moment later they collided with the far wall, hands outstretched to arrest their impacts.

He turned, chest working powerfully, and for a moment thought nothing was going to happen.

Then three of the statues began to move, carefully and precisely, turning their expressionless faces to stare at them, stepping down neatly from their plinths, dust sifting from their bodies as the stone flowed and came to life.

The first was a young woman in ragged robes, a single pauldron over her left shoulder, a curved stabbing blade in one hand, a short sword in the other, her hood hanging low over her face so that Scorio could only make out her pert lips and rounded chin.

The second was a large man, nearly as big as Leonis, heavily bearded and clasping a large battle-ax with both fists. His features were coarse and brutish, his expression even more unnerving for being slack, and he was clad in heavy robes with twin vambraces around his forearms.

The third was an archer, though the short bow lacked a string. The man was slender, cloaked, but without a hood; heavy tresses hung down to his shoulders, and his beard was close shaved. His blank expression somehow still managed to convey disdain, and a full quiver was slung over his shoulder.

“Easy now,” whispered Scorio. “Eyes on the archer.”

Who stopped after taking two steps and smoothly drew a shaft from his quiver. The other two approached, unhurried, the axman walking slowly down the center of the hall, the blade warrior ghosting behind the other statues toward them.

Without the darkvision, both would have disappeared. As it was, Scorio had to resist the urge to swing his patch of lucidity from one to the other.

The archer set the arrow to his bow and drew it back, the bow bending despite the lack of a string.

“The three of us on the axman,” called out Scorio, heart pounding in his chest. “Watch out for the woman, she’ll attack our rear!”

And he burst forward, trying to pay attention to everything at once—and failing. His small patch of darkvision was unequal to the task, so that in the end he committed to the axman and let the other two fade into the dark.

Moving smoothly, his actions fluid and unhurried, the axman drew his great weapon back, around, and into a downward swing that would have hewn Scorio from head to groin if it had connected.

At the last moment, however, he leaped aside, the burning fire in his Igneous Heart making him light on his feet. The ax cracked against the ground.

Then Leonis was there, charging in with a roar, one shoulder lowered to barrel into the other large man. Just before he connected, however, an arrow appeared above his clavicle, sinking deep, then Leonis smashed into the axman with a cry.

Only to bounce off as if he’d collided with a column.

The axman staggered back, off-balance. Lianshi flew in next, leaping in to hammer a side kick into the statue’s chest, the impact of her sandal accompanied by a sharp crack, and the statue toppled over backward, crashing to the ground.

Scorio broke into a sprint, making for the archer, and heard Leonis cry out in pain and anger behind him. Lianshi was there—she’d have to help him, for the archer was notching another arrow, the movements economical and swift. He brought the bow to orient on Scorio, who leaped up and to the side, his Cinder body allowing him to press a foot against a still statue’s thigh and push off as the arrow whistled just below him.

With a cry, Scorio fell upon the archer, and it was like crashing down onto a pile of sharp-edged rocks; pain blossomed from a dozen places as he drove the statue staggering back.

Somehow the statue kept its balance; Scorio leaped back and off it as it dropped its bow and drew a knife.

Get in close with long weapons, stay far from short ones. The voice was gruff, unfamiliar, but it sounded like something he’d heard in another life. Scorio checked his charge, remaining just out of stabbing range, and circled.

The archer, expression still somehow conveying supreme disgust, pivoted with him.

A scream of pain from the end of the hallway—Lianshi.

Scorio’s gaze flickered past the archer to the darkness beyond, where he saw the bladed statue had Lianshi bent over her knife arm.

There was no sign of Leonis.

His distraction came at a price. His statue slid forward, deceptively quickly, and stabbed at Scorio’s gut, forcing him to leap back.

The statue pressed on, slashing and stabbing. Scorio backed away then timed his block so that his right arm snaked in, and his fingers closed around the statue’s wrist, clamping tight and arresting the swing.

The statue stared at its own arm then slowly up to Scorio, as if bemused. Muscles writhed along Scorio’s arm, his whole body bent to the task of holding that stone arm still, and then Scorio crashed forward, hammering his elbow across the stone face.

Again and again, he pounded at the man, his Cinder power dulling the pain of each impact, his strength like surging waves smashing themselves against a cliff. The statue staggered back, cracks spiderwebbing across its visage.

Clutching the knife arm with both hands, Scorio brought it down as hard as he could upon his knee.

Pain wrenched through his joint, but the statue’s hand opened, dropping the wickedly sharp blade.

Which Scorio snatched out of the air, reversed, and pounded into the man’s eye, slamming it home, the edge cutting through the blank stone orb as if it were jelly.

The statue shivered, took a jerky step back, then fragmented, collapsing into a hundred shards.

Scorio saw movement out of the corner of his eye, tried to leap away, but a slender knife slipped into his chest, through thick muscle and between the ribs, plunging right into his heart with surgical precision.

He gaped, blood bursting out of his mouth. The assassin had crept right up beside him. Her long blade dripped blood, which was also generously splashed across her robes, and as he staggered away, hand clasping the deeply embedded knife, he saw her lips curl into the subtlest of smiles.

Then Scorio crashed down to his knees. He drew the knife free with a wrenching jerk and fell face forward.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

* * *

Scorio awoke atop the bier, a permanent spasm wrenching his body and rendering him unable to breathe. Every muscle was clenched. He lay there with only the back of his head and his heels touching the bier’s jeweled surface, seeing stars as his heart throbbed and jerked, trying to find its rhythm, going long seconds without beating and stuttering violently before seizing up again.

The shock, the pain, was eternal while it lasted. He stared up, unseeing, at the basilica’s distant dome, yearning for breath, straining, locked up.

His vision was swarming with black and red when he finally felt his heart’s erratic beats change into a stampede, pounding like a herd of wild horses across a plain. He fell to the bier and lay there gasping, massaging his chest, lost in the primal immediacy of his psychic wound.

Slowly he became aware of sounds around him. With great effort, he forced his head around and saw that Lianshi had curled into a fetal ball atop her bier and lay there shaking, while Leonis moaned in a low, tortured voice somewhere behind him.

“You guys with me?” Scorio’s voice came out more of a wild cry than a reassuring question, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “How are you holding up?”

“Wretched,” moaned Lianshi, voice muffled. “Like I just died.”

This somehow drew a laugh from Leonis, immediately followed by another moan of pain. “The damn statue cut off my head.”

Scorio couldn’t imagine how that must feel. Instead, summoning his will, he forced himself to sit upright. His heart was still pounding, as if so relieved to be beating again that it meant to race forever. Shaking, shivering, he slid off the bier and stood upright.

“We almost did it.” His voice was husky. “We destroyed two of them before the assassin got me. That’s…” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “That’s fantastic.”

“Doesn’t feel fantastic,” said Lianshi, slowly uncurling. Her face was blotched and her eyes wild. “She scrambled my insides. I feel like… never mind how it feels. It’s not good.”

“I can imagine.” Scorio forced himself to stretch, then bent down to touch his toes. Rising, he pulled a knee to his chest and squeezed, then the other.

“Still, we did great.” He wasn’t sure they had, but he wanted to believe it. Needed them to. “Excellent work.”

Lianshi sat up, hair hanging before her face. “I know you’re trying to cheer us up and get us excited about another run. And I’m not saying it’s not working. Just… can you give me at least two minutes to feel properly awful?”

“And I’ll take a new head,” said Leonis, who had also sat up. “This one feels… all wrong now. Never thought I’d say that about my peerless visage.”

Scorio hiked himself back up onto the bier and sat cross-legged. “Take your time. I’m going to cycle mana, see if that helps.”

Closing his eyes, he envisioned his Igneous Heart. It gleamed before him, faceted and dark. Was that—? Scorio scrutinized it more carefully. It looked like spider-thin lines were drawn about the Heart’s surface. Had they been there before? They looked familiar, somehow. He wasn’t sure.

The mana in the basilica was thick—not nearly as powerful and dense as that within the Gauntlet, but still rich with power. Focusing his will, he swirled it about, and was pleased to find that it seemed to obey his desire slightly quicker than he remembered.

With a great inhalation, he pulled it into his Heart and ignited it, and immediately the tremulous pain in his chest lessened.

“Ignite,” he said, voice low and intent. “It makes all the difference. Trust me.”

Closing his eyes, he focused on swirling mana and drawing more into his Heart just as it was about to gutter, so that he was able to limp along until the last of the pain in his chest faded away. He didn’t know how long it took, but when he glanced up it had become First Bronze.

His Heart guttered out, and he pushed off the bier, leaping up to his feet. He felt battered but whole, rough but ready for more.

The other two sat cross-legged still, though Lianshi’s eyes were open, her lips pursed.

“You all right?” he asked.

She gave a curt nod. “Better, yes.”

“Ready for more?”

Her lips twisted into a smile. “Does it make me a masochist for being eager?”

Scorio laughed. “No. It makes you an exemplary Great Soul.”

“I’m of the opinion,” rumbled Leonis, “that exemplary Great Souls are all masochists.”

Scorio looked over to him. “You exemplary, then?”

Leonis sighed deeply. “No. I am but a handsome, virile warrior with regrettable amounts of loyalty to his friends. Let’s go at it again.”

As one, they activated the gems at the foot of their biers. Laying back down on the jeweled surfaces, they closed their eyes. Scorio felt exultant, at once anxious about the pain to come and yet ferociously determined to overcome it.

This was his way to advance. This was his way to overcome the odds.

This was his way to do better than even the Academy Great Souls.

Heart pounding, Scorio awoke once more into a tomb of beaten copper.

Chapter 33

It was Second Rust when they finally called it quits. Groaning, rising at last from his jeweled bier, Scorio waited for the memory of his viscera spilling out over his lap to fade before sliding off it to his feet.

His heart refused to settle. His body felt uncomfortably cold, and a strange sense of vertigo kept seizing him whenever he raised his eyes to the heights of the basilica. Stomach churning, throat parched, he forced himself to stand upright, willing himself not to sway.

“Can I just stay dead?” asked Leonis, rising shakily from his bier. His skin was pale, his eyes sunken, his face gleaming with sweat. “I haven’t felt this bad since… since…”

“It’ll pass,” muttered Lianshi, draping an arm over her eyes, hand slowly massaging her hip where it had been torn out. “Just give it time.”

Leonis swung his legs over the side of the bier and propped himself up on both arms, staring down at the ground. “When did Lianshi turn into a monster?”

Scorio forced himself to inhale deeply, seeking to ease the tightness in his chest. It didn’t work, so he closed his eyes and focused, working on his breathing, until at last, he felt the pressure begin to ease.

“It’s hard,” he said, voice trembling slightly, “but we’ll benefit.”

“So you say.” Leonis loosened his hair from its bun, shook it out, and allowed it to hang damp and free before his face. “But this bears no resemblance to any training that I’ve ever heard of. It’s just endless brutal death.”

Lianshi still hadn’t moved. “We’re applying tension to our Hearts, not training. The moment before death is when you call upon your power with the greatest force.” She paused as she forced down her gag reflex, throat working, then just lay there looking sickly, her words cut off.

“She’s right,” said Scorio hoarsely. “Every Great Soul out there gets just two attempts at the Gauntlet. Just today we got five.”

“And failed to pass the second room,” groused Leonis, forcing himself to rise to standing and square his shoulders. “Don’t listen to me. I just hate being brutally murdered repeatedly by emotionless statues.”

Scorio snorted. “I don’t blame you. It takes a particular kind of person to go into the Gauntlet five times in a row.”

“Idiocy is not to be ruled out,” said Lianshi, then she forced herself to sit up. She looked almost green in the face, her eyes bloodshot. “But we’ll see how we’ve progressed over the next seven days. See if this hasn’t helped us leapfrog ahead of where we were.”

“Fair enough,” said Leonis, gathering his long hair back into a ponytail. “I have to say, at first I thought I’d lucked out by teaming up with the pair of you.” His smile was wry. “Now I know I’m with the right pair of criminally insane murderers.”

Scorio chuckled softly and pushed away from the bier. The vertigo was getting better, though his insides were still trying to reconcile themselves with—well—still being inside of him instead of out. “Meeting you both was the best thing that happened to me.”

“Aw,” said Lianshi, tears coming to her eyes. She slid clumsily off the bier and staggered up to him, where she fell into a tight hug. “I’m feeling so emotional,” she said, clinging to him tightly.

“It’s because you just died five times,” said Leonis.

“Perhaps.” She didn’t release Scorio, however. “This world. Bastion. Our terrible fate. The fact that nothing awaits us outside but endless hell—it’s so much, you know?”

She pulled back, tears still glimmering in her eyes. “It keeps me up at night. Not knowing who my parents were, who I was, what I liked, what I’ve done. Sometimes it feels like too much. But then I think of you both, and I don’t feel alone, and it…” She trailed off, wiping the tears from her cheeks and smiling widely. “It means more to me than I can say.”

Scorio matched her smile, and when Leonis stepped up to join them, they roped their arms over each other’s shoulders, forming a triangle, and hung their heads into the center, brows touching.

“We’re going to get through this together,” said Scorio softly. “It’ll be hard. But I know we can do it. And when we’ve achieved the power we need, we’ll set things to rights.”

He felt their wordless support, could imagine the questions they might have. But in that moment, wrung out, in pain, they simply stood silently with him, and he drank deep of their support.

They separated at last. Leonis glanced up at the windows. “Time we got back. Let’s hurry and check our old coffers. With a little luck that toad will have stayed gone.”

“Oh no,” moaned Lianshi, clutching at her hip. “I can’t fight again. Even if it’s a real fight.”

“We’ll have to stay alert,” said Scorio, walking through the assembled biers toward the great doors. “We’ve a long stretch of ruins to cross, and they get more dangerous at night.”

“Shouldn’t we have left earlier?” asked Leonis. “So that we wouldn’t be racing against fiends in the darkness of the ruins while already exhausted?”

“After careful consideration, I think the answer is yes,” said Lianshi.

“I thought we’d get through that room,” said Scorio, chagrin rising within him. He stepped into the base of a stairwell that led up to the balconies. “I know you did, too. We came so close.”

“Close is a very flexible term,” said Leonis, following him up the steps. “But yes. I know what you mean.”

It galled Scorio that they hadn’t passed into the third chamber. Each time they’d entered the second, three different statues had come to life. The variety made it impossible to plan; once they’d faced three blade-wielding warriors who’d advanced in lockstep, another time they’d faced three ranged fighters, with one, in particular, proving to be deadly with his thrown knives. They had to improvise each time, and on their fourth attempt, they’d come so close. Two of them against the assassin lady, and it had just barely managed to defeat them.

Scorio had been convinced they’d make it to the third room. Had insisted on one last run.

Only for them to suffer their worst defeat yet.

Still, he knew that each run had benefited them. They’d improved as a team, had grown more decisive, had developed tactics that they could call out depending on what they’d faced.

Another run or two and they would have made it through.

They checked each of their coffers, but all of them spoke the same tale: long looted or cleansed, they all were bare of anything but dust.

Scorio tried not to feel disappointed. Searching the coffers would have been an obvious first choice for any looters after the Academy was abandoned. Still. It wouldn’t have minded a lucky break.

Descending to the main floor, Leonis led them through the chambers and hallways, over the mounds of rubble and around collapsed chambers till at last, they emerged outside the ancient Academy.

The sun-wire was a filament of burning rust across the sky, with wisps of mist rising in great curves from the canals to burn off halfway up, forming an ethereal, partially completed pattern down the length of the city’s cylinder, all of it tinged in salmon pinks and deep oranges by the dying light.

The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing out over the ruins, over the city, and then up to where Bastion wrapped around them. The sight was marvelous, strange, surreal, and felt at once beautiful and wrong to Scorio.

“This doesn’t feel like home,” said Lianshi, tone muted. “But I don’t know what should.”

“We’ll make it our home,” said Leonis. “After all, we’ve done so hundreds of times before.”

“Some of us,” said Scorio.

Leonis looked sidelong at him. “True. Sorry.”

“No apology necessary.” Scorio stretched out his shoulder, arm pressed across his chest, and then took the first step down. “Let’s get you both back to the Academy before you’re forced to spend the night on the streets.”

The toad hadn’t returned, and Scorio was growing sufficiently familiar with the ruins to navigate around the dangerous areas; occasionally they realized they were being tracked, once had to climb frantically to avoid a massive cobalt-blue crab which erupted from a crevasse to come charging at them, claws snapping, and twice nearly ran into traps set by cunning insectile predators. But each time, Scorio was able to guide them quickly to safety.

They traveled in silence, each sunken into their own thoughts, and when they finally reached the border where the living city of Bastion began his friends turned to face him.

“We can take it from here,” said Leonis firmly. “There’s no need for you to walk all the way to our ward and back.”

“Are you sure?” asked Scorio. “It’s no bother.”

“We’re fine,” said Lianshi, smiling. “The walk eased the worst of the pain anyway. You get home. Rest.”

They stood in silence.

“Listen,” said Lianshi at last. “Promise me you won’t attempt the Gauntlet without us.”

“What?” Scorio flushed and gave an involuntary laugh. “What makes you think I’d do that?”

Lianshi set her jaw. “Scorio.”

Leonis crossed his arms and widened his stance subtly. “Swear it, my friend. We want you to be in one piece come next Eighthday.”

Scorio looked away from them, scanned the buildings that loomed over the street, and tugged at the hem of his robes. “You’re asking me not to train?”

“That’s not training,” said Lianshi sternly. “Or, more accurately, that’s not the kind of training you should do alone. Promise us.”

Scorio dragged his hand through his hair. “And what should I do while you both benefit from the Academy’s largesse, huh? Sit and manipulate Coal mana?”

Leonis lowered his chin. “I’m sorry you don’t have access to the same resources we do. That doesn’t make it all right for you to kill yourself.”

Scorio ground his teeth as he forced his emotions down. “I don’t blame you, my friend. But I need to use what options I have at hand. I don’t get to be selective.”

“So you were going to go back,” said Lianshi, eyes widening. “You were planning to enter the Gauntlet alone?”

“No!” Scorio threw his arms out wide. “I hadn’t even thought that far! But now that you mention it, why shouldn’t I? What’s the worst that can happen to me? I already live in the ruins. It’s not like crossing them’s going to get any worse. And if I enter the Gauntlet, sure, I’ll die. But it’s the best way to apply tension to my soul, right? Why shouldn’t I make use of it?”

“Because,” said Leonis firmly, slowly, “dying over and over again isn’t something you can just brush off. It takes a toll. Hell, Scorio, I’ve just done it five times and I feel awful. I know you. You’ll go back there every day. You’ll probably camp there. And die repeatedly until there’s no Scorio left.”

“Camp there,” mused Scorio.

“No!” Leonis stepped forward and jabbed a finger into Scorio’s chest. “Listen to your friends. We’re not trying to hold you back. We want you to progress just like we’re doing. But not at the expense of your sanity.”

Scorio met Leonis’s gaze squarely. “I understand what you’re saying. I appreciate your concern. But I won’t make an oath I don’t intend to keep.”

For a long moment, Leonis just stood there, finger still pressed into Scorio’s chest, then he threw his arms up and turned away. “Useless.”

“I understand,” said Lianshi softly. She reached out and touched his arm. “I really do. But if you must go back, can you attempt moderation? Don’t lose yourself. Don’t become obsessed. You still need to rest. Recover. Sleep. You still need to practice mana manipulation. Actual training with Naomi. Can you promise that, at least?”

Scorio wanted to step back, to break away from her touch, but managed a curt nod. “Fine. I’ll practice moderation.”

“Good.” Lianshi’s smile was edged with bitterness. “I really do understand. If I were in your place, I’d probably do the same.”

“You’re both mad,” said Leonis loudly, voice echoing off the gray walls. “Why, Lianshi? Why would you willingly put yourself into that meat grinder?”

“Because…” She stepped back and crossed her arms, lowering her chin so that her ebon hair slid forward to obscure her face. “It’s hard to explain. But there’s a fire within me. A need. A hunger. To become strong.”

“But why?” He rounded on her. “Why are you so obsessed with becoming strong? And yes, I feel the same drive, but if someone told me I’d gain power by stabbing myself in the leg over and over again, I wouldn’t do it, while I really think you both would.”

“Because…” Her voice grew soft. “I have to think on it. But I will. I’ll find an answer for you.”

Leonis glared at her for a moment longer, and then his shoulders slumped. “Fine. I appreciate the honesty. And you, Scorio.” He stepped back in close and grasped Scorio by the nape of his neck.

Scorio tensed, but when Leonis pressed his brow to his own, he realized that he wasn’t about to be attacked.

“You take care of yourself, you hear?” Leonis’s voice was tight with emotion. “Come next Eighthday, I’d best see you waiting for us with a basket of Delight of Heaven buns. I’m talking a round baker’s dozen. No excuses. You got me?”

Scorio laughed huskily. “Got it. Dozen buns. You can count on it.”

“Good.” Leonis stepped back, shaking his head. “Anyway. We’d best be going. See you soon, brother.”

“See you soon,” said Scorio, raising a hand.

The pair of them walked away, Lianshi looking back to give her small wave as they reached the corner, and then they turned it and were gone.

Scorio stood still, staring at the bleak corner, lips pressed tightly together, feeling as if a great weight pressed down upon his shoulders. He should get back to his chamber, he knew. He had to eat. Drink. Rest.

But instead, he found himself imagining his friends walking back through the disparate wards. Making their way into the Academy and then into their rooms. Perhaps they’d bathe in their private pool first, floating and discussing the day’s events. Then they’d call for food, or go to some dining hall, where heaping piles of delicacies and elixirs would be given to them, restoring their strength, their vitality.

Clean robes. Clean quarters. The finest that Bastion could provide.

Scorio felt the skin around his eyes grow strangely tight, and he began to pace. It wasn’t their fault. He was genuinely happy for them. He wanted them to get the best there was after their brutal day with him. But it galled him that they’d given him restrictions on what he could do.

Perhaps he should have shown them his room. Made them climb up to his window and stare into that dark cave. The rags on which he slept. The pails of gruel and water. The small pile of trash he accumulated to not mark his presence by tossing it out the window.

His jaw was aching. His chest was tight once more, his breath coming quickly.

What was he supposed to do? Be grateful for his meager accomplishments? Revel in the sparse Coal mana, weaving it about his Igneous Heart like some idiot child playing in the mud? Dutifully present himself in eight days’ time to go train with them again, grateful for their presence, to spice up their training with a little danger?

His hands clenched and unclenched as he paced, back and forth across the street. Was he supposed to content himself with Naomi? Who didn’t even believe he’d survive more than a couple of months? Whose faith in him was so little that she’d not even shown him where she lived or eaten with him?

Nostrils flaring, he resisted the urge to kick a large rock that lay before him, stepping over it heavily instead. Striding up to the building at the end of his small circuit, he stopped, breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling, rising and falling.

Don’t become obsessed.

What else was he supposed to do with his time out here, beyond the edges of civilization? Tidy up the streets? Pile rocks atop each other? Make friends with the fire salamanders?

I’d best see you waiting for us with a basket of Delight of Heaven buns.

There was a pounding in his ears, and his vision narrowed to a tunnel. With a roar, he summoned his Heart and savagely swept a mass of Coal mana into it, then willed it aflame. It caught with a whoomph that he drowned out with a cry as he pounded his fist into the wall.

The stone cracked in a circle around his knuckles as pain lanced up through his wrist.

Scorio didn’t care. He punched his other fist into the wall, a brutal uppercut at waist height, and again the rock crunched, again pain flashed through the bones of his arm.

He knew not to punch again, so instead, he placed one open palm on the wall and smashed his other elbow into the rock, once, twice, three times, the blows coming in a flurry. Rock cracked again, and the whole wall shifted, dust sifting down from the ancient mortar between the blocks.

Heaving for breath, Scorio rested his brow against the wall, his lips pulled back from his teeth, staring at nothing, not even thinking now, until at last he pushed away and began to stagger back down the street, deeper into the ruins.

His knuckles throbbed, his elbow was a combination of numbness lanced through with sharp pain, but worse yet was the raw heat that coursed up and down through his core, as if his depths had turned molten just like the burning heart of the chasms.

He reached a familiar fork. His room was off to the left, close by.

But instead, making no conscious decision, he turned toward the right. Following the street a couple of blocks, he then stepped out onto a broad avenue that speared straight south.

Overhead, Second Bronze dimmed and became Second Clay. The light darkened and grew diffuse, the shadows luxurious. Everything looked steeped in blood, and it pleased Scorio, as if his own emotions were finally exerting an effect on the world.

On he marched, hands clenching and relaxing, the pain distant, unimportant, right up till his Heart guttered out and then it became insistent. He walked straight down the center of the broad street, head jutted out, chest tight, shoulders hunched. He yearned for something to interpose itself between him and his destination. For some predator to mark him as easy prey.

But nothing did.

A bridge loomed before him, brutal and broad, without guardrails of any kind, a simple, rugged plinth of stone crossing out over a familiar void.

He’d come a third of the way back into the ruins, leaving the periphery that hugged the city proper. This bridge marked a crossing into deeper territory. Greater predators lurked beyond, thicker mana. If he crossed it, he’d be making his choice undeniably clear, even to himself.

He’d be returning to the Academy tonight.

Scorio raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. His nostrils flared as he breathed slowly, forcefully.

Back to the Academy. To lie down on that jeweled bier by himself. To enter the Gauntlet alone. To face that bright, searing beam and dive through it, evading the blades, then pass into the second chamber.

Where those stone statues awaited him, even now. Serene, blood thirsty, indifferent, and murderous.

He could vent his fury on them. Could throw himself against their forms again and again. Could fight until he couldn’t force himself to rise again.

“Where are you going?”

Scorio wheeled around and jerked his head back at the sight of Naomi. She crouched atop a freestanding stone column off to the side, studying him with an overt stare, lips pursed.

“What’s it to you?” he growled.

“It looks like you’ve taken a wrong turn,” she said, voice flat. “Your room lies back that way.”

“I know where my damn room lies,” he said. “I’m not going there.”

“You should. You look terrible.”

“Since when do you care how I look?”

She didn’t respond at once, nor did she flinch as he’d hoped at his hurled insult. Instead, she remained crouched up there like some malignant crow, her face a pale smear in the bloody light, her gaze penetrating. When she did answer, her words hit Scorio like a blow to the chest.

“Since when do you have an active wish to die?”

He bared his teeth in a mocking smile. “I’m not going to my death.”

“Then where are you going?”

He wanted to swipe a blow at something, to vent his anger, but there was nothing close. “To the old Academy.”

“Leave something behind?”

“My training.”

“Training is best done with a clear mind. The way you’re looking, you just want to pick a fight.”

“Maybe I do.” He took a few steps toward her. “What’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing. If you can win that fight.”

He laughed. “I’m guaranteed to die, but it doesn’t bother me.”

Her posture stiffened. “Guaranteed?”

“Sure,” he said, voice turning into a lazy drawl. “The Gauntlet’s a terminal kind of place.”

Naomi considered him for another long spell, brow furrowed. “So the old Academy has access to the Gauntlet. That’s what you did all day.”

“Don’t worry. It’s the old Gauntlet. Nobody in the new Academy is any wiser.”

She nodded slowly, tonguing the inside of her cheek. “Interesting. And you think it’s a good idea to go back and try it again.”

“Already ran it five times,” he said. “Another five won’t hurt.” He paused, considering. “Not for long, anyway.”

“It’s influenced you. I’ve never seen you this… wild. Out of control.”

“You don’t know me.”

“And I never will if you destroy yourself.”

Scorio snarled and swiped his hand through the air. “Why is everybody trying to tell me what to do?”

Naomi’s smile enraged him further. “Because there’s a small handful of people in this world that don’t want to watch you throw your life away?”

Scorio frowned and averted his gaze. “I need the training. I need to get stronger.”

“The Gauntlet’s not going anywhere,” she said. “Go tomorrow. Rest first.”

He knew she spoke wisdom. Knew that under his fevered anger was a well of simmering exhaustion. But he didn’t want wisdom. “No. I’m going.”

“Fine.” She sighed, rose, and hopped off the top of the pedestal to land neatly at its base. “Then I’m going with you.”

He’d been about to turn away but stopped mid-stride. “You are?”

“Sure.” She considered him with her rich hazel eyes. “That way I can at least make sure you don’t die on me.”

He felt his gaze turn cold. “And why do you care?”

“Oh, come on, Scorio,” she said impatiently. “Stop being an ass.”

Any further response would have been churlish, so instead, he forced himself to stare upward at the blood-red sun-wire and release a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Fine,” he said at last. “You can come.”

“Lucky me,” she muttered and moved past him to step onto the bridge.

He watched her go, nonplussed, and then followed.

They traveled in silence. Naomi clearly wasn’t interested in conversation, walking apart and picking her way silently through the rubble-strewn streets. Scorio followed a little behind, and slowly his anger faded away and he was left with a pensive wariness that bordered on regret.

Occasionally he’d glance over at her, but she was never looking in his direction. She could have been marching into the heart of the ruins by herself for all the awareness she displayed of his presence.

Without warning, she turned to climb the facade of a great temple, and he wordlessly followed; they traversed rooftops for a while before she dropped into a street and continued south, only to veer hard east for a half-dozen blocks before turning south again.

He tried to piece together her rationale but wasn’t sure he understood. No matter; she’d been out here far longer than he. If she wanted to walk backward, he’d do the same without complaint.

The ragged sheets of steam were rising right up to the sun-wire now, curling around it and further muting the light. Second Clay was nearly over, and the air was gradually growing chill.

“We fought our way directly to the Academy,” he called out at last as they drew near the far end. “Defeated this engorged toad and drove it off.”

“Uh huh,” she said, not looking back.

“I’m not boasting,” he said. “I’m simply pointing out the direct approach is clear.”

“Was clear,” she said, still not looking back. “Since last you checked.”

Almost he said obviously, but he bit back the retort. He followed along as she angled obliquely toward the main bridge, and there paused to sight down its broad length to where the Academy arose, dour and vast.

The sun-wire began to go dark, the last of the red light fading away, the world around them dimming from crimson to burgundy to rust to blackness in a matter of seconds.

Almost immediately a light rain began to fall.

“Come on then,” said Naomi, only to pause and look back at him. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“No,” he said stoutly, though as the last of his anger had burned off it had been replaced by an emotional weariness and physical exhaustion. “Lead on, Emberling.”

The corner of her lip curled up in disdain, but she did just that. Together they crossed over the bridge, the nubbin of chalk held in his hand.

Scorio saw movement on the far side of the mound of rubble. Was that the toad? Whatever it was quickly ducked back out of view and was gone.

Wary, Scorio kept an eye on the collapsed house at the foot of the bridge but saw nothing more.

“Haven’t been here in a long time,” she said as they drew close to the Academy’s impressive architecture.

The rain was delicious, heavy, and warm, and Scorio had to fight the urge to raise his face and close his eyes. “I thought you avoided this part of town.”

“I do now.” She led the way up the huge steps to the massive portico with its huge double doors. “Too many ways to die for no good reason.”

“And that’s no longer the case?”

She considered him, expression enigmatic. “The Gauntlet might change the equation somewhat. Lead the way.”

It was eerie to walk back through those halls and rooms without Leonis and Lianshi. The darkness was so thick now that he was forced to use his darkvision constantly, swinging the sole patch of clarity it imparted from side to side as he walked, fully expecting to be surprised by some horror at any moment.

But none came.

He led them into the Aureate Hall with its albino trees, and then right up to the huge basilica entrance, where he paused, the space now a heavy blackness, the tiny windows high up around the base of the dome admitting virtually no light.

“This takes me back,” said Naomi softly, stepping up alongside him. “Seems larger, however, than the new one.”

“Everything about this place is bigger and tougher.” He rubbed at the wet nape of his neck. “The Gauntlet is more challenging, too.”

“Tell me about it,” she commanded, stepping into the massive room and leading the way forward.

So he did. He described the three blades and how they dove past them, and then the chamber beyond with its twelve statues.

Naomi paused by the first undamaged bier to run her hand over its jeweled surface.

Scorio blinked rapidly, rubbing his hand down the side of his hip as he turned in a slow circle, dragging his night vision across the great expanse. “We decided that the best approach was to charge the main aggressor all at once and take it out, and then have two of us tackle any flankers while the third went for any ranged attackers. But each time we faced a different enemy configuration, and had to change our plans on the fly.”

“Mmhmm,” said Naomi, moving past the biers to stop at last before the ancient Archspire. She reached out to touch its base with a thoughtful air, then drew her hand back rapidly.

“What?” asked Scorio, resisting the urge to check the exits again.

“There’s a strong mana current moving through it,” she said, backing away and looking up at its half-shorn height.

“There is?” He stepped up beside her. “But it’s broken.”

“Broken but not dead. And not just Coal mana, either. I sensed…” She shook her head. “Suffice to say it was powerful and beyond my ability to parse.”

Scorio studied the brutal lower half of the Archspire, then considered the part that lay smashed across some fifty biers. “What does it mean?”

Naomi cleared her throat. “I don’t know.”

“Can we… harvest that mana, somehow?”

To which she just turned to stare at him, eyebrow raised.

“What?” he asked. “We’re on a quest to get better than Coal, right? And if the Archspire here has high-quality mana going to waste…?”

“You’re welcome to try,” she said dryly. “But while I can sense it, it’s protected, sheathed within the Archspire proper.”

Scorio nodded. “Ah well. It was just a thought.”

Naomi turned and walked to the closest undamaged bier. Bending down, she considered the activation crystal, then ran her hand over its beveled edge. “You sure you want to go back in there?”

“You’re still asking me? After we’ve come all this way?”

“Pro forma. Find your own bier, then. Let’s get this done.”

He did so, and as the crystal came to life, he felt a fluttering in his stomach and had to resist the urge to rub his hands together. He was going into the Gauntlet with Naomi. An Emberling.

How far would they get?

He hopped up onto the bier and saw that she was already lying upon her own.

Lying back, he stared straight up into the gloom, waiting for the darkness to take him.

The statues, he was sure, wouldn’t stand a chance.

Chapter 34

Scorio awoke in the tomb of battered copper and immediately sprang up to his feet. Sweeping the dense Coal mana into his Heart, he ignited and leaped, clearing the brim of the hole above with ease, catapulting himself out to land in a crouch.

The vast beam of lucid, burning light burned in the distance as always. The three walls of impossibly smooth iron, bifurcated by ever-narrower gaps. The raw, surging rock that rose from the ground like rough ocean waves frozen in time.

Familiar, eerie, vast, and still capable of instilling in his chest a sense of awe.

Naomi sprang out of another tomb off to his left, making it look easy. She landed lightly on her feet, fully erect, and began walking forward as if nothing strange had just happened.

Scorio strode forward to join her, and together they navigated the rough floor toward the great burning light.

“How long has it been since this Gauntlet was used?” she murmured, but he could tell the question was rhetorical. “It’s a miracle that it’s still here. Still operable.”

“Mostly,” said Scorio, voice hushed. “Lianshi thinks this decay is part of the process of collapse. The way the pain lingers, long after we awaken from death, another symptom of its corruption.”

“Perhaps in time we’d awaken with the wounds only partially healed,” mused Naomi, rounding the rough ridge of one upswept mass of raw rock.

“I love your choice of comforting imagery,” said Scorio. “It warms the heart and makes the future seem pleasant and enjoyable.”

“The future is nothing but pain and disappointment,” said Naomi distractedly, gazing into the shadows. “Much like the Gauntlet. But let’s see how far we can get.”

“You never tried the original,” remembered Scorio. “I’d forgotten.”

“A first time for everything.” She lightly padded one fist into the palm of her other hand. “Can’t say I’m not curious.”

“This one’s more difficult, as I said. However well you do here, you’d do much better in the new one.”

“I’m an Emberling,” she replied. “At my rank, we’re expected to make it past the tenth room. Try to keep up.”

Scorio lowered his chin and inhaled deeply. “You can count on that.”

They strode up to the burning blade, their forms seeming to melt away in its refulgent brilliance.

“We need to hit the room fast,” he said again, finding Naomi’s calm disconcerting. “Three blades, remember? The first sweeps down from the upper left—”

She turned and smiled at him. “I got it. Why don’t you go first?”

“First?” He blinked, then shrugged. “Sure. See you on the other side.”

“Good luck.”

Scorio took a few steps back. Was she excited? He’d never seen her this calm, this… pleasant. Putting the thought from his mind he took a deep breath, drank deep of the turgid Coal mana, and then sprinted forward.

Five steps and he launched himself into a dive. He aimed high, hands spearing into the light first, and then he was through.

As before the blade slid just under him as he leaped headfirst over its swing. He came down into a practiced roll, the chamber spinning all around him before he came up to his feet and leaped on the up bounce to land facing the entry wall, eager to witness Naomi’s arrival.

A large, curved black blade emerged from the wall, easily a foot long, its tip needle-sharp, its body organic and tapering to a segmented black tail that resembled nothing more than the vertebrae of the spine.

Despite himself, Scorio felt a chill at the eerie lethality of Naomi’s tail, but he couldn’t resist taking an urgent step forward. She wasn’t coming in fast enough. She was going to be—

Naomi’s Nightmare Lady form extruded itself from the gray wall, tall and ghastly, limbs elongated and lean, body emaciated and textured like highly buffed black leather. Her face emerged, horrific and alien, her gums stretched tight over her fangs, her brow backswept and elongated, twin horns flanking it, all of it wetly black as if freshly dipped in oil.

The scimitar materialized just as she stepped through and swept down at her, the stroke certain, vicious, aimed precisely to force her to sidestep into the path of the rapier.

Without looking up, her burning green eyes not even averting themselves from the far wall, Naomi—no, the Nightmare Lady—parried the downward sweep with a nonchalant flexion of her tail. Sparks flew from the impact of the two blades, and then the Nightmare Lady was through, never having changed her stride.

“That’s, ah, one way to do it,” said Scorio, his throat suddenly dry.

“Proceed,” said the Nightmare Lady, her voice Naomi’s, and as ever incredibly disconcerting.

Scorio nodded, took a couple of quick steps back, and then turned to stride to the now visible black door.

He passed through without bothering to ignite his Heart, and emerged into the second chamber. It was becoming painfully familiar. The river of darkness like a bottomless chasm running between the twelve statues, each powerfully limned in the cone of white light shining from above.

Scorio had fought almost all of them by this point. Killed three. He stared at them, wanting to brood, to ponder his failures, examine his successes for means of winning through, but then the Nightmare Lady was by his side and moving forward, never breaking her stride.

“They activate when you pass before them,” he said, but wasn’t sure she cared. “We never know which will awaken first—”

The second statue on the left stepped off its plinth. The hooded assassin with her curved knife and short stabbing blade.

Scorio and his friends had fought her three times. The third and last time had been worst. He regarded her with a special loathing and hatred.

Nightmare Lady’s tail swept out like a whipcrack, faster than Scorio could follow, the blade passing through the statue’s neck like a knife through a cream pie.

The statue froze mid-step, then collapsed into shards.

Scorio stopped, mouth opening, but all he could do was croak.

The next statue to step off its plinth was the archer; it immediately raised its bow, hand reaching up over its shoulder for a shaft, but again the Nightmare Lady’s black tail flashed out, the blade passing through its chest as if it weren’t there.

The statue stood still for a moment, hand frozen on the fletching of its stone arrow, seeming to have not registered the deep incision that crossed neatly across its torso.

Then it, too, fell apart.

Scorio realized that his mouth had gone slack. Gathering himself he ran to catch up with the Nightmare Lady, whose pace had yet to change.

“That was… I mean…”

The Nightmare Lady didn’t even glance at him. “I’m an Emberling, Scorio. That means something.”

“No kidding.” He glanced down and around himself as he stepped over the chunks of raw rock that had been the archer but moments ago, and gave a slow, disbelieving shake of his head. His whole body was tense, ready for combat, for pain, for a desperate battle, and yet there was nothing for him to do but follow his teacher as she strode toward the second black door.

“No idea what lies on the other side,” he said, voice husky. “Though I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

“Stay close,” she said, pulling the door open. “If you can.”

Then she stepped into the dark void beyond and was gone.

Scorio turned to gape at the fallen statues, the room that had witnessed so much struggle and pain that day, and with a final shake of his head, hurried after.

The next room was a cube, the walls high and covered in a black latticework between which glowed white squares the size of Scorio’s fist.

The floor and ceiling were white, and a diffuse illumination rendered everything starkly clear.

The Nightmare Lady strode forwards, bold and certain, and Scorio hurried after her, igniting his Heart with an unsteady sweep of Coal. Where was the threat? The hundreds if not thousands of white square gaps between the black pattern on the walls? But they weren’t holes, they were—

A white cube flew out from the wall to the left, leaving a hollow where it had been embedded, coming at them at knee height.

The Nightmare Lady’s tail cracked out, slicing it in half.

It had been aimed right at Scorio’s leg.

Another blew out from the right, chest high, and again the Nightmare Lady’s tail flexed and slashed it in half.

More cubes came flying at them in rapid succession, from different angles and different heights.

Scorio walked forward in a cage of the Nightmare Lady’s making, her tail whipping about them as if possessed of a will of its own. It was everywhere, slashing and shattering the cubes, and still, she walked on, gaze never wavering, her awareness preternatural, defending them both as they crossed the chamber.

Scorio flinched, jerked from side to side, unsure as to when a cube would slip past her guard, ready to evade, but there were too many and they were coming too quickly.

He’d have had to sprint through, taking his knocks as he went, and pray he made it to the far wall.

Which manifested a black door when they reached it, the cubes ceasing their endless attacks.

Scorio’s chest was tight, the blood rushing in his ears, his eyes wide as he turned back to examine their passage.

Two lines of shattered white stone marked the way they’d come.

The Nightmare Lady placed a taloned hand on the door before them and pulled it open, then paused.

She turned to look back at him.

Scorio dragged his vision to meet her own, and was unable to resist giving a spontaneous laugh.

“Focus,” she said, voice cold and hard, and the bewildered humor died in his chest.

“Yes,” he said and gave a curt nod. “Ready.”

They passed through the void into a tower of a room, the ceiling easily some thirty or forty yards above. The far wall was only five yards away from the doorway, painted a pure white and textured like a natural cliff face, complete with disparate handholds and small ledges. These extended all the way up the face of the cliff, making for a difficult but not impossible climb.

“This isn’t so bad,” said Scorio, and then the floor fell out from under them.

He gave out a cry of panic as he fell, only to feel fingers curl around his arm with steely strength as the Nightmare Lady leaped and latched onto the wall—which immediately began to scroll downward, toward the suddenly yawning void that had appeared at their feet.

“Amusing,” said the Nightmare Lady, pressing Scorio to the wall as it slowly moved down. “Start climbing.”

Scorio didn’t even bother nodding, but again swept Coal into his Heart and ignited it. He was breathing rapidly, shallowly, and as strength flooded into his limbs, he forced himself to slow, to take control of his body, and to focus his attention on the wall above him.

The Nightmare Lady climbed with lazy elegance, using handholds, or simply digging her talons into the very fabric of the wall to create her own where needed.

He had no such luxury. Clenching his jaw he surged upward, reaching for new handholds, straining and stretching.

He could do it, he realized. The real trap had been the falling floor. If you managed to reach the wall, all you had to do was exceed the speed with which it dropped—

—and that’s when he felt the wall began to scroll down faster.

Biting back a curse, he struggled to climb quicker, lunging and seeking ever more sparse ridges and cracks. His Cinder strength saved him again and again—narrow fingerholds that he’d not have been able to grip with his regular strength were all that he could find now, and to his horror he realized that despite his efforts, he was slowly descending toward the dark gap in the floor again, the wall scrolling down faster than he could climb.

A hand closed around the collar of his robes and plucked him from the wall. Scorio let out a strangled cry of panic as he swung free, and the Nightmare Lady scuttled upward, leaping with spider-like agility till she reached the top and stepped out onto a solid ledge a foot wide.

Scorio did his best to maintain his dignity as she sauntered down the ledge to the doorway that had appeared in the chamber’s side.

This she plucked open and then, together, they passed through and into a dark room whose true extent was hidden by cloying shadows.

A soft halo of light fell like a benediction upon a massive figure that sat slumped over in a great rusted throne at the room’s far side, a creature far larger than Leonis, its bulk clad in dark, umber leather armor vaguely shaped to its anatomy. A heavy leather cloak was draped across its chest, and it rested its broad chin on an upraised fist, eyes closed.

It wasn’t human. Its face was bestial, but the deep lines carved into its brow gave it the air of a being consumed by thought, its dark, lank hair lying close to its scalp and falling past its shoulders. Its nose was little more than upswept slits, and its mouth was black-lipped, with white teeth, some of them fangs, protruding and in view.

The Nightmare Lady released Scorio’s shoulder, and he stood still, held by the monster’s presence, for even in sleep it had a terrible dignity, a ponderous air of grave melancholy.

For a moment all was still, and then the Nightmare Lady stepped forward. Its eyes flicked open, revealing all too human eyes, and it straightened from its slumped posture, leather armor creaking, heavy cloak slipping to one side.

It seemed to recognize the threat posed by the Nightmare Lady immediately; it lunged to its feet, snatching up a great blade that was propped against the rusted throne as it rose.

The monster had to stand some nine feet tall, had to weigh easily over a thousand pounds, but still, it moved with lithe agility, the blade whipping up as the Nightmare Lady broke into a run, sprinting across the shadowed hall right at it.

Scorio just stood there, gaping.

The ogre lowered its blade into a defensive stance, its every fiber poised and alert, letting its foe come at it, until at the last it let out a reverberating roar and lunged forward, flowing smoothly from its defensive posture to an upswing attack which would have shorn the Nightmare Lady in twain.

But she slid aside, passed by his attack, stabbed her tail into the hollow beneath its lantern jaw, and then she was past the throne, tail following sinuously after her, its tip gleaming wetly as the sword fell from the ogre’s huge hands.

For a second it simply stared at Scorio, then it crashed ponderously down to its knees, hands at its ruined throat.

The Nightmare Lady’s tail coiled about her in a sinuous loop and neatly slashed through the back of the ogre’s neck, separating its head from its neck faster than Scorio could follow.

The huge body thudded down to the ground, the head lost in the shadows, and a doorway appeared in the wall behind the throne.

“Stay with me,” said the Nightmare Lady again. “I can’t protect you at a distance.”

“I… yes.” Scorio jogged forward, staring at the fallen corpse in something akin to horrified amazement. He’d known Naomi exceeded his abilities handily, but he’d had no idea she was so far beyond him.

“This is the fifth room,” said the Nightmare Lady, hand on the door’s handle. “The end of the Char level, though this has all felt more like a Cinder’s run. The fifth room is always a powerful foe, the culminating fight. The next room will be a whole level harder.”

Scorio forced his mind to work. “So if this was a Cinder run thus far, the next room should challenge an Emberling?”

“Exactly,” she said, voice rich with hunger and something akin to desire. “I may not be able to protect you from here on out.”

“You’ve no need.” He turned to regard the twilight hall. “I’m already more grateful than you’ll ever know for your having brought me this far.”

“As long as that’s clear.” She pulled on the doorhandle, sinews standing out like harp strings all the way from her wrist to her elbow. “Let’s see how this Gauntlet is going to challenge me.”

And with that, she stepped through.

Scorio took a deep steadying breath, rubbed his hands on his hips, and ignited his Heart once more.

The influx of power steadied his nerves, illusory as it was. Raising his chin, squaring his shoulders, resigned to his no doubt sudden and impending death, Scorio stepped through.

To emerge onto a narrow ledge that led into a vertigo-inducing void of utter darkness. Before them, however, was a hallway composed of free-floating white square frames, each successive one slightly turned from the last, so that the floor seemed to warp up and eventually become the wall, then farther away, the ceiling.

Through this twisting hallway ran a flat tongue of gray stone, a walkway as straight as an arrow, to end in a stone platform some twenty yards away.

Scorio grimaced as he hunched his shoulders in close, inhaling deeply as he scrutinized the layout, the bizarre, glowing white frames, the innocuous walkway that floated through their center, deceptively inviting and easy to cross.

“Not good,” said the Nightmare Lady, reaching out to place a hand on Scorio’s chest, holding him back. “You can’t see them, but there are invisible blades hanging in the air, points aimed toward us.”

“Invisible what now?” Scorio blinked and tried to focus on the empty air above the walkway. Nothing.

“Emberlings develop the ability to detect the hidden,” said the Nightmare Lady, her skeletal tail lashing uneasily behind her. “There’s a clear but narrow path to walk between the blades. If you remain directly behind me, you should be all right.”

“What else can you do?” asked Scorio.

“Not the time.” The Nightmare Lady moved to the edge of the platform. “Ready? Stay close.”

Scorio summoned his Igneous Heart, and startled; the air was rich with floating clouds of copper-hued mana, bright and airy. He swept his will through it, but it was like splashing his hand through mist after a lifetime of trying to churn honey; the mana parted before his determined sweeps.

“One second,” he said, closing his eyes. This time he focused on his Heart, causing it to inhale, to draw the copper into its center mass. The mana responded smoothly, streaming into him, and when his Heart ignited, it burned with brassy flames that leaped and flickered a thousand times faster than the black ones.

The strength that flowed into him was invigorating, imbuing him with a sense of quicksilver power and causing the pain and fatigue to sluice away.

“Now,” he said, opening his eyes.

The Nightmare Lady nodded and stepped onto the walkway.

Immediately the free-hanging square frames of glowing white began to revolve, the cumulative effect mesmerizing and disorienting, causing the stationary walkway to appear to warp and twist within their center.

“Careful!” cried the Nightmare Lady as she started forward, “there’s a force pulling us forward!”

Scorio stepped off the ledge and was immediately gripped by it, an inexorable drawing forth that made him focus more on controlling his speed than anything else; his sandals slid forward an inch with every step he took, and his hair and clothing immediately were drawn forward, toward the walkway’s terminus.

The Nightmare Lady edged forward, her control infinitely superior, but she seemed tense, hesitant; Scorio tried to mimic her movements precisely, but a line of blood appeared across his shoulder as something slid about him, parting the cloth of his robes.

“The blades are rotating as well,” snarled the Nightmare Lady. “Move closer!”

Scorio pressed in as tightly as he could as she moved on, contorting her body to avoid unseen perils, crouching, lifting a leg here, swaying out to the side, turning in a slow gyre as she continued to walk.

But it wasn’t enough to simply mimic her movements; almost immediately a dozen cuts flowered across his body, some an inch deep, and despite his newfound strength Scorio felt his heart began to pound, his throat to constrict.

Whatever passageway the Nightmare Lady was navigating, the safe zone didn’t extend much farther behind her.

The force pulling him forward grew with each step he took. He felt as if he were inching his way down a nearly vertical slope, all his weight on his heels, aware that one misstep could cause him to slam into the Nightmare Lady and send her flying forward. But the more he held back, the worse he was cut up.

There was nothing he could do but keep going.

Lines of pain blossomed across his back, and then a particularly deep cut passed through his heel as he hesitated, struggling to not topple forward. He felt the muscle of his calf contract violently as the great tendon was severed, the pain astonishing.

With a cry, he staggered to the side, and his left arm shredded before him, blood spraying forth to coat dozens of invisible sword blades.

Scorio blanched, mind reeling from the pain, tried to draw back behind the Nightmare Lady, but his ruined leg failed to comply. He lost his balance altogether and fell forward at last, off-center, and straight into a mass of other revolving blades.

His death was mercifully swift.

Chapter 35

As always, despite dying at different times, they both awoke upon their biers simultaneously. Scorio hissed, the agony growing familiar, muscles spasming as he clenched his jaw and screwed his eyes tightly shut. His left arm was aflame, his lower leg raw and throbbing, his chest where the final swarm of blades had pierced him a mess of cramps and fire.

But he’d been through this before, and the knowledge that the pain would pass helped him ride the waves, to breathe through it, and he labored to ignite his Heart until at long last it caught, and the spasms began to ease. Minutes later, he was able to sit up, the bitter taste of bile thick in his mouth, his pulse pounding still like the waves of an outraged sea.

Naomi was sitting cross-legged upon her bier, human once more, frowning with her eyes closed. The sound of his movement alerted her, and she raised her face to regard him, gaze solemn but unable to disguise the subtle flicker of excitement in their hazel depths.

“How far did you get?” asked Scorio, voice raw as if he’d been screaming.

“Two more chambers.” She was clearly trying to sound matter-of-fact. “The blades revolved quicker the closer I got to the end of the hall, and I was cut before reaching the end. Then came a room with a hidden pit trap that tried to suck me into it as I skirted its edge. Nearly got me.”

“And the last room?”

She frowned. “A monster. More rock than flesh, as large as…” She cast around, trying to find something to compare it to. “Six of these biers piled up together, say. My tail couldn’t get through its carapace. When I finally stabbed it in the gut, it seized my tail, drew me in, and crushed my head with one blow.”

“Damn,” whispered Scorio, trying to imagine something both that quick and strong. Just the thought made him feel dizzy.

“But I think I’ll get it next time,” smiled Naomi. “The trick is to dance around it, keep it changing directions. Wait for an opening and slash its side just below the armpit where it can’t grab at easily. It’s fast—amazingly fast—but I think I’m faster.”

Scorio attempted to return her smile. “You’re starting to see why I keep wanting to tackle the Gauntlet again and again.”

“I do. But if we attempt it once more, it won’t be as we did. You gained nothing from it.”

Scorio felt his face flush and wanted to argue, but had nothing to say.

“My shepherding you through your trials gains you an illusory sense of progress. No. Better next time that I kill one of the statues and then leave you to fight your own alone.”

He nodded reluctantly. His breathing was becoming ragged again, and sweat was running down the side of his face. With an effort, he kept his voice steady. “Fair. But how would I cross that room with the floating blocks? They were coming faster at me than I could follow.”

“That was my fault, I believe.” She sat up a little straighter. “My presence triggered the room to a higher level of lethality. A Cinder alone, or a group of Cinders, should face slower attacks.”

“That’s good to hear.” Scorio leaned against the bier for support as a wave of weakness passed through him. “Any advice on how to tackle that room, though?”

“It’s like being attacked by six people at once,” said Naomi. “You can’t keep track of them all. If you try to, you’ll just spin in circles, leaving you even more open and vulnerable.”

“So?”

“So, instead, you relax. You learn to trust your peripheral vision and your own danger senses. You move forward quickly and confidently, and trust that your instincts will guide you.”

“My instincts will sense blocks the size of my fist flying at me from the side?”

Her smile was almost cruel. “Not at first. But eventually. Do you really think I saw every block that flew at us and directed my tail consciously to intercept them all?”

“I… actually did.” He smiled with chagrin. “I guess not?”

“No. The higher you progress, the more you will rely on instinct, reflexes, and muscle memory. You will direct your actions, of course, but there comes a threshold when you have to trust your body to act without overt commands.”

He felt feverish, his pulse pounding erratically once more, but Scorio pushed aside those concerns. “And you’re there, already? As an Emberling?”

She grimaced. “I’ve set my foot upon the path. A Tomb Spark is as far ahead of me as I am from you.”

Scorio chewed on his lip for a moment as he considered. “Can’t quite imagine. But I’ll take your word for it. Want to go again?”

Naomi chuckled, her heavy drapes of hair swinging back and forth as she shook her head in amusement. “You do know that you’re paying a price for this?”

“Sure,” said Scorio, waving a hand as if pushing her concerns aside, then blinked as she fell out of focus. “The pain takes a toll on the body.”

“Not just the body. But beyond that, it’s not safe to just lie here for hours unguarded. We’re still in the ruins, Scorio. All it would take was one predator stumbling upon us when we reappeared, all wracked in agony and unable to defend ourselves, for this experiment to end.”

Scorio grimaced and looked around the dark mausoleum, dragging his patch of darkvision across the numerous biers and the distant, partially collapsed balconies that ringed the huge walls. “Fair. What are you proposing, then?”

“That we don’t remain here long enough to attract attention.” She gathered her thick hair in both hands, twisted it into a rough spiral, and dropped it behind one shoulder. “Or that I remain on watch while you go in.”

“You would wait?”

“For a while. I know you’re intent on running the Gauntlet again. Better you do it safely than die because I grew impatient.”

“Then let’s give it another go now.”

“No,” she said, her tone final.

Pressure immediately built up in his chest. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no.” Her gaze was stern, unyielding. “Look at you. You’re soaked in sweat. You can barely stand. Your gaze keeps going in and out of focus. How many times have you died today?”

“How many?” He blinked at her. “Six? Seven?”

“That’s enough. I’ve humored you and satisfied my curiosity both by coming here. Now we’re going back.”

Scorio snarled silently but was forced by a wave of vertigo to lean his brow down upon the bier, eyes closed, as he fought to keep his balance. “Just one more. I swear it. One more and we can go back.”

“One more and I’ll be forced to carry you back,” said Naomi. “No. We’re leaving now.”

Scorio hammered his fist down upon the bier and willed himself to get it together. For his breath to smooth out, for his heart to stop pounding, for his skin to stop prickling.

But it didn’t.

Finally, his shoulders slumped. “Fine.”

“Then let’s get going. It’s a long walk home.”

With an effort he straightened, wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and turned to follow her as Naomi weaved a path through the biers.

His feet were clumsy, and he seemed to kick and trip over every errant piece of rock or fragment in shadows. A headache began to pulse behind his eyes, and he couldn’t quite catch his breath, as if he’d continuously just finished sprinting to outdistance an enemy.

Naomi led them back through the Academy, her footsteps silent as before, pausing again and again to turn and wait for him to catch up. Each time he did, he wanted to mutter something bitter about her not needing to slow down for him, but he didn’t have the breath.

They stepped outside. The rain had ceased falling, and the sun-wire glimmered in the sky, dormant and sullen, Bastion and its ruins wrapped all the way around it. In the far distance, he could make out the copper and blacklight hues of the city at night, patchy and unequally distributed across Bastion’s bulk.

It was hard to focus. After a while, his attention narrowed down to just following Naomi and not tripping every third step. He sensed her shifting into her Nightmare form several times, but couldn’t tell why—his bleary attempts to look around revealed occasional movement in the distance, but he wasn’t able to discern the exact nature of the threat.

Toward the end, his vision began to blur, and he just couldn’t catch his breath. Wheezing, he staggered on. Naomi spoke to him, but he didn’t understand the words—he simply raised a hand to gesture that they should keep going.

But his legs wouldn’t obey, and he found himself kneeling for some reason. Then the ground swung up to slam against his face.

It was cool and damp. Delicious. He closed his eyes for just a moment, just a few seconds to gather himself, and when he opened them again, everything had changed.

He lay in a bed, a massive, sunken four-poster with a sagging canopy of faded blue silk. A mess of blankets, throws, and even heavy rugs were draped across its collapsing frame, turning it into a collage of different hues, the colors of which burst into vibrant islands wherever the shafts of ruddy light from the holes in the ceiling spilled across them.

The room was large, off-kilter, the floor sloping subtly down to the back left, as if the building in which it was housed was in the process of settling unevenly into its basement levels. Carpets were scattered haphazardly across the stone floor, and heavy pieces of battered furniture were set against the walls, ranging from dressers to wardrobes, half of them looking to have been scavenged from out under landslides and cave-ins. A large table was covered in arcane alchemical equipment, while thick candles of differing heights were clustered across most of their surfaces, with melted wax having hardened into waterfalls over the edges and pooled on the floor.

White curtains, gauzy and insubstantial, drifted into the room from where they framed a large doorway that led out onto a half-ruined balcony. The light outside betrayed either First or Second Bronze, and propping himself up on his elbows, Scorio gazed around blankly, having no idea how he’d come to be here.

Everywhere he looked more details suggested themselves. There, a basket filled with vibrant rolls of yarn, the balls ranging from sulfurous yellow to the rich incarnadine. A small, dead tree was planted in a clay pot in one corner, its branches of the smoothest alabaster, and from which hung countless shells of viridian green and deep, cobalt blue, their reflective surfaces causing spangles of light to slowly swing across the walls and ceiling. A stand filled with shelving displayed endless treasures, ranging from glimmering nautilus shells to hunks of raw, luminous crystal to slowly breathing fronds of the most delicate cerulean blue.

This had to be Naomi’s place. Scorio pressed his hand to his brow, realized that his headache was gone, and slid out from under the covers. He was still dressed in his robes, thankfully. He rose, swayed for a moment, and then decided that he felt much better. Stepped over to a broad bowl of clear water, cupped water to his lips to drink, and then splashed the remainder over his face.

Naomi stepped in from the balcony, dressed in black robes, the hems faded to gray, several patches sewn neatly over the knees and elbows. “You’re awake.”

“Barely.” Scorio smiled widely. “That bed made waking up a nearly impossible task. How long have I been out?”

“Just a day.” She rubbed the back of her neck and then moved to a table where she picked up a cutting knife from a breadboard then set it down. “You needed the rest,” she said, voice low. “You pushed yourself too hard.”

“You’re right.” Scorio stretched, relishing the pops that came from his spine as he did so, and then released it with a contented sigh. “Thank you. For taking care of me. For bringing me back here.”

She still didn’t turn to him. “Don’t worry about it. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Right.” She took up the knife again and cut a thick slice from a small loaf of black bread she pulled out of a hempen sack.

“Can I help?” asked Scorio.

“No, I’ve got it.” She reached for a clay crock but knocked it so that the lid spilled off. Her attempt to catch it only knocked it off the table altogether where it cracked apart on the floor.

“Oh!” She dropped into a crouch and began to hurriedly pick up the pieces.

“Here,” said Scorio, joining her with three long steps to crouch beside her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, quickly piling the fragments atop each other and rising rapidly to her feet. She cast around, trying to decide where to set them, then simply stepped to the opening and hurled them out into the void over the balcony.

Scorio went to hand her the piece he’d picked up, and then saw how high up they were. His insides clenched and his breath caught.

“Where…?” He moved to the doorway and peered out over the ruins. They had to be at the very top of that massive tower in her territory, for the city spread out far below them, the sun-wire so close overhead he felt like he could stretch out his hand and clasp it.

“I call it the Widow’s Tower,” said Naomi quietly, busying herself with spreading butter over the bread. “Been here over a year now.”

“Wow.” Scorio studied the floor of the balcony before stepping out onto it. It was more an act of faith than anything else, for gaps clearly showed in the stonework, and half the balustrade was gone.

But it was exhilarating as well, his chest filling with emotion as he gazed out over the ruins. The light of Bronze—whichever it was—flattened the details and covered everything in its copperish light. They had to be ten, maybe fifteen stories up. Looking down, he saw that the tower was indeed angled, angled alarmingly actually, so that he drew back inside with a hiss.

“Are you sure—?” He caught himself and took a deep breath. “Obviously this is safe.”

“I guess so.” She placed his slice of buttered bread on a small wooden plate and handed it to him, eyes averted. “I have lived here a year, after all. It’s not fallen yet.”

Scorio stepped back to sit on a stool, hiking one foot up to rest the heel on a rung. “Why’d you choose to live here, then?”

“None of your business,” she snapped, smoothing the fabric of her robes down over her hips before casting her gaze around. She moved abruptly toward the bed and began pulling at the coverlets and blankets, straightening them out.

“You’re right,” said Scorio softly, taking up the raggedly cut bread. “None of my business. I’m sorry.”

Naomi sighed, a blanket stretched taut before her, then released it. “When… after I left the Academy, I was in a bad place.” Her hair had fallen forward to hide her face. “I couldn’t go back to my father. I didn’t want to stay in the city. Didn’t have any friends. So I came to the ruins to hide.”

Scorio listened attentively.

Naomi smoothed down the fabric of the cover carefully. “Like I said, I was in a bad place. Was taking… risks… that I wouldn’t take today. One of them was a dare. A wager, I suppose. With Bastion, with the world. With hell. I came up here one night. I don’t remember why. With so little to do, I’d spend my time exploring. I had an idea that…”

She trailed off, shot him an alarmed glance, then turned away to move to a dresser where she snapped a stalactite of hardened wax off the edge and began to crumble it into the wells of each candle.

“An idea?” asked Scorio softly.

“That… I might leap from the top.” She carried on hurriedly, “To see if I could survive the fall in my nightmare form, of course. Test my limits. And—well. I found this room.”

She toyed with the broken sliver of wax in her hands. “And… it was raining. And I sat on the balcony’s edge and felt the building shift under me. And thought it might collapse, and that was… okay. I didn’t mind. Felt excited. Like… the building was answering a question I hadn’t dared to pose. Not out loud. Not directly to myself.”

Scorio sat, bread forgotten, staring at her back.

“Obviously the tower didn’t fall,” said Naomi, tone growing hurried once more. “But it felt like the wager was still on. I started coming back here every night. And thoughts of—well—jumping off towers ended. I decided instead that I’d take better care of myself and let this tower decide if I was to fall or not. Leave the question in the hands of the ruins. And slowly… well.”

She cracked the wax fragment in half, dropped it atop the dresser, then turned to stare at him, her gaze defiant. “Slowly I started bringing things here. Making the space my own.”

Scorio nodded soberly, expression grave. Held her defiant gaze until it softened, and she looked away again.

“I think I understand,” he said softly. “Or maybe I don’t. But thank you. For bringing me here. I don’t take it lightly.”

“Well, you were near death, and leaving you in your room seemed needlessly cruel, so.” She curled her hair briskly behind her ear. “Are you going to eat that bread or not?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” And to demonstrate willingness he took a large bite out of the slice.

She crossed her arms. “I suppose you’ll be wanting something to drink.”

“Parched,” he managed to say around a mouthful of dry bread.

“Hmm.” She pushed off the dresser, crossed the room to where a large pitcher sat beneath a curious funnel that descended from a crack in the ceiling. She noticed his curious gaze, then took up the pitcher. “I fashioned a rain catcher on the roof. To save myself having to go into town all the time.”

“I should have thought of that,” said Scorio, raising a hand to his brow. “Brilliant! All the trips I could have avoided…”

Her lips quirked into a self-satisfied smirk as she poured water into a wooden cup and crossed the room to hand it to him. “I’ve had a little more time than you to figure things out.”

“You’re being modest.” He sipped the water—it tasted hard and rich with minerals after the smooth neutrality of the water fountains. “I’m so focused on training that it would probably never have occurred to me.”

“Hmm.” She replaced the pitcher and leaned against the dresser once more. “About that.”

“Fine, yes, I know.” Scorio frowned down at his half-eaten slice of bread. “Obviously I pushed myself too hard.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

He looked up. “Then?”

“The best training isn’t about abuse.” She paused, then moved her head from side to side as if reaching a compromise. “All right, it’s not just about abuse. It’s about finding your edge. Remember what I told you?”

“Sure. That the best trainers find their students’ edge and keep them there. Don’t push them so hard that they lose all hope or ambition.”

“Right.”

“But I haven’t lost all hope or ambition.” He raised his chin. “If anything, I’m more excited now than I ever was before.”

She nodded slowly, as if he’d inadvertently said just what she’d expected. “That’s the problem.”

“How so?” He took a deep breath. “What’s wrong with wanting to advance as quickly as possible?”

“Look at it this way. What’s the downside of working with Coal mana?”

Scorio hesitated. “It’s crude. Low quality. You said that a Great Soul can gain strength at the expense of control.”

“Precisely.” She raised her chin, still hugging herself tightly. “If you push yourself like you did yesterday, you’ll gain strength. There’s no question. You’ll find that your Heart can absorb more mana, and perhaps it’s even the fastest way to reach Emberling. But it will come at a cost.”

“Loss of control?”

“You’ll be sloppy. You’ll burn through mana faster than you realize, will flare out, and die off. Worse, your Heart will take damage, and your mind will suffer. Training in that manner will cause you to become raw, mentally exhausted. You’ll make bad decisions. You’ll make mistakes. Your temper will get the better of you, making you easier to manipulate, to goad into falling for traps. Power is not the sole element of the equation, Scorio. There also needs to be control.”

He wanted to protest. He felt a flicker of anger well up within him, unreasonable as he knew it to be. Carefully, he set the plate and cup aside so he could interlace his fingers on his lap and keep his hands under control. “My training is all that I can control right now. The only way to gain an edge. I’ll pay the cost if it means reaching Emberling quicker.”

She shook her head, expression frustratingly pitying. “You will be a raging shadow of what you could have been, Scorio. A brutish thug compared to the warrior you should become. I’ve seen others do it. None of them got very far before they were put down.”

Scorio took a deep, calming breath. “So you’re saying I should train slower? Let the others get even more ahead of me? Content myself with crawling when I could run?”

“No.” And now a touch of fire entered her tone, and he remembered in a flash that within her was the Nightmare Lady, that being of impossible strength and finesse. “You train smarter. Are you not listening to me?”

He pressed his fists to his temples as he bowed his head. “I am. I’m sorry. It’s just that…”

“Just that you want to gain strength as quickly as you can. I understand. You aren’t the only Great Soul to feel that way. If anything, that’s the default for all Great Souls.”

He dropped his hands. “Except for a few obvious exceptions.”

Her hazel eyes narrowed. “We need a reason to train, to fight, Scorio. The wiser you are, the sooner you realize that power is not its own reward.”

“Not sure I agree.”

She glared at him. “Well, that proves you’re a callow idiot.”

For a moment the air between them fairly roiled with tension, then Scorio raised both palms and laughed uneasily. “I won’t dispute that. I’m sorry. I’m just… I feel very strongly about this.”

“Fair.” She leaned back against the dresser. “I’m not asking you to train less. I’m telling you to train smarter. The Gauntlet and constant death will act like shocks to your Igneous Heart. But you need to step back and absorb those shocks, process them, integrate them into your being. You need to spend time working with mana, pushing your Heart, and most importantly, you need to rest.”

“Hmm, most of that sounded good but the resting part.”

“Rest is integral to training. It’s when you sleep that your body realigns itself with the changes that have taken place.” She brushed her hair roughly back. “Think of training as the active part of your training, and sleep as the passive part. Sleep is when your Heart grows more powerful, when your body restores itself and prepares for more training. If you don’t rest, you’ll just slowly collapse. Just like you did yesterday. And you’ll lose time recovering that you could have spent training intelligently.”

Scorio frowned and looked away. “Fine. Like I said, I may have overdone it a bit there.”

Naomi laughed and threw up her hands. “May have? Hells above and below, that’s probably the best I can hope to get out of you, isn’t it?”

He closed one eye and squinted at her through the other, giving her a lopsided smile. “At least I’m charming?”

Despite herself, Naomi smiled. “And who sold you that lie?”

“This guy called Old Memek. Wizened musician, plays an oud? Hangs out in Ward 7?”

For a moment Naomi just stared at him, unsure if he was joking, but when his grin widened, she reached around, snatched up a chunk of wax, and threw it at him.

Her aim was good. The wax bounced off his head even as he flung up an arm to block it.

“So this is what we’re going to do,” she said, adjusting her robes and drawing herself up with stiff dignity. “You’re going save the bulk of your Gauntlet runs for when your friends can join you. It’s safer. But!” She raised her voice as he went to protest. “It doesn’t mean you won’t get a chance to die repeatedly in between. We’ll go together every two or three days, and you’ll get two to three runs while I stand guard. That’s enough to keep you at your edge, though I’ll be monitoring you, making sure you’re still not pressing too hard.”

“Only two or three times?”

“In the meantime, you’ll continue your regular training. Because there’s more to becoming a powerful Great Soul than just dying repeatedly. You’ll resume your runs, your morning meditation, and in the afternoons, we’ll train and spar.”

“All right.” Then he remembered his brief exchange with Leonis and smiled. “Actually, I can use the time to do some hunting. Fiends have Heartstones, right? I can start harvesting them, then maybe go to the alchemist and see if he won’t give me octs in exchange. Think he will? I mean, I’d love to get some basic amenities… sleeping on a blanket is starting to get old. And an actual weapon wouldn’t go amiss.”

“As long as you’re not an idiot about it and go after apex predators,” she said, expression dour. “Yes. Fine. I mean, I can’t stop you. Just… restrict your hunting to the borderlands. And if you get hurt, it’s on your own head.”

“Sounds great,” he said with a grin.

“But you shouldn’t be thinking on swords—depending on such items is a trap that will slow your progress. Have you been practicing the First Form like I told you?”

For a moment he couldn’t remember what she was referring to, then he felt his face flush. “Ah, well—”

“I thought as much.” She began walking slowly toward him, fixing him with her glare, and Scorio found himself shrinking back on his stool. “You will resume training as I mandated. You will focus as much on manipulating your mana and saturating your Heart as you will dying. You will hone your focus. You will do the hard, boring work, and not focus on the easy task of dying or hunting fiends.”

“Easy?” he managed a brittle laugh. “You think going through the Gauntlet is easy?”

She stopped right before him, and never had the Nightmare Lady ridden so close beneath her skin. Raising a hand, she poked a finger into his chest, just as Leonis had, ages and ages ago. “Yes. Dying is easy. Nihilism is easy. Throwing yourself off the top of a tower can be far, far easier than resisting the urge and forcing yourself to wait for another dawn.”

The air trembled with the intensity of her words, and Scorio stared at her, transfixed.

“I know the urge, you see,” she said, voice dropping to a near whisper. “The urge to throw yourself into oblivion. To call it strength. To call it bravery. To see refuge in the dark. And after a year of sleeping in this chamber, I can now see it for what it is.”

Scorio flinched but forced himself not to lean back any further.

“So you will train as I dictate. And every two or three days, we will go to the old Academy, and you can die to your heart’s content. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” he managed to say. “Perfectly.”

She pursed her lips as she glowered at him for a moment longer, then stepped away. Moving up to her sideboard, she hesitated, then picked up her knife. Looked back at him over her shoulder and frowned. “So. Another slice of bread?”

Chapter 36

Scorio trained. Each day once again fell into a steady rhythm, but now he saw definite signs of progress. The deep shocks to his Heart that he’d suffered in the Gauntlet seemed to have galvanized his growth; rising to his feet with a saturated Heart and walking across the room came ever easier to him. Once he’d managed to cross back and forth four times, Naomi escalated the difficulty.

“A simple obstacle course,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Nothing onerous. Nothing a child couldn’t navigate.”

Which meant blocks he had to weave between, a boulder he had to carefully scramble over, and finally a pole laid at chest height beneath which he had to bend.

Even walking slowly this proved almost more than he could manage, the mana sloshing within his Heart dangerously, threatening to spill over.

But Scorio persevered.

Naomi would leave him to work on increasing his saturation point, drinking ever deeper of the Coal mana in his room till he could clear the entire chamber, at which point he moved to denser spots close by.

Repeatedly, he’d manifest his will and sweep the cloying black energy into his Heart, pulling it in till he was filled to bursting. Each time the faintest of flames would cover his body, nearly translucent in the light of the sun-wire, burning down the length of his arms and manifesting around his fists. Each time he thought he was able to draw in a little more, and each time it took him longer to ignite.

“Think of it in terms of a log,” Naomi told him one morning after he’d complained about failing to ignite for near ten seconds. “What happens if you place a twig in a fire?”

“It burns up fast,” he’d said.

“And if you try to light a log directly? Hold a burning twig to its side?”

“Nothing,” he said. “That much wood needs to lie in a bed of coals or amongst other burning logs to burn.”

“Precisely. The deeper your Heart becomes, the more mana you can store within it, the more like a large log it will feel. Like I told you. You’ll know you’ve reached the very edge of Cinder when you can barely ignite it at all. But once you do, you’ll find that it lasts for much longer.”

“You’d said that would be dangerous, but I can really appreciate that now,” said Scorio, kicking at a loose rock. “What if I’m set upon while crossing the ruins?”

Her smile had been all saccharine sweetness. “Then, my darling boy, you’d best run your heels off while you try to make that log burn.”

So he sat and meditated, drinking Coal mana down with ever greater inhalations, seeking the point of saturation, that moment when soft gray flames burned all over his flesh. And then he’d strive to ignite, straining, bending his will to the task, till at last his Heart lit up and he knew he had more to go.

Afternoons, as promised, were spent training. His instincts were good, his body strong, and he picked up her lessons without much need for repetition.

“Your memory is gone, but you had martial training before your current age,” she said at one point, stepping back and lowering her hands.

He’d wiped the sweat from his brow. “You think?”

“Absolutely. You’re not learning to fight. You’re remembering. Most Great Souls have violent backgrounds, and many of them trained at fighting before the age they imprinted upon the Archspire. You clearly did. Your form is clean, your execution crisp, and you don’t need reminding. You’re progressing… I don’t know, ten times faster than a normal trainee? You’re fortunate.”

“Doesn’t feel that way,” said Scorio. “I can’t seem to land a blow.”

“I’m an Emberling,” she said. “I’d be humiliated if you could.”

He’d laughed. “Now I’ve got motivation. Watch out!”

And he’d glided forward, leading with a feint and following up with a brutal front kick that he powered right from the hips.

Naomi had only laughed and slipped aside effortlessly.

Sparring and technique training gave way by the end of Second Bronze to working on the First Form. Naomi would stand to one side, eyes narrowed, watching as he slipped from one position to another, offering her commentary, guiding him, correcting him.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she’d said, interrupting him halfway. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

“How so?” he’d asked, rising from his combat crouch.

“You looking like you’re snapping punches out at the air.”

“Well, that’s because I am snapping punches out at the air.”

“But you shouldn’t be. You need to envision your foes. There are four of them. Each direction you move into represents your engaging and destroying one after the other. But it’s not enough to just visualize your immediate foe. You need to move with an awareness of the other three. Picture them closing in, imagine their expressions, feel their killing intent. Make the fight real. Destroy them, each in turn, so that when you finish, you feel the same primal satisfaction of having survived a real fight. Then, and only then, will you have mastered the Form.”

Scorio had raked his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. “You’re saying I have to feel like I genuinely killed people to master this Form.”

“Precisely. Your focus must be absolute. Your immersion. Think of it as…” She cast around, looking for the right metaphor. “Think of it as a portable Gauntlet.”

He’d not tried to hide his skepticism. “Portable Gauntlet.”

“Are the foes in the Gauntlet real? No, I don’t want you to get metaphysical.”

“I wasn’t about to.”

“They’re not though, are they?” She’d raised a challenging eyebrow. “They reset each time you enter. They’re illusory opponents you get to train against. The Forms are the same. Portable, invisible Gauntlets. If you execute a Form with the same intensity and seriousness that you take on a Gauntlet run, that’s when you’ll master it.”

Scorio frowned. “So that’s why they were developed? To compensate for not having access to the Gauntlet like we now do?”

“Kind of. Not really. But yes. Also because you can perform a perfect Form without dying horrifically. Now. Again. From the beginning. And this time I want to see murder in your eyes.”

She’d retreated to sit on the shattered shard of rock, and he’d returned to his baseline. Taken a deep, controlled breath, and held it as he’d raised his chin, staring through the blasted practice ground and out into a realm of his own imagining.

He stood there till he was able to imagine four foes approaching him, two on either side, two more just ahead. Ghostly, limned by the same stark light which illuminated the statues in the Gauntlet’s second chamber. The assassin and the archer ahead, the axman on his left, the pig-headed brute on his right.

Only when he could see them with crystal clarity, only when he felt his skin prickle and his gut tighten did he slide rapidly to the left, snapping his arm up to block the downward swing of the axman’s first attack, forearm cracking into the haft just below the blade.

He drove the axman back, step by choreographed step, and when an opening appeared, he slammed his fist forward, a crushing blow that would have shattered the man’s sternum.

The silvery image in his imagination faded away like mist before the sun-wire’s amber burn, and over the ridges of his shivering knuckles he saw Naomi watching him, her expression pensive, her brow furrowed.

She gave him a slow nod of approval, and he whipped around to engage the next attacker.

But his favorite time, to his surprise, became his dusk runs. When he would tighten his sandals and set out for a long, leisurely run through the ruins, alternating the routes, leaving at the tail end of Second Clay so that the rising streamers of mist would coalesce into funnel clouds around the sun-wire. Running alone, his body weary and his spirit satisfied, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the buildings, picking routes that avoided dangerous areas, running as the sun-wire dimmed and darkened and the clouds would cool sufficiently to release their spiraling curtains of rain which raked over Bastion in winding curtains, gentle and warm.

Those moments, as the rain first began to fall and soaked his robes to his body, washing away the dust and dirt and dried blood, were like medicine for his spirit. His thoughts would still, his will would relax, and he’d simply inhabit his body, moving easily, his pace carrying him all the way around the perimeter to his starting spot, the ruins made ethereal and beautiful by the rain.

He’d run four laps, and when he ended up at his chamber, he’d sit on the windowsill cross-legged and devour his evening meal. He’d watch the last of the rain peter out as he spooned the gruel into his mouth, feeding the furnace that was his appetite, watching the ruins come alive at night, until at last, satiated and exhausted, he’d step over to his blanket stretched out over the stone floor and lay down. To sleep deeply, dreamlessly, profoundly, his body healing, his spirit mending, till First Clay awoke him to another day of training.

Naomi and he visited the old Academy twice more before the end of the Eighthday. Scorio attempted five more runs all told, and each time, Naomi accompanied him and stood aside after destroying her statue, watching and advising him on his approach.

On his fifth run, she moved forward slowly till the first statue activated, demolished it, then retreated to the back of the hall, using her claws and tail to anchor herself high up in the corner.

“Now you,” she said.

Scorio took a deep breath and steadied his nerves. He’d defeated his foe two out of the last four times, but both had resulted in him being so grievously wounded that he’d not bothered challenging the flying cube room; sitting instead to bleed out as the Nightmare Lady had gone on ahead.

Now he stared at the remaining eleven statues. He’d fought all of them but two. Had projected so much anger and frustration onto them all that they’d come to have personalities in his mind; the sneering archer, the laconic spearman, the brutish axman, the vicious assassin.

“Center yourself,” said the Nightmare Lady from behind and above. “You need to master yourself if you want to master your foe.”

Before, such words might have irritated Scorio, sounded flippant or shallow. But after working hard at his First Form, after spending so many hours meditating and manipulating Coal, they were instead a truth he wrestled with. A path he’d failed to walk.

Another deep breath and he shook out his hands. Shrugging his shoulders, he hopped up and down on the balls of his feet, then with a whoomph ignited his Igneous Heart.

Calm, focused, he walked forward. Stared straight ahead, focused on the fuzzy darkness at the end of the room, and allowed his senses to open, his mind to relax, thoughts to drift.

Past the first couple of statues.

He passed the assassin and she stirred, stepping down neatly off her pedestal, blades whispering up, their stone edges improbably sharp.

Scorio reacted immediately, wheeling about and then swaying back once, twice as the assassin slashed at his face with her dagger.

She was wickedly fast, but when she brought her sword up and around to decapitate him, Scorio ducked under it and moved behind her, grabbing hold of the folds of her cloak and using her momentum to haul her right off her feet and throw her headfirst into the statue of the axman beside her plinth.

The assassin crashed into the other statue, which shattered about her, crashing down and toppling as she recovered, shoving herself back up.

But Scorio was upon her, having snatched up a large chunk of rock in one fist which he brought crashing down upon her head.

Her face snapped to the side, but still, she surged up and into him, the force lifting him off his feet and sending him sprawling back onto the floor.

Scorio rolled aside as she fell upon where he’d been laying, her sword point sinking an inch into the rock. He scrambled up, saw her dagger lost amongst the wreckage of the other statue, and dove for it.

She wheeled, fluid and precise, and brought her blade scything down, nearly shearing off his left foot.

Scorio rolled over the rubble, ignoring the pain, and grabbed the knife. Came up in a crouch and hurled it at her face as she dove at him, blade raised high for a killing blow.

The knife hilt cracked right between her eyes with enough force to throw off her attack; Scorio dodged aside, her blade sweeping past his face as he wrapped an arm around her neck. He rode her down to the ground, slipping around behind her and immediately locking his ankles about her waist.

They rolled upon the rubble. She tried to hack over her shoulder at him with her stabbing blade, but couldn’t find the right angle.

Clenching his jaw, Scorio locked his hands and arched his back, hauling on her neck, bringing her jaw up.

She was a force of nature, writhing and bucking, hacking at the ground above and beside his head.

Scorio ignored it, focused on his Igneous Heart. Inhaling deeply, he pulled, drawing on the Coal mana, sucking more and more of it into his Heart.

Feeding more strength into his body.

Feeling his muscles swell with power.

She was slamming her elbow into one of his thighs, had dropped her blade to scrabble at his hands.

Scorio felt the ocean roaring in his ears, felt his whole body aflame with effort, and then the air was rent by a sharp crack, and her head snapped right off.

He fell away with a gasp, her head rolling free, her body going rigid, locked into its final contortion as if carved that way.

Gasping, Scorio sat up, his forearm raw, his chest working like a bellows. Stared at the statue as it shattered into fragments, wide-eyed, then over to where the Nightmare Lady hung suspended, her sulfurous green eyes blazing.

“Well done,” she said. “And without suffering a single cut.”

Scorio could only grin as he wrestled his way to his feet, his Heart extinguishing, his body suddenly weak after the excess of effort. He reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow and stared down at the wreckage of the statue he’d feared the most.

“I did it,” he said, testing the words even as he said them. “I defeated her.”

“And now you’re ready for the next chamber,” said the Nightmare Lady, extending her tail to lower herself slowly to the floor. “Recapture that focus. You’ll need it.”

Scorio scrubbed at his face. “Right. Focus. How do you want to do this?”

“Go through alone,” she said. “That way it shouldn’t trigger the room’s higher level of lethality.”

“All right. Wish me luck.”

“No,” said the Nightmare Lady. “Not luck. Skill.”

He paused, looking back at her, and then nodded. “Skill, then.”

Controlling his breath, he stepped up to the black door and took hold of the handle. Closed his eyes, centered himself, and then pulled it open and stepped through.

The same chamber as before confronted him. Black latticework of shadows along the walls, with the white cubes glowing softly by their hundreds. He had to cross some twenty yards.

Simple. At a sprint, he could reach the other side in seconds.

But a full-out sprint meant no control. No ability to react. He’d be pummeled to paste before he could reach the far wall.

Scorio shook out his arms, rolled his head about on his neck so that a few sharp pops sounded, and then closed his eyes.

Just waited for a few moments, and then summoned his Heart. The Coal was heavy in the room, and it took little effort to sweep it into his Heart and there ignite it.

The strength, the sense of power, was immediate, and with it came a burst of confidence.

Focus.

Scorio stepped forward. Restrained the urge to dart glances at the walls, to try and spot the cube before it came flying at him.

Stared straight ahead, through the far wall, allowing his senses to spread out about him as they’d done in the previous chamber.

Movement to his left.

A cube came flying fast and low, and without thinking, Scorio lifted his leg so that it flew under it and was gone.

A flare of victory. But he didn’t have time to relish it—another flash from his left, shoulder height, and he twisted about violently so that the cube sped past his chest.

He didn’t sense the third one, however, and it impacted his right hip with punishing force, sending him staggering.

Hissing in pain, Scorio lurched forward, his calm fracturing, his focus slipping.

More cubes came flying at him. He ducked under one, jerked forward to avoid another, but then was hit three times in succession, pain exploding from his elbow, his upper thigh, and a long trail of fire across his back as one raked past him.

Gasping, feeling as if he were choking, Scorio broke into a run, arms up to protect his head.

The rate of fire increased, cubes smashing into him from all sides, and he only made it halfway across the room before he collapsed to the floor, body broken.

But there was no zone of relief. Cubes continued to shoot out, skimming just above the ground to smash against him with terrible force.

It couldn’t have taken longer than ten seconds to die, but it felt like it took forever. Scorio was pulped and crushed, battered and broken by the endless impacts. When darkness finally claimed him, Scorio dove into it with relief.

“Gah,” he gasped as he opened his eyes upon his bier, his whole body convulsing, the pain pulsing through every part of him. He turned one way, found no relief, turned back. His spine felt crushed, his hips askew, his skull collapsed. Sharp pain stabbed at the back of his eyeballs, and he shoved his head over the side of the bier as a spasm wracked him and he vomited violently upon the floor.

He could dimly make out Naomi hissing in pain as she, too, awoke; but was lost in his own wretchedness to focus.

So this is what an anvil feels like, he thought and tried to reach for his Heart.

Movement. Vision bleary, he saw a massive insect rising beside his bier. Large and hulking like a beetle, it lifted its forelegs, their black, shining length covered in errant bristles and ending in two wicked hooks.

Scorio gave out a cry of alarm and shoved back, falling off the far edge of his bier to crash to the ground.

A scuttling sound from his left, and the beetle came swarming around the side of the bier, hook-arms ready.

Scorio was still pulsing with pain, unable to think, unable to do more than shove away again, heels skidding across the ground as he cried out in alarm.

The beetle tensed, about to leap, when a great blade chokked down through its head and into the side of the bier, pinning it neatly.

Yellow ichor gouted out and the insect vibrated in place, its legs shaking and contracting, and then it went still.

Scorio stared, wide-eyed, as the Nightmare Lady retracted her tail, then fell back to clutch at the closest bier, the strength fleeing her emaciated body.

With a retch, Scorio turned over to vomit again.

By slow degrees, they recovered, and finally, Scorio was able to stand, his head pounding, his body weak. With a deep breath, he ignited his Heart, and the strength washed over him like a healing balm, smoothing the last of the phantom pain away.

“Thanks,” he managed at last, wiping his wrist across his mouth. “That was… close.”

“Urgh.” Naomi had reverted to her human form, and her face looked bone pale. “My warnings aren’t for my own amusement, you know. Perhaps even I should start listening to them.”

Scorio took up his waterskin and swished warm water about his mouth before spitting it out. “How far did you get?”

“No further.” The bitterness in her voice was plain. “The damn beast won’t die. I cut off its leg, blinded it, and still, it could somehow sense me. All it takes is one lucky grab and then it pulls me in and crushes my head.”

Scorio took a few sips, knowing better than to flood his stomach with gulps. “Maybe it's meant to be tackled by more than one Emberling.”

She frowned. “I know I can beat it. I just need to figure out its weakness. It’s clearly not blood loss.”

“You’re the Emberling,” he said, pressing his hand to his brow.

She leaned back against the bier and gave him a crooked smile. “Still. Congratulations. First time you take down a statue without being badly injured. That’s a huge improvement.”

“It’s these gorgeous muscles,” he said, gazing at his arm and chest. “Overnight, they just doubled in size, and now I have the strength of ten—”

“Scorio.” Her warning was clear.

“Yeah, all right. Fine. A little more focus didn’t hurt.”

“How did you do in the cube room?”

Carefully, trying not to groan, he stood up. “Fine at first. Then fell to pieces after the first couple hit. My clarity just fractured like a pane of glass.” He drew a deep breath and forced a bitter smile. “Suddenly all I wanted to do was cover my head and run.”

“You understand that’s completely natural, right?” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what people do in such situations. What you’re trying to learn is unnatural. It’s to repress healthy survival instincts in favor of an inhuman amount of control.”

“Right, yes.” He drew himself upright, the last of the pain fading away. “I understand. Still doesn’t make it any less galling to remember running like a child into certain death.”

To which she could only snort. “You should have seen my tantrum when that massive beast seized my tail again. Even I, poised and lethally elegant as I am, lose my temper once in a while.”

Scorio failed to restrain a grin. “Lethally elegant?”

Naomi flushed, curled her hair behind one ear, and turned away. “Something like that. Ready to head home?”

“Ready.” He eyed the bier one last time, the massive beetle spider that had crumpled at its base, and gave a grim nod. “Two more days and we’ll be back with the others. You going to join us?”

“I… might,” said Naomi, not looking back as she walked toward the exit. “Still debating.”

Scorio hurried to catch up. “They’d love to meet you. They’re good people.”

“That’s not the issue,” said Naomi, voice low.

Scorio considered, then remembered her room, high up in that precarious tower. “Right. Well, the invitation’s open. Just let me know what you decide.”

Naomi simply led the way out of the vast and shadow-wreathed basilica, and didn’t say another word.

Interlude - Imogen

Imogen trailed her fingers along the rough wall, dust and dirt and desiccated pieces of vine crumbling in her wake and falling to the labyrinth floor. Her black gown swept a trail in the detritus, a means to retrace her steps, but she never turned back, never looked at the host of the dead that followed.

Their tread, the sound of their bony feet as they prowled behind her, lingering at every corner, wasn’t real, but still, she heard it, knew that they were there. Friends and lovers, enemies and casual kills. All reduced, their spirits sucked away by the Noumenon as a cannibal might slurp marrow from a cracked bone.

On she walked, wondering if she had grown tired of being alone, lost in abstracted thought and pondering the turns and bifurcations of the maze. The massive stone walls towered above her, easily five times her height, the walls thick enough to withstand siege engines, the pathways that riddled their way endlessly through the labyrinth without number or reason.

A home, of sorts. A nest. A means to keep her from herself.

Shadows writhed about her feet like spiteful cats.

A sound from a side passage. Laughter.

Imogen paused, a memory stirring. A vision of a lily-strewn lake, herself standing atop a skiff that nosed its way toward a dark cave carved into the amber cliffs that stretched before her. Light reflecting off the water, the heady scent of the lotuses, the excitement at reaching—

No.

A great wall arose from the dirt, rumbling and shuddering, and closed off the passageway, silencing the merriment.

Imogen turned away and continued.

But her pace was restless now, a thin vertical line appearing between her brows. Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she dug her fingers deeper into the walls as she passed them, nails scoring deep grooves in the stone.

For a spell, she walked on, not thinking, her discontent growing, until with an inhalation she rose into the air, buoyed aloft by an upswelling of shadow, rising above the walls of the labyrinth so that it stretched out around her, covering the inside of the great sphere in which she existed, the grooves and contortions of the many paths reminding her of the bizarre folding patterns she’d observed on freshly removed brains.

Rising, she stared across the sphere’s center at the distant palace that emerged from the labyrinth’s heart, adumbrated and wreathed in ivy, its windows luminous with golden light, its towers defiant, its form graceful and fair.

She had but to stretch forth her hand and she could cup it in her palm, pluck it from the far side of her world and cradle it like a toy.

If she closed her fist, she could crush it.

Listening intently, she thought she heard distant strains of music, so faint she might have imagined it. Dulcimers and flutes, harps and mandolins.

A cold, sere wind blew, blustering Imogen’s raven hair across her face, tugging at her gown.

Were they dancing? Did she hear slippered feet on parquet floors?

Heart thudding, she strained to hear, and the labyrinth before her shifted, the winding ways straightening to form a central avenue that forged a path from where she hovered across the inner curve of her private moon, cutting its way across the hundreds of miles toward the palace.

With a blink, Imogen dragged her gaze down to the labyrinth, and the new path arrested its approach. Stilled and shivered like a hound beneath the eye of a cruel master.

No.

She’d not cheat.

The straight line collapsed, complicated itself with interceptions and intersections. Dead vines writhed up from the dirt to cover these new partitions, and with a sigh Imogen allowed herself to sink back down to the ground, between the high, stark walls, her gown alighting softly about her, her hair stilling, freed from the tender ministrations of the wind.

They would be dancing. He would be there, smiling genially, handsome and virile, master of all that his dark gaze fell upon.

And by his side?

Imogen pressed forward, eager to reach the palace, her purpose renewed. On she rushed, trailed by the sound of countless bony feet pursuing her, turning corners recklessly, picking turnings without hesitation. The very act of throwing herself forward was a relief, a balm to her fevered mind.

Glancing up, she saw the palace directly above her, distant and bright, implanted on the far inner side of her domain. She smiled, eager, tremulous. She’d have to change upon reaching the estate, her black mourning gown wouldn’t do. But she’d retire to her suite, bathe and dress and be down in time for the culmination of the ball. All she need do was reach it, to wend her way through this endless weaving of stone and dirt.

Then she froze. Stared out sightlessly at the lonesome corridor before her, her attention narrowing to a point.

Somewhere a flicker of new energy caught her attention.

No, not new—impossibly old.

Old and familiar.

Imogen’s heart beat faster as she focused on the stirring. Far away. Realm beyond realm. All the way to where it had once begun.

Bastion?

She extended her hand before her, fingers splayed, and focused more fiercely.

Yes. An ancient power had stirred.

She snatched her hand back to her lips. The Portal?

It couldn’t be. Never had, so why now?

But again she felt that flicker, that broken sway, so insignificant that even her senses barely noticed.

Yes.

She turned to one side, turned back, seeking him to confer, to confirm.

But he wasn’t there, of course. He was above her, in the palace, smiling and tapping his foot in time to the music.

Imogen bit her lower lip, resumed walking. But she moved slowly now, unsure.

That flicker of energy didn’t fade.

She took turns at random. Tried to push away the sensation. To bury it deep, to remove it and its temptation from her notice.

Failed.

What if it were true?

What if the Portal were opening at long last?

Ettera.

She could go look.

She could go see for herself.

She stopped walking, then smiled brightly.

She would do it.

And perhaps—perhaps if it were so—then they could go through together, could put the past behind them, the deaths and misunderstandings, the mistakes and mass murders.

A chance to begin anew.

Imogen rose once more, but this time her gaze remained fixed on the ground below, a vortex of shadows raising her effortlessly up on high.

Lowering her chin, she extended her hand and exerted her will.

The walls of the massive labyrinth immediately crumbled away in a perfect hemisphere, the far edges standing tall and growing ever shorter as they drew near to the center directly below.

A powerful ward had been placed just beneath the surface of the ground. Elastic, resistant, dull-minded, and infinitely strong, it attempted to defy her, but could not. After all, it was her creation.

A tiny hole appeared in its surface and widened rapidly. Dirt and rock evaporated, and then she pressed both hands down together, as if inserting her fingers into a stomach wound, and pulled the air apart.

The fabric of her moon tore, and the labyrinth folded away and behind her, collapsing in on itself as she flew through the aethereal gap and into a great chasm in the earth.

Another obstacle, this one more formidable than the last, created during a moment of regrettable madness and self-loathing. Yohanis stood at the chasm’s far end, enlarged into a perfect giant, his crimson curls wreathed about his perfect brow, his eyes dull and lusterless, his cheeks ashen, his bare chest carved with muscle and that one livid hole above his heart.

Imogen floated toward him, throat closing, her very spirit recoiling in horror at the sight of his perfect form. But when Yohanis raised his burning blade she extended her hand—and though it wounded her deeper than she thought possible, she banished him, unmade her weaving of him, and his gigantic form dissolved and was gone.

Tears ran down her cheeks, but on she flew, the chasm collapsing around her, the colors swirling, melding, the sky opening up, a lake appearing to her right, a spit of sand curling around its shore.

It was twilight. The air was rich with the scent of blooming dusk coronets, and dappled skimmers flitted across the water’s surface, leaving widening circles in their wake.

Imogen slowed, a dagger turning in her heart at the sight of the blue blanket, the dishes and cups, the half-eaten tart, the wine bottle spilled over on its side. Her skin prickled, and waves of cold fire washed over her as she fought the memories that sought to drown her.

Almost she could hear the voices raised in panic and horror. Waves of pain that she did not countenance sought to smother her, to drown her in old grief made new.

The final ward.

But, like the others, created by herself, against herself, summoned and put in place to keep her at bay.

And thus, ultimately, futile.

Imogen lowered her face, covered it with both hands, and with a cry flew forward, racing along that narrow beach, unseeing, her heart lacerating, until untold miles later she finally came to a stop.

The world had changed.

It was no longer her own.

She lowered her hands, and through tear-clumped lashes gazed out over the fleshy, undulating surface of a mauve, mycotal mesa.

She was free.

She was out.

She was back in hell.

The sky was rich with cerulean blue, dove gray, and lavender striations; an inch above the western horizon floated a solaran, shedding its silver light over the land, colossal fins slowly undulating.

An emerald fern giant stood close at hand, towering some thirty yards into the sky, streams of translucent Diamond mana rising from the mycotal mesa into its outstretched verdant hand. It turned its huge, antlered head to stare down at her, the symbol of power glowing beneath its ivy face with a luminous, golden-green hue, its broad mouth flattening into a line.

A moment later its alarm was total and overwhelming. Its symbol flared as brightly as a fractured hope stone, and it jumped up and back, its leap carrying it high and away as if it were a flea across the vast expanse of the mesa.

Imogen inhaled deeply. How long had it been? Lifting her palm, she sent forth a dozen vortices which flew up and away to some several thousand yards, forming a perfect circle around her, and immediately began to drain all the Diamond mana in the region into her Lacuna.

Power flowed into her like a cataract, and with a smile, she fashioned her Shroud, pulled her Ferula from her spirit, and ignited her Aura.

A mile away, the fern giant groaned and toppled, its luxurious body turning ashen and then collapsing in upon itself as Emerald mana streamed to the closest vortex and then into her Lacuna.

The mycotal mesa rippled in distress beneath her, its flesh graying as the vortices stripped it of its essence in a widening circle.

Imogen rose into the air, garbed in shadow, her mind clearing and focusing on that distant fleck of ancient power.

Bastion was almost on the far side of hell; even if she used the Interstitial Rivenings to pass through the center it would take her days to reach it.

The closest entrance? Her senses ranged far afield, tallying nodes, nexi, reservoirs, cacogens, torque zones, and fiends of particular power.

There. Only a few hundred miles north.

Her vortices collapsed upon themselves. Her Shroud flared, and streamlining her Aura, she blasted forward, a column of shadow bearing her faster than thought, her departure tearing massive rents in the mesa as a dull boom shattered the sky.

A moment later she was gone, a dwindling speck on the horizon.

Heading north.

Heading home.

Heading to Bastion.

Chapter 37

Scorio filled the next five days with arduous training, hours spent practicing the First Form, and several hunting forays that netted him a half-dozen Coal Heartstones. As promised, he restricted himself to minor foes, and was able to defeat them without suffering anything more than scrapes and minor cuts.

But all the while he waited for eight days to pass since he’d inserted the reeds. When the day finally dawned, Scorio returned to the chasm to check on his farm’s progress. The way there was now familiar to him, and in his eagerness, he took it at a run; when he drew close to the chasm’s edge, he peered down, sharpening his darkvision to help him focus into the gloom, and breathed out a deep sigh when he saw the hundred or so plants still standing in their neat little rows.

Quickly he fashioned his harness for the steel rod, then leaped down to the second ledge before repeating the process of dropping down to the island. He was so eager that he nearly missed the edge; for a moment he teetered back and forth, arms windmilling, and when he finally lurched forward, he immediately vowed to never be hasty about getting down again.

But none of that mattered. All barely constrained eagerness, he dropped to his knees by the closest plant and carefully, fingers steady, drew forth the reed. Thin lines of sticky black sap drew out for a moment and then snapped as he pulled it away, and immediately he summoned his Heart, focusing his darkvision at the base of the narrow reed.

There. Gleaming, precious, and calling to him in the sweet voice of power made tangible, was a bead of Coal mana.

Scorio drew forth a small, palm-sized bottle, uncorked it, and held the reed to the mouth, tipping it up.

The bead didn’t pour out.

Frowning, Scorio tapped the reed against the glass, then gave it a sharp shake.

Nothing.

Pushing his senses forth, he felt the bead where it had slowly begun to roll out of the reed’s base. At this speed, it would take him an entire cycle to cajole every reed into disgorging its contents.

Instead, he closed his eyes, focused his will on the bead, and pulled.

The black, gleaming droplet leaped out and plopped into the bottom of the bottle.

Grinning to himself, Scorio carefully reinserted the reed, making sure not to widen the hole, and moved to the next plant. This time he didn’t hesitate; he placed the reed immediately to the bottle’s mouth and pulled the bead forth.

A second black oval appeared at the base of the bottle as if by magic, then slowly melded with the first.

Working quickly, methodically, and with great care, Scorio made his way down line after line of the plants, his movements becoming precise and practiced, until at last, twenty or so minutes later, he was done.

Scorio held up the bottle and peered through the cloudy glass at its contents. Two or so fingers’ worth of raw, liquid Coal mana gleamed within. Enough for six elixirs, barring errors.

With great care, he inserted the cork and wedged it deep. Slipped it into his robes, tucked it firmly under his belt, and then sat back on his heels to gaze at his little farm in contentment.

He was going to need another thirty or so plants to get a full week’s worth of elixirs, but for now, he couldn’t have been more satisfied.

Rising to his feet, he took up his rope, whirled the steel bar about a few times, then hurled it up high to begin the next step of his plan.

* * *

The closer Scorio got to Naomi’s room at the top of the tower, the more he regretted his impulsiveness. She’d never extended an open invitation for him to visit, had made it clear that the one time she’d brought him there was due to exceptional circumstances. He was sweating more than he should have been when he reached the tower top, and took a moment to inhale a deep, shaky breath.

What was the worst that could happen?

Reaching out, he knocked hard on the heavy door and moved back and down a few steps. He resisted the urge to clear his throat, and instead forced himself to straighten his spine and square his shoulders.

The door slid open a crack, and the Nightmare Lady’s blade slipped out, seeming to hover as if underwater at the end of its segmented tail, turning in questing curiosity to aim its tip at his face.

“Good to see you, too,” he called out. “Always nice when a friend drops by. Right?”

The door eased open further, a black hand with inch-long talons fanning out over its front, and the Nightmare Lady stepped into view, her sulfurous green eyes narrowed, her whole form nearly quivering with tension.

“Brought a surprise,” said Scorio, fighting the urge to take another step down. “Which, to be clear, isn’t my own sudden appearance. Ha. That was, ah, a joke.”

The Nightmare Lady stood in silence for a beat longer, then her form shrank and sank away to become Naomi’s, her thick hair falling in an unkempt curtain about her face, her chin lowered, her face cast into a sullen frown. “I knew I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

Scorio pulled his bottle out from his robes. “Look what I got.”

And despite her clear irritation, she leaned forward to peer at the jet-black contents. “Is that…?”

“Condensed Coal mana, the product of over a hundred and fifty-nine Black Star flowers. That’s right. Scorio the Abhorred has a green thumb.”

“Black thumb,” muttered Naomi, forgetting her annoyance and stepping out onto the landing to take the bottle and hold it up where the clear rays of Amber could pass through the clouded glass. “A fair amount, too. A hundred and fifty plants…?”

“Fifty-nine,” said Scorio. “I’ll have another dose of the same amount eight days from now. If I can secure a few more plants, it should be enough for an elixir each morning.”

“Ah,” said Naomi. “Hence your coming to me.”

“I’d leave you alone if I had an alchemical laboratory in my own rooms, I swear. But seeing as how I am but a poor, indigent orphan, cast out upon the mercies of this cruel world…”

“Oh, enough,” said Naomi, turning around to pad back into her room. “But if you want me to work on this, you had best take a vow of silence.”

Scorio hesitated. How best to inform her that he was willing to be quiet with her back turned? How to ensure the appropriate amount of appreciation?

In the end, he settled for a grimace and followed silently after.

Her room was the same as before; the massive, sunken four-poster with a sagging canopy of faded blue silk listing upon the off-kilter floor; carpets scattered haphazardly everywhere; heavy pieces of battered furniture set against the walls; the thin curtains blowing in through the open doorway that led out to the Amber-lit ruins beyond.

Scorio followed Naomi to the large table covered in arcane alchemical equipment, and watched as she set about preparing for the process.

“It’s eerie, your being completely silent,” she said after a while. “You can talk, but keep it to a strict minimum.”

“A minimum,” he agreed. “Can I help?”

“No. This is a simple process. We’re going to dilute the mana and then heat it over a controlled flame while adding alum to induce flocculation.” She paused, eyeing him. “You’re not planning on creating poisonous elixirs, are you?”

“What’s the term for half a poisonous elixir?”

“Idiocy.”

“That’s it. I’d like to only filter out half the toxins. According to the treatise I purchased, that should ensure the elixir is as strong as the tincture I drank while I only suffer half the side effects.”

“Idiocy,” said Naomi again, setting a small iron pot over a pile of kindling. “You do understand that there’s a reason Great Souls everywhere don’t abuse their bodies and Hearts like you do.”

Scorio thought of the filament-thin pattern he’d noticed of late on his Heart. “I know. But we’ve discussed this before.”

“True.”

He felt the faintest whisper of her will, and the contents of the bottle sluiced down into the pot, to which she added a cup of water. “Very well. We’ll filter half of the toxins out. That should only cost you a morning. You plan to give up your every morning from here on out?”

“No,” he said. “First, I’m hoping to build up a tolerance. Second, I plan to walk it off. Third… I’m working on the third part.”

Naomi took a live coal from a horn and carefully set the kindling on fire, then added ever-larger twigs and snapped segments of branches until a little fire was burning. Scorio watched in silence as she stirred the liquid, and when a faint steam began to rise from the pot, she took out a vial and tapped a beige powder into the mix.

“The alum will cause the toxins to separate from the solids,” she said quietly. “They should then burn off in the steam, leaving the concentrated, half-purified mana behind. You sure you don’t want it in pill form?”

“No, that process weakens the potency of the mana in exchange for easy handling. I’ll keep it a treacle and take my dose each morning with a spoon.”

To which Naomi simply nodded and resumed stirring.

Scorio moved to sit cross-legged on the balcony and watched the ruins under the bright light of Amber. He allowed his gaze to drift out over the city, to follow a flock of predatory wastru birds as they chivied a school of floating nimbus jellyfish, and finally closed his eyes to work on his mana manipulation.

It was Second Bronze when he stirred, and he saw that Naomi had silently joined him on the balcony, her knees tucked under her chin, her thick hair drawn back and tied off with a thong of leather.

“It’s reducing,” she said, gazing out over the flat rooftops. “Should take a few hours. If you want an accurate gauge of its potency, you should take some to Jelan. He can measure it for you.”

“Good idea. I also need to talk to him about my collection of Heartstones. They’re starting to pile up. Be good to change them into octs.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“I think the tincture you’re making will be weak level Bronze. In terms of potency. Your classmates at the Academy receive a filtered pill each morning, if not better, but their baseline should be minimal Copper. Each spoonful that you take of this mixture will be twenty times stronger than what they usually receive.”

“Good to hear,” he said quietly. “I need to catch up.”

“There’s another reason I haven’t taken the Sapphire vials,” she said. “Nor given one to you. Do you know how many times more powerful one of those vials is than your Bronze-level spoonsful?”

Scorio stiffened. “I—no. How many?”

“The whole vial, if it’s base Sapphire, is fifty times more potent than the poison you’ll be taking. Do you know what would happen if you drank it?”

“No,” he said quietly, staring at her intently.

“Your Heart is that of a Cinder, and though it's strong and unusually deep, I reckon it can’t comfortably hold half of one of your pills. The rest, when you eat it, will simply stretch your Heart and then dissipate.”

Scorio nodded.

“If you were to drink that vial? Your Heart might sunder, and the vast majority of the Sapphire mana would be wasted. The same, unfortunately, goes for me.”

“I’ve got to increase the amount of mana I can hold in my Heart till I can barely ignite,” said Scorio softly, desperately not wanting to wake her from this pensive state and have her change the subject. “What do you have to do?”

“I have to condense my Heart back to its former size, and in so doing return to my former ignition point.” Her smile was bitter. “Over the past few years I’ve made some advances in that direction—my Heart is no longer this vast and unwieldy object I can barely control. But it’s still far from where it was before I made Emberling.”

“Oh.” Scorio leaned his head back against the wall. “Condense. So you retain the capacity but decrease the mass?”

“Something like that. You have what’s called a reservoir within your Heart. That’s what holds the mana and dictates the amount you can hold. You’re seeking to expand your reservoir as much as you can to increase the amount of mana you can drink at the cost of being able to ignite quickly. I’m trying to squeeze it back into a regular-sized Igneous Heart while retaining the amount I can absorb and regain my original reactivity. Once it reaches maximum density, your trial triggers.”

“I see.” Scorio nodded slowly. “So you don’t even really need the high-quality mana at this stage. You just need to work on your control over your Heart.”

“True.” Her expression was melancholy as she gazed out over the ruins. “I may not even be able to use it till I make Tomb Spark. But then it will prove vital if I’m to reach Flame Vault.”

“And that is—?”

“None of your business,” she said, voice sharpening. “How did we get on that topic? I was trying to tell you something about your elixirs. There’s no sense in keeping the toxin level high if you’re still going to vent most of the mana each time you consume it.”

“I disagree.” Scorio sat up. “My Heart has to grow used to the strain. The more I strain it, the faster and larger it will grow.”

“At the expense of its integrity, your health, and your sanity.”

He shrugged. “I’ll make sure I don’t go too far.”

“Why don’t I believe you? Still, it's your Heart and body. You’re meeting your friends tomorrow, are you not?”

“That’s right.”

Naomi nodded and looked away.

“How about this?” Scorio shifted his weight where he sat. “Bring the—what are we calling it? Syrup? To my place tomorrow at First Rust. That’s when Leonis and Lianshi will be arriving. You can simply meet them, and if you don’t like what you see, we’ll say you just came by to drop off the mana. But if you feel more comfortable, you can come with us to the Academy.”

“I don’t need my hand held,” she snapped.

“Of course you don’t. Just an idea.” And sensing that her mood was turning sour, he rose smoothly to his feet. “Thank you for the help with the syrup. It’s truly appreciated. See you tomorrow morning?”

“Perhaps.” She made no move to rise nor look his way.

“Great. Until then.”

He entered her chamber, took a detour to peer into her pot, then let himself out her door and back into the stairwell.

Humming to himself, he skipped lightly down the stairs. Everything was falling into place. The syrup would give him the raw power he needed, the Gauntlet was proving to be the perfect source of tension and training, and his friendship with Leonis, Lianshi, and Naomi meant that he no longer felt alone in the world.

Everything was starting to look up.

Better yet, tomorrow was the Eighthday, which meant meeting up with Lianshi and Leonis.

And Scorio couldn’t wait to show them how far he’d advanced.

Chapter 38

Scorio sat on a high ledge, one knee hiked up, other leg swinging, watching the ruined intersection below as First Clay shifted to First Rust, the sun-wire glimmering and burning brighter.

Even as the bloody illumination lightened to a brassy copper hue, he saw his friends striding down the street toward him. They were wary, Lianshi turning in a circle at one point to scan their environs, Leonis casting glances at every doorway and yawning window.

With a breath Scorio inhaled Coal mana into his Heart, rose, and leaped into the air, igniting as he dropped the ten or so yards to land before them with a crunch, a basket balanced neatly on one upturned palm, the other lowering to the ground to steady himself as he rose to his feet.

Both of his friends startled but quickly recovered; they looked so clean, Scorio thought as he smiled at them. Their robes without a single hole or stain, their skin glowing with health, their hair freshly washed and trimmed.

“That’s one way to make an entrance,” said Leonis, voice hearty. “Though that’s going to be terrible for your knees in the long run.”

“You’re early,” said Scorio, stepping forward and unwrapping the old cloth that was bundled around the basket’s contents. “You must have bolted out of the Academy as soon as they opened the gates.”

Lianshi gave him a lopsided smile. “A fair assessment. Can’t deny that we’re eager to try the Gauntlet again. I’ve got some new tactics I want to implement.”

“The woman won’t speak of anything else,” groaned Leonis, eyeing the basket. “Day in, day out, all she wanted to talk about—wait. Delight of Heaven buns?”

“A dozen, as ordered,” said Scorio, bowing low and extending his arm. “Would the kind Academy Great Souls care to replenish their energies before taxing their delicate reserves further?”

“Yes please!” Lianshi dug a browned bun out and raised it to her nose to inhale deeply at the circle of crystalized Iron mana. “Oh! So good. But how did you afford them?”

Scorio’s smile turned wry as he straightened. “The very last of Leonis’s octs. Put them to good use.”

Leonis grabbed a bun in each hand and beamed at Scorio. “Now this is a civilized venture into the wilderness. You don’t happen to have a flute of Apotheosis wine hidden around here somewhere?”

“Come on,” said Scorio, turning and snagging a bun for himself as he went. “We’ve a long day ahead of us. We can discuss fantasy picnics after we’ve died a couple of times.”

“What is it with you two?” Leonis fell in stride with Scorio, an ambling bear of a man that towered over him. “It’s as if you can’t be happy if you’re not discussing dismemberment and decapitation. Ours, to be specific.”

Lianshi moved up on Scorio’s other side, jaw working as she devoured her bun. “Pick your friends better, next time,” she said cheerfully out of the corner of her mouth.

“I’ll submit a letter of complaint to the Archspire.”

“Hey, as we go, let me catch you both up on what I’ve been doing,” said Scorio. “Come on, walk with me. I’ve been farming, let me tell you all about it.”

And together the three of them marched deeper into the ruins, following the path that was becoming increasingly familiar to Scorio. He told them about his endeavors, the small, inaccessible, island he’d found, the treatise he’d purchased, and the syrup that Naomi was going to deliver to him shortly.

“So you see,” he finished as they reached the small street at the base of his building, “it was your generosity that allowed all this to happen.”

“They’re going to be rated Bronze level?” asked Lianshi, taken aback. “That’s… can we have some?”

“No kidding!” Leonis rubbed at his bearded chin thoughtfully. “We could help you create more of these farms, and then begin selling them to our classmates in exchange for other treasures and elixirs…”

“I think they’re going to be weak Bronze, yes,” said Scorio. “But I’m going to need my apothecary to check its potency before being sure.”

“You hear that, Lianshi? Scorio’s got an apothecary.” Leonis grinned. “Looks like he’s doing all right for himself out here.”

A new voice spoke out from above them. “He’s not failing abysmally, I’ll give him that.”

The three of them looked up to see Naomi crouched on the sill of a second-story window. At first glance, she seemed calm, but not only had her voice sounded artificially light, she was breathing shallowly, her chest rising quickly, her knuckles white where she gripped the sill’s edge.

“Lianshi, Leonis, may I introduce Naomi, my saving grace and eternally patient mentor.” Scorio grinned up at her then made an elaborate bow.

“It is an honor to meet you,” said Lianshi, bowing as well.

“Thank you for helping Scorio,” rumbled Leonis gravely. “He needs all the help he can get.”

Scorio straightened and saw a tightness around Naomi’s eyes. This was where she should have said something wry at his expense, but instead, she just remained crouching, lips pursed tight.

“Would that I could be saved,” said Scorio after a beat. “But if anyone can pull it off, it’s Naomi. Did I ever tell you two how we first met?”

Leonis and Lianshi looked to him, sensing the tension in the air.

Scorio thought quickly. “As you know, I am an expert musician, excelling at that little stringed instrument thing, the one with one string which you play with a bow?”

Lianshi raised both eyebrows, clearly wanting to help him but not knowing how.

“So I would sit on my rooftop every Second Clay and play a melancholy ballad called… The Char’s Lament… and I thought I was all alone, until I heard the sweetest voice singing the words from the opposite rooftop…”

Leonis’s solemn expression began to crack as he realized what was going on, and Scorio glanced up where Naomi was glaring at him.

“She knew the words, and each night she would sing them with perfect clarity, but I never saw her until—”

Naomi hopped off the window ledge and landed lightly beside him, her drop much more adroit and skilled than his own only a short while ago.

“Enough,” she said, face flushing. “Any more nonsense from you and you’ll lose the few friends you’ve somehow managed to make.”

Scorio grinned—was she pleased? He couldn’t tell. But she wasn’t hitting him. “But I haven’t gotten to the part where I was attacked by Basilisk operatives, and you recognized me by the sound of my music—”

“I will kill you if you keep talking,” said Naomi, tone understated but determined. “And I’ll do it slowly.”

“Now I know you’re friends,” said Leonis, placing his hands on his hips. “The desire to murder him is a unifying constant amongst all those he spends time with.”

“That’s not true,” said Lianshi, moving to stand next to Scorio. “I only occasionally want to throttle him, but not necessarily to death.”

“See?” Scorio slung an arm over Lianshi’s shoulders. “True friendship.”

“Here,” said Naomi, pulling out his palm-sized bottle which was now half-filled with a black, viscous liquid. “As promised. Take only a teaspoon.”

“Perfect. Thank you.” He turned the bottle over and watched as the black liquid within began to ooze over. “This will make all the difference.”

Lianshi linked her hands behind her back. “Will you be joining us today, Mistress Naomi?”

“I…” Naomi glanced to Scorio hurriedly. “I had some errands I had to run…”

“She agreed to escort us to the base of the Academy,” said Scorio. “And depending on how long it takes us to get there, she might have time for one run of the Gauntlet. Maybe. Right?”

“Right,” croaked Naomi, curling her thick hair behind one ear as she looked down; it slipped free immediately. “I—yes. I can escort you all there. To, ah, keep you safe.”

“Having an Emberling with us will make all the difference,” said Lianshi. “Thank you kindly, mistress.”

“Naomi.” Her face flushed. “No need for anything else. Just… Naomi is fine.”

“Naomi, then,” said Lianshi. “May I ask you some questions as we walk?”

“Come on,” said Scorio, punching Leonis lightly on the arm. “Let’s get moving.”

They moved down the street, the two ladies falling behind a little, though Scorio could make out the gist of Lianshi’s questions—they were uniformly admiring, solicitous, and respectful.

Leonis began scanning the streets and rooftops as they probed deeper into the ruins, and Scorio sensed his rising tension; in a way, it was good to be reminded of how dangerous this part of Bastion could be. Familiarity bred contempt, after all, though having Naomi with them made him doubly assured.

They made good time, taking detours to avoid the more dangerous areas, climbing at last onto the rooftops as they crossed the final third of the ruins. First Bronze lit up the sky as they drew close, until at last the massive Academy moved into view.

They grew quiet as they slipped down to the massive bridge and crossed it warily. Scorio went first, chalk in hand, and when he saw movement at the great, tumbled house at the bridge’s far end, he froze.

The massive toad reared up into view and then froze as well.

Nobody moved. Finally, the toad took a careful step backward. “Friends,” it croaked. “Favorite friends. Pass.”

“A trick?” asked Leonis, sotto voce.

“Don’t think so,” said Scorio, walking forward once more. “Friends!” he called out.

“Favorite friends,” repeated the toad, its voice warbling nervously, then it slipped back out of view.

“I’m not sure I believe him,” said Naomi as they circled out wide to avoid the ruined house, nobody taking their eyes off its darkened interior.

Scorio sharpened his darkvision and probed at the cracks, until the black shadows revealed the toad squirming its way back into what looked like a basement level.

“I’m not complaining,” said Leonis. “It clearly learned its lesson the last time it tangled with us.”

“Because having an Emberling with us has nothing to do with it,” said Lianshi.

“Coincidence, surely.” Leonis broke into a light run along the shattered street till it gave way to another gulf. Together they climbed onto a rough rubble-strewn field of a rooftop. Moved along ledges and across the facades of gutted towers till at last, they dropped back down before the Academy itself.

Rather than press Naomi about whether she’d accompany them further, Scorio led the way up the broad, cracked steps to the Academy’s grand entrance, till they stood amidst the collapsed portico before the huge, battered doors.

“We should enter through the side as before,” said Lianshi. “No sense in trying to force these doors open.”

“Doesn’t it grate upon you to enter like a mouse, through an errant crack?” Leonis craned his head back to take in the full height of the bronze doors. “As Great Souls, it’s more fitting for us to—”

“Wait,” said Naomi, the tension in her voice causing all three of them to snap their gazes toward her. “What’s that?”

She was pointing into the distance, across the length of Bastion, their high vantage point giving them a perfect view of the city in its entirety and the opening to hell at its very end.

Scorio’s gaze was drawn to that circular portal, which had shone an alluring blue, betraying a cerulean sky that had always felt right.

But now the sun-wire’s distant anchor, held in place by three great bridges, was being engulfed by undulating shadows. Great tendrils were creeping in ahead of a vast cloud that blotted out the sky.

“Is—is that Coal mana?” asked Lianshi, stepping up alongside him.

“No,” said Naomi, voice tense. “I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Fiends?’ Leonis took a few steps toward it. “Is Bastion under attack?”

“Could be.” Naomi licked her lower lip nervously, her brow furrowed.

They all did the same. Watched as an ocean of shadow slowly flooded into Bastion, causing the far end of the sun-wire to dim, entering an artificial First Rust, then darker yet to First Clay, then its very terminus disappearing altogether.

“Should we get back to the Academy?” asked Lianshi, glancing at Naomi.

“It doesn’t look like it, but it’s coming in fast,” said Scorio.

“But it’s not filling the whole city,” said Leonis. “See? It’s moving through the air but not smothering everything.

Like ink dropped into water, the darkness unfurled into countless gyres, its pushing edge thin and ethereal, its heart impenetrable. But it wasn’t flooding out to press against the buildings that encircled the sun-wire. Instead, it projected ever farther into the sky, spearing out alongside and around the sun-wire, enveloping it in places and in others furling around it.

“Look,” whispered Naomi, raising her hand to point. “In the center. Do you see that?”

Scorio squinted, sharpened his darkvision, but it didn’t help against the cloud’s darkness. For a long moment they simply stared, straining, and then he saw.

A dot emerged from the growing cloud’s heart and moved to the fore, arms extended out to its side, a cloak undulating behind it.

“Long hair,” whispered Lianshi. “Looks like a… woman?”

“Who…?” Leonis cleared his throat. “Who could do something like that?”

“Nobody I’ve ever heard of,” said Naomi, taking a step back. “Maybe… maybe a Charnel Duke? A Crimson Earl? I’ve… I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The figure was drawing ever closer. Though she appeared to hover, unmoving in the air, in truth she was sweeping forward at a terrible speed, borne before the coiling cloud of night, her face resolving into a pale speck, her clothing so black as to cause her to blend in with the shadows around her.

Something within Scorio quailed at the sight of her. An intangible part of his being, wiser perhaps, more attuned to threats than his conscious mind. With every passing second, she drew closer, and the closer she drew the greater the pressure he felt mount upon his soul.

“Should we… it looks like she’s coming right for us,” said Lianshi, voice cracking. “Should we hide?”

“We should get out of the open,” said Naomi, tone decisive. “Come on!”

Scorio didn’t want to tear his gaze away from the figure. Others had risen into the air from different parts of the city—other Great Souls with the power of flight. But none of them were moving to intercept the dark stranger.

“Yes,” said Scorio, voice quiet, turning his body away from the approaching figure even as he kept his eyes locked on her. “Out of sight is good.”

They rushed around the side of the Academy toward the great tear in its walls and slipped into the welcoming darkness within.

For a moment Scorio felt relief at the coolness of the interior, but then his brow began to prickle with sweat and he found himself swallowing again and again. Losing sight of the woman was somehow even worse than watching her approach.

“We should move deeper into the Academy,” said Leonis, striding to the back of the large chamber.

“Should we check if she goes to ground somewhere else?” Lianshi had her arms crossed over her stomach. “How are we to know what’s happening?”

Impulsively, Scorio darted into the great rend in the wall and stared out over the city. He felt a sickening lurch in his gut as if the bottom had fallen out from his stomach at the sight of the woman. She was only a few hundred yards away now, flying toward them at the peak of a roiling pyramid of darkness that extended all the way back toward the far end of the city.

And she was staring right at him.

For a moment he could only stand there, a heavy weight crushing his chest, heartbeat slowing, turning sluggish, his breath catching in his throat. He stared at the woman, her gaze searing into his even at this distance, her beauty perilous, her hair and form looking to be half-shadow.

Her face was narrow, her cheekbones raw and prominent, her eyes ringed with darkness under arched brows. Her lips were full, painted a deep burgundy, but her skin was pallid to the point of looking unwell, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks standing out starkly against her waxen skin.

But her eyes. They seized his attention and gripped him tight. Held him against his will, drained him of thought, of motive power. He felt like a rat, frozen before a serpent, cold spreading through his body, unable to do anything but watch her draw ever closer, her gown fluttering, her hair melding with her cloak and the greater darkness.

Terrible and beautiful, overwhelming and fey.

Someone gripped his arm and hauled him back. The moment he lost sight of her some measure of his sense of self returned, and he gasped, hands moving to his throat.

He’d ceased to breathe the entire time he’d looked upon her awful majesty.

“Run,” he rasped, struggling free of Leonis’s grip. “Run!”

He led them deeper into the Academy, fighting to not hyperventilate, jaw clenched, a terrible, sour taste in the back of his throat. Ran, not choosing which way he went, but simply fleeing, deeper and deeper into the old Academy.

She couldn’t be coming for them. For him. Who was she? What did she want? Why was she here?

These questions repeated themselves endlessly in his mind, a desperate patter that he couldn’t answer but couldn’t stop asking.

They tore through the hallways, leaped over fallen columns, took the detours around the collapsed rooms, until at last, they burst into the Aureate Hall. The light of First Bronze was filtering in through the cracks overhead, but even as they stepped toward the white, desiccated trees, the light wavered and began to darken.

“She’s overhead,” whispered Lianshi, hand rising to her mouth. “Is she following us?”

“No,” said Naomi. “She must want something with the Academy, or perhaps the Portal. We’re… it’s just an accident that we’re here.”

“Then we should hide,” said Scorio. “I don’t know who or what she is, but the less attention we draw the better.”

“Look,” said Leonis, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Tendrils of shadow were insinuating their way through the cracks, occluding them one by one, sinking like the roots of some ebon tree.

“Keep moving,” croaked Lianshi, rushing toward the giant-sized doors. “Come on!”

Wordlessly they fled across the Aureate Hall, the light dimming with each passing moment, and through the crack in the doors into the massive basilica beyond.

“What if we hide in the Gauntlet?” asked Scorio, leading the way between the biers. “Wait this out in there?”

“Not a bad idea,” said Naomi. “Though if she wrecks this place, we could be trapped there for eternity.”

“Or till we die and return to the Archspire,” said Leonis moving out wide, palm ghosting over the surface of each bier he passed as he frowned up at the huge dome overhead.

“Return to that thing?” Naomi pointed to the collapsed Archspire. “Good luck.”

Darkness stole over the windows that ringed the base of the domes, suffusing the cracks, so that in moments it felt as if night had fallen. Scorio sharpened his darkvision, heart pounding.

“You feel that?” Lianshi’s voice was a whisper. “Something’s… something’s imminent.”

Then the base of the dome high above them began to warp. Scorio had half-expected windows to burst in, for huge blocks of stone to be demolished and sent falling to the ground below, but what happened was far, far stranger.

The inner curve of the dome began to move as if it were coming alive, blocks protruding and shifting around, delicate arches emerging and then splitting off to brace against the lower segments of wall, ornamental windows and inverted stairways blossoming into existence as a hole to the sky outside opened, at first just the size of a fist, then quickly expanding, the dome retreating from that point, restructuring itself till at last a portal stood in the heart of a profusion of mad architecture.

Scorio pressed back against a bier, jaw clenched, breathing strenuously through his nose, and could only stare as the woman descended through the hole, one knee raised, her black hair undulating about her face, cloak melding with the shadows about her.

None of them spoke. The weight of her presence was suffocating, as if iron bands were tightening around his chest. He stared, transfixed, as she slowly floated down, the shadows writhing behind her.

But her attention wasn’t on Scorio or his friends. Instead, she frowned at the ruined Archspire, and in her displeasure, Scorio saw the promise of annihilation.

She extended her hand and shadows streamed forth to wrap around the fallen segment, wreathing and lifting it up into the air.

Chunks fell away, dust and broken rock, but it rose, all twenty yards of it, to float before the woman. She frowned at it, her dark-rimmed eyes narrowing, burgundy lips pursing.

“This? This is what called me here?”

Then her gaze slid over to where the four of them huddled, her focus falling upon them, and Scorio had to bite back a groan as his knees buckled under the weight of her regard. It felt as if a ponderous cloak of lead had suddenly been draped over his shoulders, as if the air had grown too thick to breathe.

None of them replied. Scorio gritted his teeth as he forced himself to straighten, thoughts shattered.

But then she curled her extended hand into a fist, and even without summoning his Heart Scorio felt the mana blaze from the ragged tip of the standing part of the Archspire, a vast upwelling that blazed into the air and flew into the woman’s palm.

Her hair whipped back and forth as if she stood in a powerful headwind, but her expression didn’t otherwise change.

“The Portal hasn’t opened.” Her tone was almost dreamy, distracted. “Hope dies. What could be crueler? What greater torment? The shaft of light in the darkness. A final gasp.”

Fighting for focus, Scorio summoned his Heart and immediately saw the potency of the mana that flowed into the woman’s palm. It was clear, like fast-flowing water, only detectable for how it distorted the light around it. He’d never seen anything like it. And still, it poured into her, such power he couldn’t begin to comprehend how it didn’t burn her alive.

Six figures dropped down through the black cloud, shadows trailing after them as they sank into view, and Scorio felt his chest flutter with profound relief.

Six men, but five of which were all Pyre Lord Praximar, each independent of the others, their gazes taking in the entirety of the basilica but always returning to the woman. His expression was universally one of intense concentration and concern; his five sets of pale blue eyes glimmered with focus as he came to a stop, fine clothing rippling as if he, too, floated in a powerful wind.

The sixth man was brutish and stolid in comparison to the five reflections, bald and with a granite-like visage. His heavy hands were curled into fists, his chin lowered, his lipless mouth pressed into a tight seam. Scorio had seen him on the stage—the briefest glimpse—but his power and authority were obvious. He gazed at the woman with an inscrutable intensity of his own.

“Imperator Imogen, you honor us,” called out one of the Praximar reflections.

“We had no warning that you intended a visit,” continued another seamlessly, “or we would have prepared a lavish reception and banquet in your honor.”

A third continued, “It has been many long years since we’ve heard of your wondrous accomplishments. You would greatly honor Bastion and its every citizen and Great Soul if you agreed to enjoy our hospitality. We wish nothing more than to hear of your exploits and attend to your every need.”

The brutish man remained silent, a dour, powerful presence to the side.

Imperator, thought Scorio, mind reeling. The absolute pinnacle of power.

Imogen closed her hand into a fist, cutting off the influx of raw power, and turned at last to consider the new arrivals. For a moment she swayed, her head dipping as if overcome by an inner turmoil; then her head arose once more, and she gazed at the men with a disdainful dignity that put their own poise to shame.

“I thought the Portal had begun to open.” Her voice was rich, husky, and though she spoke softly Scorio had no difficulty in hearing her. “I flew here, my heart beating gladsome blood. But now I find it closed as before. The way to Ettera as dead as ever.”

Praximar’s faces reflected a dozen rapid, minute changes as he processed these words, and now all five of his reflections bowed low. “We feel your grief, for every Great Soul lives in hope of seeing our grand—”

Imogen spoke over him, her soft voice cutting him off as easily as a guillotine. “But I find myself wondering: doors can be opened from both sides. One need not wait to be invited. Are we not worthy? I am here, and I find that my desire has not wavered.”

She raised her hand, examining it thoughtfully as flecks of shadow writhed about her palm and fingers. “Perhaps I shall knock. Perhaps I shall see if we are heard on the far side. And if no one attends…”

Praximar visibly paled. “Esteemed Imperator, I am thrilled at your suggestion and wish to discuss it with you further. We can retire to the finest quarters that House Hydra can provide, and there discuss this at leisure—”

Imogen extended her palm toward the far wall, and a dark fog began to stream toward it from her hand. Silently, at a scale Scorio couldn’t fathom, the entire side of the basilica’s huge chamber began to change.

Cyclopean blocks pushed out and slid across, the balconies rippled like huge centipedes, windows widened, the dead vegetation that wreathed everything multiplied and spread over the stones as they moved, spread apart, and in seconds an opening appeared.

Through which Scorio saw the huge Portal at the very end of Bastion, that giant circle in whose center the sun-wire was anchored, the light of First Bronze pouring in until the shadows arose higher to mute it down to a ruddy Clay.

“Imperator!” Praximar’s voice rang with alarm. “Please! Let us not be hasty! This is forbidden for reasons as various as they are wise! Please—”

Scorio saw desperation on the older man’s face. Bleak panic.

Imogen ignored him completely. The basilica’s side continued to peel open, the huge dome remaining stable far above them even as it lost key structural supports.

“Time to retreat,” growled the brutish man. “We can’t handle this alone.”

The Praximars bit their lower lips then gave a jerky nod. One of them glanced down and saw Scorio and his friends. His head jerked back, then he extended his hand to them, fingers closing and arm hauling back as if on a great fishing net, and Scorio felt himself lift off the ground.

He stifled the cry of alarm and saw that his companions were also flying up swiftly, ten, twenty, thirty feet off the ground in a matter of moments.

Imogen ignored them still, her attention on the ever-widening hole.

She didn’t turn as Scorio and his friends each flew into one of Praximar’s reflections and took their place.

The Praximar that had floated where Scorio now hovered disappeared, and he found himself locked into its spot. It was the strangest sensation—he didn’t stand on anything, there was no familiar sensation of weight, but rather simply hung in nothingness, suspended as if underwater.

“You’re right,” whispered the sole remaining Praximar. “We’ve pushed our luck already.” And together the six of them flew straight up into the roiling clouds of shadow.

Chapter 39

The darkness was cool, like chilled fleece. They moved quickly, the air rushing past them, and then burst out into the sky above the old Academy.

The great trail of shadow that had followed Imogen was now collecting about the basilica, allowing the sun-wire to pour its radiance upon Bastion as before. It was toward the living city that they immediately flew, Praximar at the forefront of their flying “V,” his cloak snapping behind him.

Scorio’s mind reeled. He wanted to rejoice in the sensation of flight, to marvel at the ruins fleeing by beneath them, but he couldn’t forget the sight of the basilica’s wall excavating itself, pulling apart before the Imperator’s power.

They flew in silence. Sped across Bastion, and looking around, Scorio saw panic stalking the streets bloody-handed. Crowds surged down the avenue, people pushing and shouting, others staggering along as they craned their heads back to peer up at the sky. Many were climbing out onto rooftops, slowing and then stopping as they gaped. Others fled as if expecting the sun-wire to snap at any moment, arms over their heads, ducking into doorways or side streets as quickly as they could.

But Praximar’s flight was deceptively swift; soon they were diving down toward the new Academy, which in contrast to that dour edifice they’d just vacated appeared diminutive, strangely whole and clean, surrounded by startling greenery and impossibly delicate fronds.

Down they flew to land upon a flat rooftop of marble flagstones enclosed by a waist-high stone railing. Other individuals were already there, a small crowd that turned to watch their descent.

Scorio’s stomach rose within him as they dropped to the ground, but he found it a simple matter to catch his balance as Praximar’s power released him. Leonis stumbled briefly, but Lianshi steadied him, and then they were surrounded by grim expressions as everyone turned to stare at them.

The only person in the small crowd that Scorio recognized was Helminth the Hell Whip, tall and athletic, garbed in training robes and with her hands on her hips, eyes gleaming as she stared at him in shock.

Scorio managed an apologetic smile before his attention was wrested to Praximar, who stepped before him and drove a finger into his chest.

“Why am I not surprised to find a Red Lister at the heart of this problem?” His voice rang with tension. “You have seconds to explain what you’ve done, Scorio the Abhorred, before I destroy you utterly.”

The urge to cower before that multitude of gazes was strong. To hunch his shoulders, duck his chin, and quickly launch into an explanation.

But he sensed Naomi stepping in behind him. Felt Leonis and Lianshi by his side. And in his mind’s eye, he saw once more Imogen descending through the opening she’d created in the dome.

And recognized, at last, the universal emotion that was writ large across every face before him: fear.

“She said she was drawn to the old Academy because of the Archspire.” Scorio pitched his voice so that it carried, so that it didn’t tremble or shake in the least. “Said she mistook it for the Portal opening.”

A striking woman with skin the color of Coal and long hair woven into finger-thick braids spoke first. “Does anybody have the means of contacting another Imperator?”

Praximar scowled. “Nothing timely. We can only hope they will sense the beacon and come quickly.”

The brutish man’s rumble was low, calm. “From the far side of hell? Even if they dropped everything it would take them days.”

Praximar fixed his gaze on a young, stern-looking man, his features sharp, his lips almost feminine. “Feng. Tell me the beacon is lit.”

“Assuredly,” said Feng. “I awakened it the moment I saw the shadows.”

Raugr turned to the Hell Whip. “Your thoughts?”

She licked her lower lip slowly, gaze turning to the shadows that now obscured the far Portal completely. “There’s not much to work with. We need Desiree to arrive so that she can craft the best plan for us. Last I heard the White Queen was at the Fiery Shoals. She’ll bring her retinue, which in turn should signal to others to attend. How did the Imperator seem to you?”

Praximar ran both hands over his close-cut gray hair. “Deluded? A pane of glass so riven with cracks that one blow would cause her to irretrievably shatter?” He turned to the brutish man. “What did you think, Raugr?”

Raugr frowned. “She was calm. Pensive. Determined. For now.”

Helminth nodded. “Then we wait for new arrivals. We can do nothing till then. If Desiree arrives in time, I’ll work with her to create the optimal plan.”

“The Portal has withstood all attempts to open it for almost a millennium,” said Praximar loudly. “It will withstand Imogen for a few moments more. For now, we’ll give our friends time to arrive. Remain close at hand, all of you. Gather equipment or supplies if you must, but do not take long. We’ll be going to battle soon. But you, Scorio.” And Praximar turned to fix him with his glare. “You don’t leave my line of sight. Clear?”

To which Scorio could only bow his head.

A few individuals jogged toward the stairs leading below, while others clustered into groups of two or three to converse in low tones.

Helminth pointed at them and crooked her finger. “You four. Over here.”

“Great,” muttered Leonis.

Together they walked over to where she waited, frowning sternly at them.

“Memek,” she said, the name expressing disapproval and accusation all at once. “Now I recognize you. Why am I not surprised to find you with these two?”

It wasn’t a question, so Scorio simply met her gaze.

“Leonis. Lianshi. I’m disappointed to find you involved in this matter. Whatever you’ve done has endangered Bastion, which means you’ve endangered every Great Soul alive and dead. Tell me what is going on.”

“Apologies, Dread Blaze,” said Lianshi, bowing low. “We’d just discovered that Scorio was still alive, and wanted to show him our rooms and share some food with him.”

Helminth scrutinized Lianshi who remained bowed, then her gaze flickered over them quickly. “Scorio. You survived being put behind the Final Door. That means you somehow got past the Bronze Door and then made your way out into the ruins. Impressive. Which must be where Naomi here must have been hiding. Hello, Naomi.”

Naomi had been standing directly behind Scorio. She took a deep breath and stepped out. “Dread Blaze.”

The trainer’s smile was lazy. “Alive and well. No doubt you were the one who trained Scorio. Did you know he was a Red Lister? You must have. No doubt that served as an inducement. He then contacted Lianshi and Leonis… the Graveyards? And convinced them to assist him. But none of that explains why the four of you were in the old Academy at the precise moment Imogen entered Bastion. What did you do?”

The Hell Whip’s intuitive guesses and leaps of logic had Scorio on his heels, but her peremptory tone awoke within him a burning resentment. He crossed his arms and gave her a hard smile. “The Imperator sensed the power in the broken Archspire. We’ve been training in the ruins. The only place I can train without being killed for past sins I don’t recall. We went to the old Academy in the hopes of finding pockets of higher quality mana. We didn’t find any but were there when the Imperator arrived.”

Helminth narrowed her eyes. “A coincidence, then? A Red Lister poking around ancient ruins at the same time a fallen Imperator comes out of hiding to investigate?”

Scorio spread his arms wide. “Coincidences happen. Unfortunately, this one was to our detriment.”

The Hell Whip tilted her head down while maintaining eye contact, and Scorio felt her will fall upon him, her presence growing tangible like an oven door being thrown open before him.

Had he not felt the indirect wrath of an Imperator not long ago, it would have been impressive.

But before Helminth could speak further, a half-dozen individuals appeared out of nowhere in the center of the rooftop.

A wild-haired man with a slender goatee sagged down to one knee in their midst, his chest heaving, and raised his saturnine face to stare through one open eye at the shadows coiling at Bastion’s far side. “Well, it looks like you were right, Lady Maeve. I might owe you an apology.”

A stately woman clothed all in form-fitting black stepped forward, and her presence and command were such that even Praximar and Raugr seemed diminished before her. Dark crimson hair fell in tangled locks of vivid flame past her shoulders, and her face was at once stern and sensitive, the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose giving her a youthful look that was at odds with her self-possession and poise.

“Lady Maeve,” said Praximar, hurrying forward to drop to one knee. “Thank Ettera you’re here. The situation is direr than I can neatly encapsulate.”

“It is Imogen, then?” She gazed past the kneeling Pyre Lord to the distant darkness. “She is returned?”

“Unfortunately. I saw her with my own eyes. She stated her intent to open the Portal. I tried to dissuade her, but…” Praximar rose to his feet. “My words fell on deaf ears.”

“Greater powers than you have sought to reason with her and failed,” said Lady Maeve. “Whom do we have available?”

Praximar gestured to Raugr. “We are the only Pyre Lords. Eight Dread Blazes, with more coming from across the city.”

“I brought whom I could,” said Maeve. “Praximar, Raugr, I believe you’ve met Helena and Amity.”

These two new arrivals inclined their heads as if greeting equals. One was a statuesque blond, her physique powerfully muscled and leonine, the bridge of her nose kinked from an old break, while the second was a sloop-shouldered man of small stature, his rough beard hiding his lips, his skin weathered and worn as if he’d spent his life braving the elements.

“Pyre Lords,” said Raugr softly, inclining his head.

“Should we get out of here?” asked Naomi softly, pulling on Scorio’s sleeve as Helminth stepped over to the new arrivals. “Nothing good can come of our being noticed.”

“They’ll definitely notice your leaving,” said Lianshi, biting at the corner of her thumbnail. Her voice then dropped to a whisper. “Do you think this is our fault?”

“They’re right,” rumbled Leonis. “It can’t be a coincidence. Why didn’t you tell them about the Gauntlet?”

“Because…” Scorio trailed off, hands closing into fists.

“We need to tell them everything,” said Lianshi, glancing at the crowd of powerful Great Souls. “They need to know everything if they are to find a way to stop her.”

“We didn’t summon her,” said Scorio, his voice low, sure. “And even if we did, even if our using the Gauntlet caught her attention, we’re not responsible for her…” He paused, trying to find the right word.

“Madness,” said Naomi.

Scorio looked up at the dark clouds of deepest black which engulfed the end of the city, how they roiled slowly like a storm about to break. “She’s here now. They’re going to do what they can to stop her. We’ll help if they let us.”

“How?” Leonis turned to look at him, eyes wide. “What could we do?”

“I don’t know,” said Scorio. “I don’t know.”

A vertical line of golden light appeared in the air. All conversation stopped as those assembled turned to watch. The line thickened, its radiance bright, then split apart to form a bright oval whose interior was frosted white.

“The White Queen,” breathed someone in awe.

A woman stepped through, and with her came a sense of confidence, of calm, of control. Her hair was a blonde so pale it was nearly ivory, her skin alabaster and flawless, her gaze a washed-out blue. Only her lips added a touch of color to her whole appearance, for they were a startling red, sensual and full.

All those gathered, even Lady Maeve, dropped to one knee and bowed their heads as other figures emerged from the portal and spread out to flank the pale woman. Scorio dropped a belated second later, wrenching his gaze from the White Queen’s dispassionate visage to stare fixedly at the ground.

“Rise,” she said, voice cool, distant.

Scorio chose to remain on one knee but raised his face to study her further. She was gazing past them all, a slender, vertical line having appeared between her brows as she studied the depths of Bastion. A fitful wind blew, and her white dress flattened against her form, her skirt fluttering out behind her, her pale hair streaming. “We’re not too late.”

Lady Maeve rose first, her dark crimson hair and black dress contrasting sharply with the White Queen’s. “You’re not, but there’s little that can be done. It’s her. She’s come back at last.”

“But she’s returned alone? No sign of Zellair? Joranvyn?”

“None, praise the ten hells,” said Lady Maeve.

“Then while we yet breathe there is hope,” said the White Queen gently, and reached out to take hold of the other woman’s. “Maeve. It’s good to see you again.”

Lady Maeve bowed her head. “Charnel Duchess. With you here, we have a chance.”

“She didn’t come alone,” said an older man whose bald head and white beard were at odds with his massively muscled body. Every exposed inch of him was carved in swirling tattoos, their blue contrasting with his white skin, and his dark eyes glimmered with amusement. “It’s been a while since I was in a good scrap.”

“Do you recognize them?” whispered Scorio to Naomi.

“That—yes. The old man is Grunsch, a Blood Baron like Lady Maeve. The White Queen is legendary, a Charnel Duchess.”

“Havarn,” said Lady Maeve, her smile relieved and conflicted all at once. A second man stepped forth from the White Queen’s retinue, his skin olive-hued, eyes perpetually shadowed under heavy brows, his hair silken and long and tied back into a flowing ponytail. He took Lady Maeve’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I regret we have to meet again under such circumstances.”

“When was the last time we three fought together?” asked Grunsch, his good cheer discordant. “Was it Golden Brook?”

“Might have been,” said Maeve, withdrawing her hand. “But we’ve a battle for the ages now.”

“It can’t be done,” said Havarn, looking past them all toward the darkness, his expression bleak. “All of us together cannot hope to do more than distract her.”

“True,” said the White Queen. “But we need not strive for victory. Only time.”

“And how do we delay an Imperator?” asked Praximar, stepping up beside Lady Maeve, smoothing down his short, iron-gray beard nervously. “And one so infamous as she?”

“Desiree,” said the White Queen. “Do you have a plan?”

The woman who emerged from the Queen’s retinue could have been her younger sister, but where the White Queen was majestic, Desiree was eerie, bloodless. Her flaxen hair hung limp and close to her scalp, the wind whipping it before her face, her eyes so pale so as to appear without irises, her brows disappearing against her white skin. Slender, composed, she stared up at the distant darkness.

The whole gathering stilled.

“Who is she?” whispered Scorio, afraid to draw attention but unable to restrain himself.

“Pyre Lord,” Naomi breathed back. “She’s got a variation on Helminth’s inference ability. She’s infamous for how quickly she can devise the best possible plan. It was the power she manifested when she became a Dread Blaze.”

“We can delay her for an hour,” said Desiree at last, her tone clinical. “Perhaps two, though that incurs great risk.”

Strangers were emerging from the stairwell, another dozen or so men and women, their eyes widening at the sight of those gathered on the rooftop, moving to flesh out the crowd that had grown around the central knot.

A pair of golden wings materialized behind the White Queen’s shoulders, resplendent and radiant, each feather picked out in glowing hues. She lifted into the air, the wind still pulling at her clothing, and gazed solemnly toward where Imogen was hidden.

“Attend me, Great Souls. Soon we shall go into battle against the greatest of our kind. An Imperator whose life and deeds are the very stuff of legends, and whose fall eight years ago spelled out the doom of the Empyreal Prophecy. We cannot hope to defeat her, not in direct combat, but that is not to be our goal. We need but distract her, for her greatest weakness is her mind. It is fractured, undone by the price she paid to save the other Imperators, such that even now, as she stands at the pinnacle of power, she is at her weakest. If we can but capitalize on that instability, we can keep her off-balance until greater powers arrive to assist us.”

Scorio rose quietly to his feet at last. He glanced about the crowd. Everybody was rapt, their attention focused on the Charnel Duke.

“Her powers are limited by her cloud of darkness,” continued the White Queen. “But given her ability to direct her fog where she wills, it is a slight restriction. Her powers are varied; she can hurl beams of destructive darkness; control the minds of those who stray into her fog, rearrange the terrain as she sees fit; and travel through the fog at will.”

Scorio rocked back on his heels, trying to understand the implication of all those powers.

“But those are merely the abilities she manifested by the time she became a Dread Blaze,” continued the White Queen, her tone inexorable. “Her mastery over all forms of mana is nearly total. Her halo allows her to establish preeminence, which none here can contest. Her Ferula is infamous for its destructive power, and her shroud is nigh impervious to any attacks we can muster. And as an Imperator, she can summon legions of servants from her private realm, though I doubt we can press her hard enough to force her to do so.”

Desiree was frowning up at the winged Charnel Duke. “Our only chance is to engage her in successive lightning strikes that continuously distract her and prevent her from bringing her full might to bear on any one target.”

“Teams,” affirmed Helminth. “Four?”

“Four,” agreed Desiree. “I would suggest the following. The first team will consist of those capable of landing the heaviest strikes while retaining mobility. They will be led by Nova, our White Queen, with…” Her gaze raked the cloud. “Amity, Lady Maeve, Sharess, and Emakar. The second team will consist of our most powerful hand-to-hand combatants. Grunsch, Raugr, Paumentar and…”

“I should join it,” said Helminth decisively.

“Yes, with Helminth. They will be afforded mobility by Valdun.”

A large, almost violently handsome man with long blond hair and a full beard that reached his belt grinned in affirmation, his teeth strong and startlingly white.

“The third team will provide ranged support, concentrating their attacks when the first two teams are exchanging point. Havarn, Feng, Hera, and myself will distract Imogen when the time comes, with Jarex providing mobility when needed.”

“This is going to give me the worst hangover,” said the wild-haired man, wincing.

“A fourth and final team will provide utility and battlefield control. Praximar, Echo, and Ivashtar, you are to range where needed and either rescue the wounded or clear Imogen’s constructions to prevent us from becoming overwhelmed.”

Scorio waited, wondering if he and his friends would be assigned roles, but Desiree didn’t even look in their direction.

Helminth picked up where Desiree left off. “We need to think of ourselves as mosquitoes. We sting and fly away. We must give her just enough time to return her attention to the Portal, and then the next team moves in. We keep her off-balance. But we shouldn’t cross the line—if she turns her full attention upon us, we’d be…”

“Damned,” finished Raugr, expression grim.

From her vantage point a few yards above them, Nova the White Queen turned to regard the far end of the city once more. “I can provide some measure of protection, even from her full attacks, but not for long. Our greatest assets will be flexibility and improvisation. Those of you who were not called, remain alert. If Imogen’s wrath is truly aroused, the whole city may come under attack. You must be prepared to assist the people of Bastion as best you can.”

As if on cue, screams sounded from across the city, a thousand voices raised in panic, made thin and reedy by distance, but coming from every direction.

Scorio looked up and saw what had terrified them so.

The sun-wire was undulating.

Ripples were rushing along its length as if a dog had taken hold of its far end and were wresting it back and forth.

“We are out of time!” The White Queen’s wings flared out wide and she rose higher into the sky. “Amity! Maeve! Sharess! Emakar! To me!”

The summoned Great Souls moved to stand beneath her, and a golden glow washed over them, flaring brightly for a moment, and then they were gone.

Valdun raised his hand and a half-dozen bolts of lightning came thundering down from the sky, causing great chunks of rock to go flying, the air momentarily shattered by their brightness. Scorio threw his arm before his face protectively, and when he lowered it, blinking away the afterimage, he saw that where each bolt had struck now stood a massive, armored steed, white pegasi who stirred and stamped and beat their feathered wings.

“My lords,” cried Valdun, vaulting atop the largest with the ease of one born in the saddle. “We ride!”

The hugely muscled Grunsch hauled himself up, and in moments the others were mounted as well. Valdun drew a miniature spear from within his robes and with a careless rush of power flooded it with mana; a second later the treasure burst into full size, easily five yards long and becoming a glittering lance made of peerless gold whose tip coruscated with energy. Valdun’s pegasus galloped toward the edge of the roof, the others pounding behind it, and leaped the railing to spread their wings and soar into the sky.

Havarn turned his shadowed gaze upon the saturnine man. “Jarex, are you ready?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” grumbled Jarex in his gravelly voice, rising to his feet. “Gather in close and make a chain. This might upset your stomach.”

Desiree and the others drew near, each reaching out to touch either Jarex or someone already touching him.

The wild-haired man grimaced, raised his face to the heavens, eyes squeezed shut, and liquid metal flowed out of his mouth, washed over his body, and encased him perfectly like a liquid mirror suit. It rapidly spread out over the others, encapsulating them in the blink of an eye, and the liquid metal imploded, collapsing into a sphere the size of Scorio’s fist, and was gone.

Praximar had already lifted into the air, his duplicate forms spreading out from his own, but with a gesture, he pulled his two charges up from the roof to take a pair of his reflections’ places.

The four remaining reflections then turned, leaned toward the distant boiling clouds of night, and then together in a tight cluster they shot through the air, speeding away over the city.

“This is our chance,” said Naomi as the remaining Great Souls either moved toward the railing to watch or began hurrying down the stairs. “We’ve been overlooked. Time to escape.”

“We need to help,” said Leonis, tone rife with frustration. “There must be something we can do.”

“Let’s head to the ruins,” said Scorio. “Serves both purposes. Brings us closer to the fight, but also gets us out from under Praximar’s eye. If Bastion survives this battle, I’d rather not be tossed through the Final Door again.”

“Yes,” said Lianshi simply. “Let’s get closer. At the very least I want to see how it goes.”

They began hurrying as a group toward the stairs. The other Great Souls had to be Flame Vaults and lower; still far more powerful than their little group, but as nothing compared to the combatants who had taken to the air.

Leonis led the way, his purpose and thunderous mien stilling questions, down and into the Academy, past endless crowds of concerned students, and soon out through a large, guarded doorway into the streets.

“Burn mana,” said Naomi. “It’s time to go fast.”

They raced after her, but she was endlessly fleet of foot; on they ran, coursing like racing hounds down the street, dodging around the milling people and snarls of traffic. Carts had been abandoned here and there, while others had tipped over in their owner’s rush to get them home. People shouted at each other, others shoved and pushed where the crowds grew thickest, and more than one opportunistic soul had leaped up to a high vantage point to declare their thoughts on the end of Bastion.

“…the Great Souls have truly brought calamity to our poor city!” cried one, his voice strident and carrying over the clamor. “First the Empyreal Prophecy proved itself a fraud, a means to yoke innocents to the engine of their appetites, and now they fail to protect us—”

“Look!” shouted Lianshi, grabbing Scorio’s sleeve and pointing toward the Portal. They’d burst out into a large square, the buildings no longer clustered about them and blocking their view, and saw the mass of darkness that filled the far end of the city.

It was hard to make out what was going on, but a bright fleck of crimson fire flashed through the air, a broad sweep that collided with what had to be Imogen floating in all her dark glory; the Imperator waved her arm, and the bright arc of flame flew aside, but it left behind in its trail a permanent wall of burning crimson that hung in its wake. A moment later, some thirty blasts of searing green light flew at Imogen from unseen points in the ruins all around her, but these scattered uselessly as if they’d hit an invisible bubble about the Imperator.

She raised her arm, a scepter of deepest black appearing in her hand, only to be driven back as the White Queen teleported in and dove down at her, golden wings furled, unleashing an endless blast of golden light from her own white scepter which pushed Imogen back into her clouds.

“Wow,” breathed Lianshi as the White Queen teleported away a moment before a lance of black energy flew out from the darkness to spear through where she’d been. Scorio whipped his head about to follow the lance of black fire as it sped across the diameter of the city and impacted the ruins up and to his left; an entire building collapsed upon itself under the brunt of the impact.

“Keep going!” shouted Naomi, already at the far side of the square.

Scorio pulled on Lianshi’s arm, and together they ran on, weaving through the crowd to dive back into the next street.

The crowds thinned out the closer they got to the ruins; either the poorer citizens of Bastion had more sense or were more afraid; perhaps one equaled the other.

Looking up, Scorio would catch glimpses of the battle taking place. A massive boom rolled over the ruins like the crack of thunder, and a pulse of white light flared, momentarily blanking out Scorio’s vision. When he blinked, he saw that a large portion of the black fog had disappeared, and Imogen was floating free once more. She was unharmed, but her attention was directed to the far side of the ruins from whence the attack had come.

There an entire block had been leveled, reduced to a large field of rubble and shattered masonry.

They broke through the last civilized fringe of the city at a steady run and entered the ruins proper. Some part of Scorio relaxed a fraction; this was his turf, a world he knew better than the clean streets and hard stares of the people of Bastion. Old rock crunched underfoot as they ran on, ever deeper, the battle above continuing intermittently until Imogen turned her attention to the Portal once more.

“Wait,” said Leonis, coming to a halt. “We can’t just run around like fools. We need a plan. How can we help?”

Naomi sneered. “Your ego is astounding. Haven’t you grasped the scale at which this battle is being fought?”

Leonis chopped at the air with the ridge of his hand. “I don’t care. We’re Great Souls. We must fight for Bastion. There must be something we can do.”

Scorio fought to catch his breath. “If she remains airborne, we can’t contribute. But perhaps we can help distract her.”

“How so?” Lianshi drew strands of dark hair away from her face.

“She was drawn here by the Archspire, right?” He glanced from one to the next. “Perhaps there’s something we can do to it that will draw her attention again. Give the others a chance to hit her while she’s focusing on us.”

“That just sounds like a terrible idea,” said Naomi. “Draw the attention of an Imperator?”

“I like it,” said Leonis. “Let’s go.”

“You’re mad,” said Naomi. “All of you.”

“There won’t be any city left if they lose,” said Scorio. “Come on, Naomi. How are you going to hide out in these ruins if they’re gone and everyone’s dead?”

For a moment she hesitated, then they all flinched as a hollow boom rolled down the length of Bastion’s cylinder.

“Fine,” snapped Naomi. “Fine! One madness is as good as any other.”

They took off at a fast run, streaming through the ruined streets and casting fearful glances up at the skies. The black fog was alive and constantly moving; burning away here from an assault, reaching there like a forlorn lover for a retreating Great Soul. Imogen faded in and out of view, and Scorio realized that they were following the White Queen’s plan to perfection; bursts of sound and fury would be followed by a minute or two of silence as Bastion’s defenders retreated so as to not upset Imogen too much.

Burning mana intermittently, they crossed the ruins in record time. No threats lurked, no perils forced them into detours. Every creature and fiend had gone to ground.

They pounded across the great bridge toward the Academy. Scorio saw a flicker of darkness within the mound of rubble at the other side and realized that the toad was lurking just out of view.

“Get out of here!” he shouted to it as they ran past. “It’s not safe—get below!”

He saw a flicker of movement, then the toad was gone. Gasping for breath, they ran up the broad steps to the massive bronze doors.

The inky clouds were thickest here, an ocean of blackness that swam around the domes. The air was chill, and a constant breeze blew, something that Scorio had never felt except at dusk when the rains were about to fall.

“Look,” said Leonis, grabbing his arm and pointing to a distant rooftop. Sharess stood there, lowered into a crouch, her face turned skyward, waves of power rolling off her as she slowly turned into a gleaming mass of polished steel. Vaguely humanoid in form, she compressed and elongated into a wicked, human-sized bolt of metal, then with a cry hurled herself into the air with impossible power and speed.

Scorio tried to follow her flashing ascent, almost missed it. Sharess flew straight at where Imogen had emerged from the darkness above them. Almost quicker than Scorio could follow, he saw a black sphere form around Imogen, vaguely translucent, which blocked the attack completely; Sharess ricocheted off, her spike-form spinning into the darkness where he lost sight of it.

“By the hells,” breathed Leonis. “Did the Imperator even notice?”

“Probably not,” said Naomi, grabbing hold of Scorio’s arm and hauling him toward the great crack in the Academy’s wall. “She’s an Imperator. Sharess is—what—a Dread Blaze?”

“Can she open the Portal?” asked Lianshi, hurrying after them. “Is that even possible?”

“What she can do is wreck it,” snarled Naomi over her shoulder. “That even I know. You tear the sun-wire free, you haul the capstone out of the wall, and it’s broken forever. We die in darkness, those of us who aren’t seared to death by the loose sun-wire.”

“But what if she can open it?” asked Scorio, scrambling over the fallen blocks into the cool dimness of the Academy’s interior. “She’s an Imperator, right?”

“You think there haven’t been any of her kind before?” Naomi angrily thrust her hair back. “That over the past nine hundred years nobody of her power hasn’t looked at the Portal? You think she’s the first to try?”

Scorio scowled but didn’t reply.

“To the Archspire,” said Leonis. “Though what we’ll do when we get there, I’ve no idea.”

“I sensed her drawing the Archspire’s power,” said Scorio, jogging alongside his friends. “Did you feel it, too? Just before Praximar arrived? And that power seemed to come from somewhere deeper. It’s not just contained in the spire itself.”

“Felt like the spire was a conduit,” said Naomi from the front. “And that wasn’t just any kind of mana. I’ve never felt or heard of anything like it before.”

“The highest level of mana is Noumenon,” said Lianshi breathlessly from the back. “It can only be found just outside the Pit. Diamond is next, and that’s meant to be colorless, but Noumenon is the very stuff of creation. Only Imperators can tap it.”

“Where’d you learn that?” asked Scorio, glancing back at her.

She grimaced apologetically. “School?”

“What would happen if we tried to draw on Noumenon?” he asked, slowing down to run alongside her.

“At a guess? Our Hearts would immediately explode?”

Leonis slowed as he climbed up a slope of scree and tumbled chunks of ceiling. “Even Gold would be too much for us, and that’s just Dread Blaze level. We need to steer clear of anything like that.”

“Are you listening to them, Scorio?” snapped Naomi, leaping to the top of the mound and turning to glare at him. “There are real limits to what even an insane Cinder can do.”

Scorio scrabbled up next to her. “Got it. Don’t try any Imperator tricks.”

Naomi’s scowl deepened and she leaped down to the far side, landing in her Nightmare Lady form. The shift was so smooth, so fast, that it was little more than a blur.

“Damn,” said Leonis, drawing back as he saw her for the first time.

The Nightmare Lady’s tail rose as if it had scented prey and oriented on Leonis. “Problem?” she asked.

“No problem,” he said, raising both hands. “You just look… intimidating.”

“Fantastic,” said Lianshi decisively, sliding down the slope’s far side into the next hall. “Absolutely amazing. I love it.”

“You… do?”

Scorio had never seen the Nightmare Lady so flummoxed.

“Yes,” said Lianshi, taking her in. “You look lethal and strong and just… I don’t know. Everything I want to be one day.”

“Oh.” Her tail drooped and then rose again. “Well, that just means you’re weird.”

“Come on,” said Scorio, running past them both. “We’re almost at the Aureate Hall.”

Just then the entire building shook. Curtains of dust sifted down from the cracked ceiling, and a moment later they heard a sliding, shuddering roar as some part of the Academy gave way.

“Watch us die under a cave-in while everyone else fights,” said Leonis, hurrying to catch up with Scorio. “How ignominious.”

“We’re not dead yet.” Scorio put on speed, and a moment later they burst into the grand Hall. Weak light filtered in from the cracks above to illuminate the white trees, almost insufficient to navigate with his natural eyes.

Scorio took the lead, but had only taken a few steps when a chunk of the vaulted ceiling above burst inward as something came flying through. A woman in white slammed into the base of the trees’ stone planter with sufficient force to embed herself in the rock, which shattered in an explosion of carved stone and dry earth, causing a cloud to rise about her.

Lianshi grabbed hold of Scorio’s arm tightly as the others staggered to a halt beside him.

Nova, the White Queen, lay half-buried in a crater of her own making. Blood ran shockingly red from her nostrils and her limbs were askew, bent at impossible angles. Her white hair was plastered across her alabaster visage with dust and sweat, but she was clearly alive, her eyelids flickering as she visibly mustered the strength to start prying herself free.

Scorio was about to dash forward to help her when a second shape descended through the same hole in the ceiling.

Imogen, her gaze focused on the White Queen, darkness trailing her down like a living shroud.

Chapter 40

“We need to run!” hissed Naomi, but Scorio could only stare, transfixed, as the Imperator descended through the dusty air, completely unharmed despite all the attacks she’d suffered. Her gaze was pensive, he thought, perhaps touched with melancholy as she studied Nova, her manner unhurried.

The White Queen gritted her teeth, and in her hand a white scepter blazed into existence, refulgent and momentarily as searing to gaze upon as the sun-wire at Amber. Then it solidified into an ivory wand as long as Scorio’s forearm, intricately carved and terminating in a swirl of carved strands that looked like a vortex caught in stone.

The scepter pulsed and the White Queen’s limbs straightened, her body lifted from the mangled hole into which it had crashed, and she, too, rose to float in the air before Imogen. The dust and sweat disappeared from her face, and her hair flowed freely once more, cleansed and untangled.

“I’m impressed,” said Imogen, her tone casual. “I didn’t think a mere Charnel Duke could survive one of my shadow blasts.”

Nova inclined her head regally. “I’m honored to have surprised you. And would willingly take another if it meant we could continue our conversation.”

Imogen lowered her chin, and her dark hair weaving about her face as if she were underwater. Scorio sensed the power concentrating within her as if she were stealing the very air from the room; his chest tightened, and every instinct urged him to run.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the two women, one dark, the other light, both belonging to a realm of power he couldn’t even comprehend.

“You’re not worth the effort,” said Imogen, tone growing curt. “None of you are. Your understanding is too limited, your intelligence circumscribed by your lack of experience. You have taken up too much of my time already. Goodbye.”

Nova spun her scepter before her, fingers dexterous and sure, and a sphere of white pearlescent light appeared about her hovering figure. “Why don’t we wait a little while longer?” she said, “I’m sure someone will arrive soon who is worth your time indeed.”

Imogen’s smile was pitying. “A lovely shroud. But I, too, possess a Ferula. Let us see how your shroud fares when Mordecholio presses it.”

And Imogen extended her hand into which a black counterpart to the White Queen’s scepter appeared. This one gleamed as if freshly dipped in oil, was more staff than wand, and its end was a ragged profusion of shards and twisted metal, as if something had been torn away from its tip.

Scorio stared, eyes wide. Even Naomi had gone silent, but when he saw the White Queen’s expression grow slack with dismay, he realized he had to do something. Had to distract Imogen somehow—

The Aureate Hall’s wall exploded inward as a massive brute came charging through, swinging fists the size of barrels as he crashed into Imogen. In the sudden haze of dust and flying rock, Scorio saw Grunsch, grown to the height of some twenty feet, his tattooed form so massively muscled as to appear deformed.

Imogen’s black sphere flickered into existence, but Grunsch bore it before him, slamming his huge fists into the translucent wall, driving her through the air with a roar. Imogen turned calmly within her sphere to point her staff at Grunsch, and a spear of black light fled from its tip at the giant.

He leaped back, crossed his arms before him, and summoned a floating tower shield some ten feet high, its surface translucent yet ridged and carved so that Scorio thought he saw Grunsch’s roaring face depicted on its curved face.

At the same time, huge chunks of rock lifted from the ground and flew to interpose themselves between Grunsch and Imogen; each chunk limned in green flame, forming a wall of burning rock from floor to the Aureate Hall’s ceiling.

The black light from Imogen’s spear slashed through this wall, cut through Grunsch’s floating shield, and hit his crossed arms just as Nova pointed her scepter and hurled a beam of white light at him.

Scorio couldn’t follow the outcome; Grunsch flew backward, Nova still tracking him with her beam of light, and then a great bird of flame burst shrieking into the chamber, trailing streams of crimson as it hurled itself at Imogen, leaving a wall of living fire in its wake that continued to burn and refused to fade away.

Scorio fell back, tripped on the loose rocks on the ground as the fiery bird smashed into Imogen’s protective sphere, bounced off, and became Maeve, wheeling up and around, orienting on Imogen as she leveled a crimson Ferula of her own and unleashing a torrent of fire that enveloped the protective sphere altogether.

Superheated air washed over Scorio’s face, drying his sweat immediately, and he squinted, raised a hand to shield his eyes from the searing light.

“We have to get out of here,” Lianshi shouted into his ear as the wash of flame ended to reveal Imogen, unhurt, within her sphere. “Scorio!”

Regaining his wits, he dropped to a crouch, considered. Back, to flee, to hide? Cross the Aureate Hall to the basilica beyond? That would mean racing across a battlefield, where an errant attack would erase him—

“Come on!” He tried to ignite his Heart, but the room was completely devoid of mana. Instead, he burst into a sprint, racing along the hall’s edge, ducking his head low as Imogen raised her staff. Before she could unleash her attack, Maeve flew upward, regaining her blazing bird form, and was gone, flying through the ceiling, and leaving a permanent ribbon of fire in her wake that blocked Imogen from Scorio’s sight.

A pair of Great Souls entered the Hall through the basilica’s doors just as Scorio reached them. One was dark-skinned and bearded, a ring through his nose, his face twisted in barely controlled fear. The other was roguishly handsome, tanned and with the look of eagles to him, his black hair slicked back, ropes of golden chain falling over his chest.

“You ready?” cried the first, but before the other could answer he raised both his hands and barked out a shout.

Scorio twisted and crashed to the ground as a shaft of Imogen’s black light came curving through the air, torn away from its trajectory toward Nova to fly at the newly arrived pair.

The man with the golden chains cried out in panic. “Echo, no!"

But it was too late. He flung out his hands, summoning a floating portal into which the black spear disappeared. This knocked him right off his feet so that he crashed to the ground, the portal disappearing, leaving him twisting in pain.

“I’ll distract her!” shouted the first, and his whole form shrank as if imploding, light distorting around him as he seemed to dive into nothingness and disappear. His disappearance was immediately accompanied by a great pulling suction that tore Scorio off the ground and hurled him and the fallen Great Soul to where the man had stood a second before; they crashed to the ground together, and Scorio looked up to see Echo appear midair before Imogen, popping into existence and hurling a black spear that looked identical to Imogen’s own right at her.

Black talons curled around Scorio’s arm as the Nightmare Lady hauled him to his feet and pulled him through the doorway into the basilica.

Head spinning, Scorio ran after her, Lianshi and Leonis following a second later, down between the biers. Summoning his Heart, Scorio felt the very faintest traces of Coal mana in the air, and greedily swept it into himself and ignited his Heart.

The flood of strength and consequent assurance was invaluable. Scorio leaped up onto the closest bier and proceeded to race toward the basilica’s center, leaping from bier to bier as he went, to where the ruined half of the Archspire still jutted into the air.

“What’s the plan?” roared Leonis, powering along just below and between the biers. “Scorio?”

His mind raced, trying to come up with something. Never had he felt so ignorant, so useless. The attacks being hurled at Imogen were beyond anything he could comprehend, and still, she appeared unconcerned.

What could he do to distract her?

They reached the center of the huge chamber and Scorio leaped down to the Archspire’s broad base. It rose in tiers of gray stone to project upward, and reaching out with his senses, he felt that strange and deliriously powerful mana still sparking up from its top.

Should he try to take some into his Heart? Could he force himself to reach Emberling if he did so?

“What if we destroy more of the Archspire?” asked Lianshi, expression wild. “It’s what brought her here in the first place, correct?”

The Nightmare Lady rounded on her. “Which of us is going to do that? The Archspire is made of—”

“Consecrated melar heartstone, I know,” interrupted Lianshi hurriedly. “But perhaps it’s been weakened since it’s already ruptured.”

The double doors leading to the Aureate halls crashed inward as Imogen flew backward through them, her black sphere taking the brunt of twin streams of concentrated attacks, one crimson, the other gray. They fountained against her sphere without surcease, and a moment later Lady Maeve and Grunsch stepped through the doorway after her, Grunsch now reduced to his normal human size, both pointing their scepters at her.

Scorio and others ducked behind the closest bier.

Imogen floated serenely within her protective bubble, her expression, if anything, distracted, mildly curious.

Nova floated in behind the Blood Barons, an older man by her side that Scorio had seen on the Academy’s rooftop. His features were deeply weathered, his blond beard ragged, his mustache bushy. Immediately Scorio felt a pang of sympathy for the man, a desire to help him, to do whatever it took to ensure he got out of this conflict alive and well.

“Now, Amity,” said Nova, placing her hand on his shoulder.

The older man nodded grimly, threw his head back, and his whole body clenched, tendons standing out in his neck.

The White Queen, Lady Maeve, and Grunsch all screamed at once. The Blood Barons ceased their attacks on Imogen and the three of them crumpled, falling to the ground as their flesh withered and their skin grayed, each of them aged to the ultimate reaches of what a human body could bear.

Amity also suffered, his body and face taking on the ravaged look of a man at the last days of a terminal illness, then he raised his hands, both reduced to little more than claws, and between his palms, a tiny prick of light appeared, so bright it burned Scorio’s eyes to look upon.

Turning away, he saw Imogen frown, then the fleck of light flew at her and collided with her sphere.

It detonated like a thunder crash and hurled the Imperator across the basilica, her sphere unbroken but Imogen within flailing as she clawed at the air. She smashed into the basilica’s far wall, which collapsed upon her, a roaring fall of huge blocks that buried her sphere whole.

Scorio rose to his feet, awestruck. He turned to see that Amity had fallen to the ground, his body disintegrating into dust as he watched.

Nova, little more than an aged husk, raised her white scepter in a shaking hand. Radiant white light flowed over her body, and she immediately floated up, restored as before. A second later, both Lady Maeve and Grunsch also rose, the White Queen’s light suffusing their forms.

“Was that… did we…?” asked Lady Maeve.

“No,” said Grunsch, brushing dust off his pectoral muscles as broad and thick as paving stones. “But it was a good shot.”

More Great Souls filtered into the room through the ruined doors. One of them, Helminth, saw the ruin at the far end of the basilica and ran forward, dropping her sinuous whip which disappeared mid-air, to leap atop a bier and extend both her hands toward the cave-in. “Get Feng in here!” she cried.

Scorio couldn’t tell what she did, but the rocks at the far end of the basilica that had buried Imogen suddenly crunched down, compacting as if under a huge weight.

“Jarex,” said Nova, voice composed. “Fetch Feng.”

The wild-haired and saturnine Dread Blaze nodded wearily, drank from a vial, closed his eyes, and disappeared. A second later he appeared once more, Feng holding onto his shoulder, his shock of black hair pale with dust, blood smeared across his cheek from a ragged cut.

Nova swooped forward, massive golden wings appearing in a flash, and swept Feng up to bear him through the air and set him close to the fallen rocks.

Feng lowered into a combat crouch, closed his eyes as he slipped a pill into his mouth, and pressed a palm forward. A moment later, a cone of dust filtered forth from his hand to wash over the pile of huge stones, seeming to pour through them as if the rocks were insubstantial.

Helminth was still straining, hands outstretched, chin lowered as she wrestled with some invisible force. “I’m running out of reserves. Where’s Hera? Get her set up!”

The striking woman, with skin the color of Coal mana and long hair woven into finger-thick braids, nodded jerkily and ran forward. She downed a small vial of burning golden liquid, and then a dozen rays of purple light extended from her chest to spear across the basilica; wherever they terminated a tower formed, each as tall as herself and topped with a purple gem.

The missing Blood Baron, Havarn, stepped through the doorway, his robes torn but appearing unhurt. He quickly ran his fingers through his beard and then inhaled mightily. Huge chunks of green rock lifted off the ground, each limned in green flame, and they flew together to form a crude golem some twenty feet tall. Ponderous and massive, it waded through the biers like a grown man through sandcastles, to reach the cave-in then fall bodily upon it, adding its burning bulk to the existing mound.

Scorio looked to where Lianshi crouched by his side. “You think they can imprison her?”

Lianshi was pale, blinking rapidly. All she could do was shake her head.

“Ready Maeve?” asked Grunsch, punching a fist into the other palm. Scorio thought he sounded strangely cheerful, then the Blood Baron swelled up to his massive form, veins bulging over his musculature, his translucent tower shield manifesting before him as he began to make his way toward the rocks.

Lady Maeve gathered her mane of dark crimson hair into a tail and swept it over one shoulder, then leaped atop a bier. She raised her red scepter and aimed it at the rocks. “Ready.”

Other Great Souls rushed to their positions, some closer, others standing afar, everyone drinking elixirs or swallowing pills as they focused on the huge pile of broken stone.

The tension grew so thick that Scorio could barely breathe. Sweat prickled paths down his face, and he forced himself to dry swallow as he watched the far side of the room with everyone else.

Watched the burning green rocks into which Feng continued to pour his cone of white dust. Watched as Nova rose above it, golden wings spread, white scepter held at the ready, looking grave and resigned, determined and utterly focused.

And despite himself, Scorio felt his heart thrill. To be surrounded by such power, to see so many Great Souls demonstrate what their kind could do. It dwarfed his aspirations, recast his ambitions.

If he survived this, he vowed, he would work tirelessly to improve himself. Would strain every fiber of his being to one day be able to stand amongst such great company and be considered their equal.

If only he could do something now. If only he could help in some tangible way.

Instead, he could only crouch there with his friends as Raugr moved to the forefront to stand beside Grunsch, his fists glowing with electric energy. As Valdun flew into the air with his pegasi, a great harpoon in one hand. As others drew closer, each and every one of them looked tense, if not outright terrified.

“Look up,” whispered the Nightmare Lady from behind him.

Scorio frowned, glanced at the ceiling, and saw that the black fog was quickly descending along the inside of the walls.

Within moments, others cried out in alarm. The fog dropped swiftly, so that the great basilica became an inverted black bowl before anyone could react.

“Jarex!” cried out Nova. “Get people out!”

The Great Soul with the golden chains roped around his neck backed away a few steps, then imploded, disappearing and unleashing a vortex of air that staggered others in his vicinity.

Halos of burning light appeared behind the head of every Great Soul that was Pyre Lord or higher; Nova summoned her white pearlescent sphere about herself.

But the black smoke kept coming, pouring down to ground level, then flooding across the floor.

“What is that? What do we do?” hissed Leonis.

“We’re done for,” said the Nightmare Lady, voice cracked with despair. “Remember what they said about her fog?”

It flowed over the first of the Great Souls, who thrashed at it, crossed their arms before their faces, and then froze. A moment later each one relaxed, lowering their arms to their sides, to turn and stare toward the massive mound of stone.

Valdun swept down so that others could mount his pegasi, and then together they flew toward the ceiling, clearly trying to burst free and into the sky beyond. But a column of darkness descended to intercept them, and upon being engulfed they ceased their attempt to escape and instead began to fly unhurriedly toward the floor.

Scorio rose to his feet, looked about in panic. He saw Raugr and Grunsch succumb, followed a moment later by Helminth who screamed in rage and swung her writhing whip at the fog before going still.

They had seconds before the fog washed over them.

They had to get out. For a moment Scorio just stood there, watching as Nova retreated from grasping fingers of darkness, and then it came to him.

“Hurry!” He darted to the base of the bier and slammed his hand over the crystal. “Into the Gauntlet!”

The Nightmare Lady nodded, vaulting over the bier to the next one over, but darkness washed over her before she could reach its base. Lianshi and Leonis darted away from him as well.

Scorio pulsed mana into the crystal as he’d done almost a dozen times before and hurled himself atop the jeweled top.

The last thing he saw as he lay down, black fog washing over him, was the White Queen, crying out in defiance as she hurled blast after blast of white fire from her scepter, the black fog closing around her sphere. Then all fell away into blackness.

Chapter 41

Scorio awoke in a tomb of hammered copper and immediately sat up, gasping for air. He clutched at his chest, dug fingers into the muscle over his heart, and just sat there, staring at the wall before him.

“I did it,” he whispered, relaxing his hand as the panic ebbed. He glanced about the tomb, sharpened his darkvision, and ignited his Heart, then leaped out into the endless chamber before the ancient Gauntlet entrance. Landing in a crouch, he stared around the plain of tombs.

No movement.

The distant beam of pale light soared as ever before, but for once Scorio ignored it. “Leonis? Lianshi?”

No response. He took a few steps and swept his darkvision over the tomb entrances, trying to sense any movement. Anything at all.

“Naomi?”

No response.

“Damn,” he hissed, and dropped into a crouch, cupping his hands before his mouth. He alone had escaped the Imperator’s control.

What should he do? His gaze flickered from side to side, unseeing, as he tried to come up with options. A plan. Anything at all.

He could obviously just wait in here until the threat passed. But that would mean abandoning his friends, abandoning the other Great Souls, and abandoning Bastion to Imogen.

Not an option.

He’d return to the bier after he died. But if the death were traumatic enough, it would take him precious minutes to overcome the psychic pain. He had to think of a way to die easily, a death which he could recover from without too much difficulty.

Nothing came to mind, so he set that challenge aside for now. Assuming he could come up with such a death, then what? He’d appear atop the bier, laid out and plainly visible.

What could he do?

Nothing.

If a Charnel Duchess like the White Queen couldn’t pierce Imogen’s protective powers, he had no chance.

But there had to be something.

What did he have on his person? Not right now, but when he’d materialize? His dagger, his chalk, his bridge, his steel bar. All toys compared to Imogen. Even his chalk would fail to stop her, as all she’d need do would be to tear the invisible wall free of the ground on which it was marked.

A protective cube? But no. Even if he could protect himself, what would that accomplish?

Imogen was there, and now she had control over the other Great Souls.

Scorio closed his eyes tight against the rising wave of panic and forced his mind to still.

There had to be a way. Something he could do. He’d have the element of surprise. How could he best use it?

Biting his lower lip, Scorio rubbed at his chin. He had to approach this logically. Fear would just scramble his thoughts forever. He had no ability to stop her physically. To hurt her physically. No powers, no techniques, nothing.

Even if he found a way to trigger his Emberling challenge, he’d still be inconsequential.

He thought back to every exchange he’d witnessed. She’d repelled countless attacks that would have obliterated him… but she’d also spoken to people. She’d spoken with Praximar, with the White Queen.

Could he reason with her? Convince her to relent?

Scorio grimaced and rubbed at his face. He knew nothing about her, just that she wished to go to Ettera and was furious when she found the Portal closed. Could he work with that?

After squatting for a few moments longer, he realized he didn’t have much choice.

He rose smoothly to his feet. Now to die. What was the most peaceful way to go?

An idea came to him, and he began running toward the great beam. Racing over the rough ground, he dodged around the higher ridges and sprinted right at the great shaft of pale golden light.

He hit it at his customary all-out sprint and leaped into a dive.

Punching through into the bladed chamber, he arced gracefully over the downward sweep of the scimitar.

Scorio hit the ground in a roll and came up to his feet. But this time he’d didn’t wait for the blades to disappear—he dashed right back to where the rapier hovered, fixed in space, and edged before it.

Chest heaving, stomach clenching, instincts screaming at him to stop, he lowered his neck to its hovering, stationary tip, and forced himself against it in a wild thrust.

The razor-sharp edge sliced open the side of his neck, and immediately hot blood flooded out of the deep gash.

Scorio sank back against the wall and fought the urge to clamp his hand to the wound. He sank to the ground, the blades disappearing above him, and blinked stupidly at the far wall with its black door.

Sat there, and waited to die.

He grew slowly warmer. The arterial blood spattered over the dirt and drenched his shoulder, his arm, then his side. His heart throbbed, beat erratically, then began to slow.

Scorio felt himself grow drowsy, his body numb, his mind drifting away. He lowered his head, blinked one last time, and died.

Only to come to atop the bier. There was pain in the side of his neck, but nothing paralyzing; he felt weak, but not debilitated.

Forcing his eyes to focus, he turned his head and took in the basilica. The Great Souls stood arrayed about its breadth, all of them watching Imogen with neutral expressions. Within arm’s reach stood Leonis, Lianshi, Naomi. The black fog had dropped to knee height, though it still flowed up the walls, obscuring the balconies and domes.

It was as if they all existed within a hemisphere of perfect, undulating night.

Imogen floated before the Archspire, one hand pressed to its fluted sides, her head bowed.

Scorio didn’t move. Held himself perfectly still for fear that sudden action might draw her attention. His thoughts were woolen, lucidity stealing slowly back, but terror helped sharpen his wits.

He’d have only one chance to gain her attention. If he got this wrong, a tendril of fog would consume him.

A deep, slow breath, and then he sat up.

The Great Souls closest to him turned to stare, though Imogen remained still.

I understand your anger? No, how could I? Her pain? I’m on her side? I’ll help her—no, how could I—?

His thoughts came to a fever pitch and before he knew what he was saying, he opened his mouth and spoke.

“They tried to kill me. The Great Souls of Bastion. They wanted me dead.”

Imogen’s head moved a fraction of an inch to the side, and he felt her attention fall upon him, causing his heart to miss a beat and stutter under the pressure.

“They said I was a Red Lister.” He fought to keep his voice calm. “And that I didn’t deserve to live. They threw me through the Final Door and forgot about me.”

She floated as before for a second longer, then half-turned to regard him, her lips thinned, her brows lowered, her dark eyes thoughtful. “Why are you telling me this?”

Scorio suppressed the sharp spike of excitement, schooled his features into absolute neutrality. “Because I, too, want to change this world. I want to break that which doesn’t work and bring justice.”

Meeting her dark gaze steadily was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he drew on his will, his desire to help his friends, and forced his lips into a wry smile. “So, on some pitiful, low level, I understand what you’re trying to do.”

The weight upon his shoulders doubled, and he bit back a groan as his spine compressed.

“What could a Cinder know of the goals of an Imperator?”

“Clearly very, very little.” He paused as if pretending to consider, certain manic energy entering his mind. “I mean, incredibly little. But you’re still human, are you not? You feel pain. Anger. Loss.”

Her frown deepened and he quickly changed his tack.

“And I just wanted to let you know that I don’t judge.” Time to play a wild card. “It’s not your fault. What happened to you. You didn’t deserve this. None of it. All your pain, your outrage. I might not be able to understand it, but because of who I am, I can respect it. I can respect what you’re doing, and why.”

Still, she considered him, as if he were a fragment of a puzzle she couldn’t quite decide where to place. “And?”

“And I thought these moments of yours didn’t need to be so lonely.” Another wild conjecture. “You’ve been without someone to witness your brand of justice for so long. I thought I might in some small way provide that audience. Someone to see the greatness you are about to accomplish, and, ah, be sure that it’s never forgotten.”

It was disconcerting to the extreme to have her study him. The shadows coiled and curled above them, and he realized that every Great Soul in the room was staring at him, from the White Queen close at hand to Grunsch and Raugr at the far side of the room.

Scorio forced another dry swallow and held onto his wry smile like a drowning man to a raft.

“You would witness my deeds?” She spoke as if testing the words, tasting them. “Wait.” And her gaze changed. Became more charged, more piercing. “Wait. I know you.”

Her words sent shivers down his body. “You do?”

“Another life. A past life.” She pursed her lips in thought, and then her eyes widened. “Scorio. Bringer of Ash and Darkness. But how reduced you are.”

Scorio spread his arms apologetically. “I was reborn but a few months ago. I am, alas, but a Cinder. But you remember me? How?”

She waved the question aside impatiently. “Imperators regain all the memories of their past lives. But yes, it is you.” Her smile was if anything all the more unnerving for being warm and genuine. “How strange. That you should be here at the end.”

Scorio’s mind raced as he tried to work this revelation into his approach. “Then you know me. The real me. We were friends?”

Imogen’s dark eyes continued to devour him. “Companions, yes. You helped me destroy Ivaskar against the Herdsmen’s wishes. We bent knee together to the Ul-Master, only for you to betray him in his moment of victory.” Her smile turned bleak. “Your titles were always well earned.”

“I see. These memories are lost to me. But I would be your companion again, even if only for the last few moments. To witness your opening the Portal.”

“What a pity you are but a useless, empty Cinder. To come this close and find you so diminished. But such are the cruelties of hell.”

“Too many to count,” said Scorio.

“Too many. Very well. You may witness my final act as an Imperator, Scorio.” And she turned back to the Archspire, bowing her head once more.

Scorio licked his dry lips and glanced down as the dark fog withdrew from the base of his bier. The closest Great Souls continued to watch him, though the others turned their attention back to Imogen.

It was eerie to see his friends so drained of personality and intelligence. Their mute gazes were unblinking. Could she see through their eyes? How much autonomy did they have?

But no matter; he’d won his first victory. She’d not dominated his mind out of hand. But now what? To keep her talking? Her last words had been almost a dismissal. If he annoyed her, she might destroy him sooner than ask him to be quiet.

Carefully, slowly, he slid his legs over the edge of the bier. The black fog retreated farther, and he stood, fighting back a wave of dizziness.

“I lied, before,” said Imogen suddenly, not looking back. “It occurs to me now that you’ve been a constant companion for some time now.”

“Oh?” He tried to sound only mildly curious. “That’s great. But how so, if I’ve been, ah, dead?”

“In my labyrinth,” she said, and he felt something in the air buckle as she pressed mightily against it, like some vast sheet of invisible metal folding before her will. “Accompanying me, watching over me, trailing me.”

“Oh,” he said, taking a step forward. The black fog retreated again. “That’s… wonderful.” Was that why he’d not been reborn in centuries? “That I could be there, in some fashion.”

“You and the others,” she said, voice low. “Eranon, the Milliner, Farice, the Yveque twins… watching me always as I sought… as I sought…”

Her fingers dug into the Archspire’s side, causing the stone to crunch and crumble under her grip. Again he felt something vast buckle and shift, this time deep beneath them, making him want to throw out his arms to steady himself though the actual floor didn’t move.

“Following me, keeping me company in the dark, in the depths of my… in my labyrinth. Sympathetic, I thought, caring. Two-faced, of course, but that shallow duplicity was in and of itself almost endearing. Knowing that I… as a beacon, as refuge, could…”

She trailed off, her shoulders hunching, then she let out a gasp of effort which became a husky laugh. “Ah! Wrestling with Noumenon in this wretched mana desert taxes me! As I’ve not been taxed in years. But you wouldn’t understand, would you Scorio?” And she looked over her shoulder at him, eyes gauging him, hair cascading down over half of her face.

“You know I can’t.” He took another slow step toward her. “What are you trying to do?”

“You couldn’t understand.” Was that pity in her voice? “Once, but not now. But if there is to be change, it must take place at the root.”

And again the very fabric of the world seemed to spasm, and stone crunched as she thrust her hand wrist-deep into the Archspire.

He kept walking slowly toward her, his approach marked by the Great Souls, heart pounding, mind blank of ideas, breath coming shallowly, rapidly.

“But I welcome the challenge.” She straightened, raked her hair back, and smiled predatorily up at the Archspire. “Let us see what it makes of—”

And then she froze.

Scorio froze as well, unsure if he’d come too close, if she’d changed her mind, if she was about to envelop him in black fog.

She stared upward at nothing, expression focused, body tense.

Scorio hesitated, then asked softly, “Is something the—?”

She flung out her hand and he shut his mouth. They stood thus in silence, and he watched as Imogen’s expression flickered from alarm to doubt to confusion to hope. The emotions were raw, unguarded, and he felt strangely guilty to observe them, as if he were intruding somehow on an unwell person’s private debilities.

“He’s here,” she whispered, pulling her hand from the Archspire. “He’s actually come.”

“Oh,” said Scorio weakly. “That’s… good?”

She moved her head, turning slowly as if watching something approach through the walls, her smile nervous, her expression yearning.

“Who, ah, is here?” asked Scorio.

She blinked and turned to regard him with a warm smile. “My husband.”

A man descended unharmed through the darkness that cloaked the ceiling. He radiated power and authority, his expression severe, his brow dauntless, his ash-brown hair long and falling past his shoulders, beard darker but flecked with white about the chin and growing high on his tanned cheeks.

Perhaps in his forties, he had the physique of a man half his years. Dressed in plain robes of the lightest cream tied off with a plain black sash, he descended, eyes fixed on Imogen, his gaze rich with pain and more emotions than Scorio could guess at. He’d simply not lived enough to understand that depth of emotion, he realized. That complex amalgam of love and grief, strength and self-denial.

“Imogen,” said the stranger, coming to a stop some ten feet off the floor. “You must stop.”

“Sol!” She beamed at him, then blinked and took a step back at his obdurate impassivity. “You look well!”

“You mustn’t do this,” he said, voice softening. “You cannot undo the world.”

“Cannot?” She reached out to touch the Archspire gently. “But I can! It’s connected. The arteries still flow. We can open the Portal, Sol. Together. And why not? After all we’ve done, all we’ve sacrificed? Why should we not demand an accounting?”

“Because the Portal cannot be opened from this side,” said Sol wearily. “You know this. Or did, once.”

She slashed angrily at the air. “Accepted truths, passed down to us by whom? Why not verify them, my love? Now, at the peak of our strength, together?”

“Because I will not be party to genocide.”

“Genocide?” She nearly spat the word. “You mean slavery?”

“Others live in Bastion. Innocents. Tens of thousands of them.”

“Ignorants, ants, fools. Their souls will be liberated and sent back to Ettera.”

“That does not make killing them justifiable.” His voice grew hard. “You know this, Imogen. Despair does not justify evil acts.”

She paused, expression turning cunning. “I will agree to this on one condition, Sol.”

His response was calm and utterly final. “No.”

“You would refuse even if it meant genocide and the destruction of Bastion?”

“I will not return to you, Imogen. Things cannot be as they were.”

Her eyes narrowed, and Scorio had to fight the urge to crouch. Instead, he listened, frozen, as still as any of the other Great Souls.

“Then you countenance this,” she said, voice raw with anger. “This is on your head, Sol!”

“No.” He extended his hand to the side, and a golden spear materialized in his palm, small flickers of lightning racing up and down its length. “There will be no genocide or destruction, for I shall not allow it.”

“So you would raise your hand against me at last?” Her smile was raw but did nothing to hide the pain in her eyes.

“Perhaps I should have done so before.” A halo appeared behind his head, a radiant golden disc whose shape fluctuated, sending forth and retracting rods of platinum. “Perhaps that was my greatest failing. To have allowed my love to blind me all these years.”

“It need not be like this,” she whispered, tears brimming and running down her cheeks. “We can still be together, Sol. Please. Return to my side. There is nothing we cannot fix together.”

“I’m sorry, Imogen.” His voice had become almost a rasp, his expression stricken. “There is no returning from what you did. But we need not fight. Agree to leave Bastion peacefully with me. We can negotiate terms. We can find a way toward peace.”

“And be without you forever, my love?” Her laughter was broken. “Who will hold the dances in the hall, who will greet the guests by my side, who will joust with the sun? No. That is no life. I shall continue as before, and I pray by the regard you once had for me that you stay your hand.”

And she turned back to the Archspire.

Sol gazed at Imogen with a forlorn, wounded love which then disappeared behind a mask of iron. His jaw clenched, his heavy brow lowered, and then he multiplied.

For a second Scorio thought he was employing Praximar’s power, creating a half-dozen duplicates, but the power didn’t stop. In a matter of seconds, over a hundred reflections of Sol ringed the Archspire and Imogen, each bearing its own halo, each gazing at her with steel determination.

Imogen raised a hand to the Archspire, and Scorio saw that it was trembling violently.

“Don’t do it, my love,” whispered the original Sol. In the hand of each of his reflections, a golden spear appeared, coruscating with wild energy. “Please. I ask one last time.”

“I love you,” said Imogen, tears running freely. “Since I first saw you on our first Gauntlet run. Always and deeply and truly. I’ve always loved you, Sol, in every life, and always will.”

“Don’t,” croaked Sol.

Imogen flared her fingers wide, then thrust her hand full upon the spire.

Chapter 42

A hundred things happened at once. The legion of Sols raised their golden spears as if giving the command for an army to charge, and from the dark clouds overhead flashed down a hundred bolts of golden lightning, all of them angling down to strike at Imogen.

At the same time, every other Great Soul in the room but Scorio leaped to attack the hundred Sols.

The White Queen flared up into her angelic form, wings spread wide, to unleash a blast of white at the original Sol, her own halo flaring.

Grunsch let out a roar as he charged into the wall of Imperators, his form swelling up to massive size, even as Lady Maeve flashed forward in a sweep of searing flame. Havarn caused a score of boulders to rise, each wreathed in green flame, and hurled them forward.

More attacks than Scorio could follow, ranging from Raugr’s fistfuls of crackling energy to Feng sweeping the Imperators with his cone of dust.

It was an explosive, overwhelming moment, but Scorio was snatched away, boiling night sweeping over him. As he fell, however, even he could sense that the attacks had been weaker, underpowered compared to those he’d witnessed before.

But then the floor fell away from under him, and he dropped with a cry into nothingness, to be sucked as if down a wormhole through fluctuating night and emerge on a rooftop on the opposite side of the ruins above the Academy, Imogen by his side.

She stared straight up to where the Academy hung on the far side of the sun-wire, her fists white-knuckled, her own black halo shifting behind her head, her black scepter pressed down the length of her leg.

“I—ah—I mean—” Scorio tried not to stammer, but the darkness yet seethed around him, and he felt the floor slope and change under his feet.

“You wished to witness, old friend?” Gone was the pain and vulnerability. “Then observe. Sol was always partial to this city. The best way to wound him is to destroy it.”

“Or we could—” But he got no further. The legion of Sol’s flew free of the old Academy, and immediately a storm of golden bolts manifested directly above them, striking down with thunderous power.

Darkness swept around Scorio and once more he fell, his stomach pressing itself against his lungs as he stumbled out atop another rooftop. They were halfway across the city now, familiar landmarks rising all around them, people shouting and screaming as they backed away from Imogen and him.

“He never made peace with my being stronger,” said Imogen. She upturned her palm and raised it. “Men. Such fragile egos.”

And around them, the buildings began to change. Shadows bled over walls and rooftops, over balconies and around towers, and the city began to deform, to mutate, to grow. Staircases expanded blindly into the sky, turrets blossomed out of the sides of buildings, rooms open to the sky fruited mindlessly like overflowing bubbles across the blocks around them.

Scorio reached into his robe and clutched futilely at the chalk. He stared in horror as the locals were swept up by the black fog, their expressions turning slack as they turned to race and hurl themselves off the rooftops, falling silently to their deaths below.

Sols sped through the sky toward them, and a score of golden lightning bolts arched out of the sky, splitting the world into bright flashes as they roared down upon where Imogen and Scorio stood.

This time she raised her scepter, and her black sphere sprang into existence. The golden lances slammed into it, driving her down to one knee. Scorio saw cracks appear in the sphere, but these immediately smoothed over.

Again she dragged him into the darkness, and again he fell, a sickening drop that terminated abruptly. They were across the city again, stepping out from a writhing tendril of black fog. Imogen extended her arm and laughed, the sound cracked at its core, as Bastion around them began to change, arches springing up, buildings melting into each other, streets warping below.

But Sol reacted even quicker this time; some thirty of him were in the air above, and at once they hurled golden lances down upon Imogen.

This time she cried out in anger as the bolts near shattered her sphere; she staggered back, clawed hair from her face, and thrust her scepter up on high.

A great black beam leaped forth to slam into one of the Sols’ sphere; it cut straight through, and that Sol disappeared, halo lingering in the air for a few moments after he was gone.

Another thirty lances of golden light flew down at her, and this time she thrust both hands up into the air. Black jets of flame gouted up from the shadow fog to pour over the Sols’ protective spheres, but none of these got through.

Scorio turned to run, but the floor fell out from under his feet again, and they plunged into nothingness, down and down to emerge within a cathedral-like hall, the walls resplendent with ancient paintings, the masses of people within crying out in horror and rearing back until the fog claimed them and they went quiet.

The roof exploded in a golden flash, however, and ten Sols floated down, their faces grim, their halos almost too bright to observe.

“You cannot escape me, Imogen. No matter how quickly you run. Your dominion is circumscribed.”

“You never could contend with my strength,” she snarled. “Why do you think that has changed?” And she hurled up a hand, and with it, her black fog boiled up to wash over the ten Imperators.

Six of which dropped their golden spheres, raised their spears, and called down bolts of gold upon the other four.

Scorio could only gape. The attacks failed to pierce the remaining four’s shields, but when Scorio was hauled away again by Imogen, the sound of her laughter accompanied their drop.

They emerged now atop a magisterial palace which immediately began to warp and grow cancerous offshoots, wild fountains spewing ink erupting from the ground, endless balconies snaking across the gardens, bridges rising to challenge the sky, rooftops sliding down like scabs to smother windows and doors.

“Bastion will be mine!” cried out Imogen, and her voice echoed down the length of the city, seeming to emanate from the great billows of black cloud that wafted about the sun-wire, that drowned entire Wards in darkness. “Learn, Sol, what I can do!”

And from where he stood Scorio saw the entirety of the city began to change. Everywhere the fog touched the architecture grew cancerous, though the mutations were greatly slowed, as if the enormity of the task required greater effort than when she simply attacked her immediate environs.

At the same time, hundreds of bolts of black energy flew from the banks of fog to attack the flying Sols.

Many of them blinked out of existence, but a solid core resisted the attacks. Though their numbers were diminished, these Sols did not seem dismayed; they set to calling their golden lightning down upon the fog, and wherever their bolts fell the black clouds were banished.

Burning lances rained down from the sky like a deluge; the sky was rent again and again by the peals of thunder, and it was as if dusk had fallen early, the sky gloomy, except that the rain was the dance of a thousand lightning bolts.

Imogen snarled, her halo fluctuating erratically. She raised her scepter, about to unleash another attack when a Sol rose into view from the edge of the building, hovering before them.

Not a Sol. Something told Scorio that this was the original. Something in his eyes, that pain, that loss, that grief.

“End this,” he said, voice grave and commanding.

“I shall,” she whispered, her words somehow carrying over the constant dull booms, and raised her scepter to point it at Sol’s heart. “I claim preeminence.”

He raised his golden spear, and a stream of burning light flew forth from each to impact in the center where they burst in a profusion of black and golden light.

Scorio stared, petrified. A terrible wind was gusting out in all directions from the point of impact, causing Sol’s hair to whip around and his robes to snap against his frame, while Imogen narrowed her eyes, her dress plastered back against her body as she leaned into the conflict.

The energies being released were cataclysmic. There wasn’t enough mana in all of Bastion to power this confrontation for even a second.

Yet on and on it went, the beams of light shattering against each other, both Imperators straining, Sol lowering his chin, jaw clenched, while Imogen grinned wildly, baring all her teeth.

And to his horror, he saw that she was winning. Inch by inch her beam of black energy was consuming Sol’s, driving back the gold. A duplicate flew down to join him, then a second and third. Each added their spear blasts to his attack, but they failed to slow down her dark magic’s advance.

More Sols appeared, a dozen, twenty, thirty. Soon a veritable legion floated before them, their beams coming together at a point, so brilliant that Scorio had to narrow his eyes. More Sols flew down, but Scorio saw that they were fading away now, collapsing back into the original, until they were all gone. Leaving just the one man to grimace as he struggled against Imogen’s attack, her progress slowing, slowing, but never quite stopping.

Imogen let out a wild laugh again, her hair whipping about her face. “You cannot stop me, my love! You never could! And now…I… shall have…” She took a step forward, then a second, dragging each word out as if it cost her more than Scorio could ever understand. “…Dominion!”

Time seemed to slow. Her black beam surged forward, consuming almost all of Sol’s power, and in that moment, Scorio sensed that her attention was completely and absolutely fixated on her foe. He drew forth the palm-sized bottle from his robes, thumbed the cork out, and willed the syrup within to fly into his mouth as he threw himself forward.

In his mind, a calm voice worked out the math. Six half-filtered doses at forty volts each is two hundred and forty volts which is a full Silver dose—

Mid-stride, he summoned his Heart. The obsidian stone was near shredded by the vortex that swirled around them, as if it were made of the softest pumice and he was holding it up in a cyclone of metallic shards. Its very substance began to leach away into the air the second it sprang into existence, but Scorio didn’t pause.

The syrup filled him with so much power that he nearly blacked out. Compared to the might the Imperators were wielding, it was beyond insignificant, but to him, it felt as if he’d attempted to swallow the sun-wire whole.

His mind reeling, his thoughts falling apart, he drew his fist back as he willed the terrible mana that was melting his spirit to pour into his Heart. Sheer desperation added strength to his will, and he pulled at it with all his Heart’s remaining power. Pulled and pushed so that the whole, turgid mess of raging Coal mana sank into the pitted and crumbling facets of his Heart.

This won’t work, this will never work, he screamed at himself, but the words sparked a wave of fury within his soul. His Heart ignited as the rage filled him, and he swung his fist and slammed it with everything he had into Imogen’s black scepter.

The scepter didn’t budge. Didn’t even a quiver. Horror drenched Scorio like a massive bucket of frigid water. His gaze darted to Imogen, whose own narrowed glare flickered for just a second to meet his own.

And in that moment, that briefest of contact, he saw shock, disappointment, and confusion. The barest flicker, so transient he might have missed it.

But the distraction was enough. Her attention, which had been absolute but a moment before, had wavered.

Sol roared as he thrust his spear forward, its golden light devouring the black fire, consuming it, and racing toward Imogen’s scepter.

Scorio staggered back, delirious from the power that raged within him, his Heart cracking under the strain. He felt feverish, his body bursting, his skin splitting. His whole body was drenched in profuse amounts of sweat, and a distant voice shouted at him from the depths of his mind to burn it off, burn off the mana, to vent it before he died.

Imogen’s lips writhed back from her teeth as she focused on the onslaught, but Scorio couldn’t forget the betrayal in her eyes. The almost naive shock and pain he’d seen flash through her. He thrust the thought away, focused on breathing. He felt as if his skin were burning off in patches, and lights danced in his eyes. Every breath stoked the flame that raged within him like a wind howling into a furnace. He wanted to laugh, to scream. His muscles spasmed, he ached to break something, to race, to run.

But instead, he forced himself to stand there as Sol rose above Imogen, his chin raised, his gaze brutally cold, his manner imperious. The gold devoured the black fire almost to Imogen’s scepter, and she was forced down to one knee, resisting all the while.

“No,” rasped Sol, the word reverberating with power, his halo expanding to an extraordinary size. “It is I that have preeminence, Imogen. Yield.”

And her black fire died, utterly quenched. With a cry, she threw her scepter aside, and the golden fire blinked out of existence a fraction of a second before consuming her. In its place, Scorio felt an explosive wave of power rush out from Sol, a ring of majesty and might that smoothed out the air, quelled the mana, and robbed Imogen of her own aura of power.

Scorio’s own raging heart seemed to quieten, and he gazed in awe as Sol floated above them both, his robes rippling, his long hair draped over one shoulder. He was justice incarnate, his brow furrowed with the weight of his cares, his jaw stern, his gaze unflinching.

Imogen snarled up at him, diminished, and then a seam of darkness opened behind her.

“You are dead to me,” she hissed, and hurled herself backward.

Sol darted forward, spear outstretched, but the dark seam widened enough for her to plunge into it and disappear.

Sol drew up short, his expression thunderous, but then he sighed.

Across Bastion, the dark fog was lifting. Burning away beneath the sun-wire’s brilliant glow. Scorio let out a choking exhalation, still wrestling with the power that threatened to sunder his spirit, and saw that Imogen’s mutations remained. Everywhere he looked he saw nonsensical construction. Inverted buildings, buildings with their rooms extruded to the surface, upside-down staircases rising to the sky, towers extending perpendicular to the ground.

Not all of Bastion. Not even most of it. But entire swathes. Enough to change the character of the city.

Sol hung in the air, his halo shrinking then disappearing altogether, and the raging might of his aura lightened till Scorio could feel it no longer.

But breathing had become a laborious chore. The air was superheated, thick like honey, and the very act of inhaling was nearly impossible. He felt like he was drowning.

He dropped to one knee, sweat coursing down his face, chest wheezing, locked up. His vision doubled and he felt his Heart straining, straining, on the verge of bursting into a hundred chunks of ruined spirit.

Sol landed before him, his boots silent on the stone. Stood before him, and Scorio raised his eyes with great effort.

“Know peace,” said the Imperator, and extended his hand. The raging mana within Scorio’s Heart flew to the man’s palm, a draining that brought immense relief. Scorio let out a groan as the pressure disappeared, the heat cooled away, and his chest unhitched so that he could breathe deep.

Sol studied him, gaze inscrutable. “You’ve damaged your Heart, old friend. Both before and now. It seems you will never learn moderation, Scorio.”

Scorio forced a grin as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Guess I’ve never been content with the way things are.”

“You never have, no.” Sol brought his golden spear down till its tip rested before Scorio’s breast. “But your abuse has weakened the foundations of your soul. As you are, you’ll never advance beyond Tomb Spark.”

Scorio stiffened, the wickedly sharp spearpoint just barely pricking his robes. “I… I would find a way to deal with that when the time came.”

“No doubt you would.” Wry amusement entered Sol’s eyes. “But you’ve earned better.”

And his spear glowed with golden energy which gathered, grew, then flowed into Scorio’s chest.

It was like having a cool cloth placed upon a burning brow, bringing sweet relief to a discomfort Scorio had learned to ignore. He felt his Heart grow more solid, the huge fractures he’d just dealt it sealing over, and a soothing sensation suffused him.

“There,” said Sol, raising his spear to prop it on his shoulder. “A second chance. I’ve returned your Heart to the way it was before Imogen paid her visit. Only fair, since that’s what you’ve given the rest of us.”

“Thank you.” Scorio hesitated. Should he remain kneeling? But pride pricked him, and he rose to his feet. “Though I fear it won’t help in the long term. I’m a Red Lister. The Academy won’t have me. I’ll be forced to continue training as before if I’ve any hope of advancing.”

“I’ll speak with the Academy,” said Sol. “Hell is better served by your being properly trained instead of going rogue.”

Scorio felt his heart swell as he took a step back. “You can do that? I mean, you will?”

Again Sol allowed himself a smile. “Few are the Great Souls who will deny an Imperator’s request. And this one is made all the more reasonable for your having tipped the balance in our favor. Imogen…” He paused, and Scorio got the impression he was about to say something else. “Imogen was always very strong. The loss of her Heart only unfettered her already terrible power.”

Scorio’s eyes widened. “Loss of her Heart? How—I mean—can you tell me of my past? I know nothing about what I did, who I was. Can you—?”

Sol’s smile grew bitter. “There is much for you to relearn, Scorio. I trust that you will do so quickly. Perhaps in time, we will meet again, deeper in Hell, and then we will speak at length. But for now, you have my thanks. That will have to suffice.”

Scorio bowed his head and bit back his frustration. A thousand questions were welling up within him. What did Sol remember about his past lives? How could one channel mana without a Heart? Where had Imogen gone? Could she have opened the Portal?

But all of them were overwhelmed by a single emotion: gratitude. He took a deep breath, his chest swelling anew, and tears prickled in his eyes as he met Sol’s gaze once more.

Then a thought occurred to him. “Imperator Sol. If I may ask for one more favor.”

The older man’s expression was inscrutable. “You may ask it, though I may refuse.”

“I was trained by another outcast in the ruins. Naomi, known as the Nightmare Lady by those who fear her. She left the Academy of her own will because she was treated unfairly by the staff. She’s native-born to Bastion, ignited her Heart without being tied to the Archspire, and she was never given a fair chance. Please—could you ask for Naomi to be readmitted with me? Without her help, I’d never have survived.”

Sol inclined his head. “I’ll speak with her. What happens thereafter will depend on our conversation.”

Scorio bowed. “Thank you.”

“Bastion and Hell itself owes you a debt of gratitude, Scorio. It’s the least I can do, seeing as you’ve earned the undying enmity of an Imperator.”

Scorio’s smile died on his lips. “Right. Yes. You think she’ll come back?”

“Not any time soon.” He turned to gaze out over the city, and a gentle breeze stirred his hair. “I’ve asserted preeminence over her here. She’ll not return till that fades. But you never know.” He sighed and looked down. “I lost the ability to predict her actions a long time ago.”

Scorio pursed his lips, unsure as to what to say, but was saved from platitudes by the imminent arrival of the White Queen, who was descended from the sky, her golden angel wings beating powerfully.

Sol turned to greet her, and Scorio saw him visibly lock his pain away, so that when the White Queen alighted on the rooftop he was nothing but unflinching majesty.

“You came,” said the White Queen, dropping to one knee and bowing her head. “Thank you, Imperator.”

“Rise, Nova.” Sol’s voice was kindly. “I regret that I couldn’t come sooner. I was almost too late.”

“But you weren’t.” Nova stood straight and smiled, the expression transforming her serene, remote beauty into something vital, making her human. “Thank the ten hells.”

“I will inspect the old Archspire and the Portal,” said Sol. “Ensure that Imogen was unable to destabilize them permanently. Then I must leave. Allies pay for my absence by the minute.”

“Of course.” Nova looked at Scorio with her washed-out blue eyes.

“This Cinder proved instrumental in our victory,” said Sol. “He distracted Imogen at a critical moment.”

“Is that so? Your name?”

“Scorio, Charnel Duchess.” And unsure of what was appropriate he bowed low. Staring down at the ground, he half-expected for her to recognize him, to condemn him, or mention some old memory.

“You have our thanks, Scorio.” Her tone, if anything, was tinged by the same warmth with which she’d addressed Sol. He straightened slowly in wonder, having expected a more complex reaction, but saw no recognition in her eyes. “For a Cinder to play such a role in the disputes of Imperators is unheard of. I look forward to witnessing your rise to power.”

“Scorio is currently banished from the Academy for being a Red Lister,” said Sol. “Will you see to it that he is readmitted? I must hurry.”

Nova’s pale eyebrows rose. “A Red Lister?” For a second Scorio thought she’d protest, but then she bowed her head. “But if you wish it, Imperator, it shall be so.”

“Thank you.” Sol looked to Scorio. His gaze was profound, as if his eye were a well that led to impossible depths in which stars drowned. “Be well, Scorio. We shall meet again.”

And with that, he lifted from the rooftop, inclined his body toward the ruined Academy, and shot away through the air so swiftly that his departure caused a dull boom to shatter the air.

“You’ve done well, to earn the favor of an Imperator,” said the White Queen, still studying Scorio.

“It came at a price,” said Scorio. “I fear that Imogen no longer thinks very highly of me.”

“That’s of no matter. She’s no longer capable of thinking highly of anyone for long. Will you tell me what happened?”

So Scorio did, instinctively omitting his escape into the Gauntlet and instead explaining how she’d recognized him moments before he was taken by the fog. How she’d known him during their past lives, and how he’d convinced her to let him witness her deeds. How at the last, when her attention was fully focused on Sol, he’d managed to distract her for but a single critical moment.

“Creative,” said Nova. “You did well, Cinder. Bastion owes you a debt of gratitude. For all my power, you proved more effective in this battle.”

Scorio stiffened, unsure if he could hear resentment in her tone, but her cordial smile stilled his fear. “Just trying to help,” he said.

“And that you did. Now let us go. The city is in distress. I cannot linger, for like the Imperator I have concerns that need my immediate attention. I’ll bring you to the Academy and ensure that Praximar heeds Sol’s request.”

“Thank you.” Again Scorio inhaled deeply. His mind reeled, his heart pounded strongly, and a deep and pervasive joy suffused him. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

The White Queen laughed and extended her hand to him. “Thank me by walking a path of righteousness, young Cinder. In time, I hope to see you emerge from Bastion, ready to bring the war deeper into hell. But for you, that day is still in the distant future. For now, let’s work on getting you back into the Academy.”

“Yes, Charnel Duchess,” said Scorio, taking her cool, smooth palm in his own. As her great wings spread out wide and they lifted off the rooftop, he felt his heart thrill, and his gaze turned to the new Academy.

He’d done it. Somehow, against all the odds, he’d found a way to both save Bastion and return to the Academy’s vaunted halls.

Now nothing would hold him back from seizing control of his future and learning the truth about his past self.

Chapter 43

The White Queen located Chancellor Praximar amidst a knot of activity outside the new Academy. He stood atop a block of collapsed stone, a mass of Great Souls and administrators before him, all of them listening attentively as he gave commands. His manner was intense but calm, and though his face was haggard his voice rang with authority.

“… take four Tomb Sparks of your choice and quell the chaos in the Jeweled District. Be firm but fair, we won’t tolerate looting so close to the Academy.”

The crowd looked up as Nova descended toward them, Praximar’s eyes widening at the sight of her only to narrow as he focused on Scorio by her side.

Scorio had to resist the urge to grin triumphantly.

“Charnel Duchess,” said Praximar, hopping off his rock and bowing low before her. “On behalf of House Hydra and the Academy, let me formally thank you for your intervention and assistance. You are a model to all aspiring Great Souls.”

Nova’s smile was mildly amused, but she inclined her head graciously, releasing Scorio’s hand as they alighted on the ground. “Would that we could have stopped Imogen sooner, Praximar. You have your work cut out for you in restoring order.”

Praximar’s gaze slid from Scorio back to the White Queen. “I welcome the challenge. I never assumed my role would be easy when I assumed the mantle of Autocrator and Chancellor. Will you be remaining with us a little longer? Your presence would accomplish in moments what might take us days.”

“Alas, I have critical matters awaiting me at the Fiery Shoals. I will remain a few moments longer, but first I need to discharge a duty given me by the Imperator.”

“Ah, yes.” Praximar wrinkled his nose as if a sudden stench had assailed him, and turned his glittering blue gaze upon Scorio. “I apologize that scum such as this has wasted your time. I had him cast through the Final Door when his nature was revealed, but like the worst of vermin, he found a way to survive. I will deal with him summarily, of that you may be assured.”

Scorio failed to keep the slightest of smirks from his lips and raised an eyebrow at Praximar, who suddenly looked confused.

“I’m afraid you’ve misapprehended the nature of my request,” said Nova. “Sol himself told me that Scorio was instrumental in helping him defeat Imogen.”

Praximar’s face settled and hardened as if muscles deep under the skin had suddenly turned to stone. His expression remained polite, attentive, but a sudden blankness entered his eyes that took him a moment to blink away. “Excuse me?”

Nova’s tone remained mild. “Sol asked me to express his gratitude for your readmitting Scorio to the Academy. The Imperator feels that the service Scorio has rendered to Bastion and consequently to all of Hell deserves a just recompense. This is, he feels, the least we can do.”

For a moment, tendons stood out in Praximar’s neck as a shudder ran through him, but Scorio could only marvel as the man mastered himself so smoothly that his subsequent smile appeared almost natural. “Is that so? Then I must admit to having been mistaken! Of course, I will be glad to honor the Imperator’s request, and to welcome Scorio back to the Academy with all honors.”

Nova inclined her head, her amusement so subtle as to be almost imagined.

Praximar turned now to Scorio, his eyes warm, his smile rueful. “It would seem that I am becoming one of the aged and inflexible fools that I once scorned in my youth. I apologize, Scorio. I did not recognize your worth and allowed myself to be blinded by your being a Red Lister. We would be honored if you returned to the Academy. I cannot remember the last time a young Great Soul was earned the gratitude of one so respected and admired as Sol the Just himself.”

Scorio felt a flicker of uncertainty; Praximar’s words sounded so genuine that he wondered if the man had truly had a change of heart. “Thank you, Chancellor. I accept and will gladly return. The Imperator promised to speak with a friend of mine, Naomi, who left the Academy a year or so ago. If she wishes it, he promised to ask for her readmittance as well.”

“Naomi?” Praximar raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “I don’t recall the name. But whatever the case, the Imperator’s will is supreme. If he wishes her to return, then return she shall, and we will all be the richer for it.”

“Thank you, Praximar,” said Nova, her voice rich and impossibly self-assured. “I will gather my companions as I fly over the city, will help where I can, but then must make my departure. If you ever have need of us again, don’t hesitate to relight the beacon. We shall come if we are able.”

Praximar placed his fist over his heart and bowed his head. “The Academy as ever is grateful for your protection, Charnel Duchess. May your every venture be met with success.”

“Pyre Lord.” She extended her wings and turned to regard Scorio. “Be well, Scorio. You have made an auspicious start of this new life of yours. I hope you continue in grand fashion.”

Scorio bowed low, still awed and humbled to be addressed by such a powerful figure. “Thank you, Charnel Duchess. I hope to ever earn your regard.”

“Good luck to you all.” And she arose gently into the air, wings extended to each side, till she was a good ten yards above them all at which point she soared away.

Scorio straightened. Everyone present of every rank was staring at him with incredulity and awe.

“Well,” said Praximar, rising from his bow. “What a change of events. We have had a terrible start of things, Scorio. I hope you take my apology to heart and allow both the Academy and myself a chance to change your opinion of us.”

Again Scorio studied the man. His smile was sheepish, his expression chagrined and rueful both. Was he genuine? He had only to squint, and he saw the older man as he was in the holding cell, cruel and cold and filled with disdain. “I only want to study and learn in the Academy,” he said, wrestling with his old, terrible anger. So many were watching, listening intently. A crowd of at least fifty. Was this the time to lay bare his grievances? To make his accusations?

“Good!” Praximar clapped his hands. “Then perhaps, if you are not too wearied, you can help us with establishing order in the city. Every Great Soul is needed.”

“Of course,” said Scorio, frowning. “How can I help?”

Praximar stepped back up on his block of stone and gestured to a couple of youths that stood just behind Scorio. “Exero here is a Flame Spark. I’m putting him in charge of you and Famissa. Exero, head south to Ward 4 and find a salient point with which to promote our authority. Deal with whatever problems you see as best you can, but make it clear: Bastion remains under the authority of the Academy and its four Houses. Anarchy will not be tolerated.”

Exero proved to be a pale, lanky youth with a rough mane of white hair. He bowed his head curtly, and looked to Scorio and the woman beside him, who had to be Famissa. “It’s a bit of a run. Let’s get started.”

Scorio nodded and fell in behind the Flame Spark as they raced out of the square. Behind him, he heard Praximar calling out further orders.

And just like that, he was a member of the Academy once more. He looked sidelong at Famissa, a woman with long black hair and tanned skin. She ran purposefully by his side, gaze focused ahead, but sensing his gaze, she looked sidelong at him and gave him a tight smile.

He was part of her group. He was part of the Academy. He was accepted amongst them. His help was needed.

And in that moment, it finally hit home that his entire world had really and profoundly changed. He’d not be going back to his solitary room in the ruins. Wouldn’t skulk into the city to line up at the gruel fountains. Wouldn’t go on long runs by himself, wouldn’t be training under Naomi’s impatient eye.

He was part of the Academy. He’d have access to its resources. He’d be trained by the best and could now devote all of his resources to fulfilling his potential.

Even as they ran deeper into the wounded city of Bastion, as he saw chaos and despair around him, he grinned.

He’d done it.

* * *

His elation was short-lived. The city had been warped, the changes all the more shocking for erupting at random and then disappearing for long stretches. People wandered in shock, staring, glassy-eyed, at the cancerous outgrowths, the impossible, improbable, transmutations.

Here a tower skewered a building neatly, both inhabiting the same space without a single block or lintel showing the violence of the interposition. There a wall had been flayed from the front of a four-story building, the interior rooms then thrust out, walls and ceilings and floors stretching as if impossible thumbs had pushed at the building’s back, all of it now rendered uninhabitable.

But their goal was Ward 4; on they ran, leaving the chaos behind, the wailing, the cries for attention, the shouts of anger. Members of the four Houses were scattered throughout, all in their uniforms and seeking to impose order, to corral the madness, here helping the wounded, there beating the riotous into submission. Great Souls were even rarer, and the few Scorio saw as he jogged past looked stunned, overwhelmed by the scale of the task before them, the enormity of what had just transpired in the skies above.

“Here,” called Scorio, “a quicker way to our ward.” And without waiting for Exero’s agreement, he peeled off to the left, down a side street whose floor rose ever upwards along Bastion’s radial curvature.

All too soon they spilled out into a large square, deep in the heart of their target ward, an area that neither the Houses nor the Great Souls had yet reached. Pale orange and blue awnings stretched over storefronts, and the buildings shone pale ivory in the light of Second Bronze, their edges trimmed in crimson.

But the square itself was convulsing with emotion, with outrage, with the screams of the dying and the wailing of the bereaved.

Scorio’s eyes widened as he tried to take it all in. Everywhere he looked, he saw the price Ward 4 had paid. Buildings along the square’s left edge were practically unrecognizable, turreted and balconied into oblivion, with one having sunken and rotated so that its roof now pointed across the square at the opposite buildings as if the whole edifice had chosen to take a bow.

Worse was the long line of the dead whom the locals were covering with sheets. Over forty bodies lay in a row, the great dashes of blood spattered across the paving stones a testament to how violently they’d died.

Exero opened his mouth, closed it. Famissa paled beneath her tan. Neither seemed to know what to do, how to proceed.

“Here,” said Scorio, heart pounding, and made his way to the great water fountain in the square’s center, where he climbed up to stand on the clamshell basin and cup his hands to his mouth.

“People of Ward 4!” His cry was swallowed up by the general clamor; a few glanced his way, saw his impoverished and dirty garb, then looked away.

But it was enough to snap Exero out of his silence. The Flame Vault climbed up beside him, raised a hand, and then unleashed a mass of whips from his palm, each outlined in pale green flame. They shot out over everyone’s heads, then snapped closed with a great crack and sucked back into his hand to disappear.

The crowd froze, turned, and stared at them, eyes wide in alarm.

“People of Ward 4!” shouted Exero, raising his palms. “We’re Great Souls from the Academy! I’m Flame Vault Exero—”

“Where were you?” An older woman staggered forward, her hands gleaming crimson. “Where were you?”

“We—” Exero blinked, taken aback.

“Who was that?” shouted another man hoarsely. “One of your Imperators? One of those that failed to deliver on the prophecy?”

Exero frowned, brow lowering, but more were pushing forward, their expressions curdled with fury.

“Half the city ruined, and what did you do?”

“Took you long enough! What you come here for, demand more taxes from us?”

“Can you heal? Please, help my son—”

“Down with the Great Souls!” This last rang out with terrible intensity, and a young woman with a shock of crimson hair whose eyes revealed her brutalized soul staggered forward. “Down with the Great Souls! Down with the oppressors!”

The crowd hushed, many turning in alarm and horror to stare at her, but the woman was so far gone that she didn’t care or see.

Where did Scorio know her from? Her stark features, her blazing eyes - he knew her, but she looked different—

An old man, all bones and white stubble, limped forward and jabbed his walking stick into the air. “The Deniers are right! Down with ‘em! Down with them all!”

More joined in, voices ringing with outrage: “Down with the Great Souls!”

Exero’s expression darkened, and he touched a white marble pendant about his neck. Scorio felt a rush of mana as the Flame Vault swept power into the treasure, and immediately his form was limned in raging golden flame that scorched the ground beneath his feet black.

Scorio stepped forward before the Flame Vault could make a terrible mistake and raised his hands and bellowed, “Cowards!”

The crowd faltered, shocked. The shock quickly became outrage, but he didn’t give them a second to pick up their cry. “The dying need our help, and you think only of your pain? Think of theirs! This isn’t the time for your grievances! This is a time to work together, to save loved ones, to do whatever we can to help the wounded!”

Again the crowd faltered, their outrage taken out at the knees. The young woman stared up at him, eyes wide in shock, and before he could speak further, try to locate her in his memories, she pushed back into the crowd and disappeared.

So he bellowed once more: “We’re here to help, damn it! Forget politics, forget right and wrong! Think of those you love! Buildings are collapsed, they’re dying even now as we waste time shouting at each other! When every life is saved, when every wound tended to, then come kick in our teeth. Until then? Work with us! Show us where we can help!”

People eyed each other askance, people muttered, then a heavyset lady, whose robes were dusted almost white from some collapsed building, stepped forward. “A block away, my house, it’s—the walls, they flowed in, my husband, he’s trapped inside—”

More voices arose, a babble of desperation. “My son threw himself out of our window, both his legs are broken—”

“I can’t find Evec, he was in the basement with his firemoth, please—”

“—he yet lives, but he’s coughing up blood—”

“—the door sealed over, I can hear them screaming inside—”

Scorio took a deep breath and nodded, looking to Exero and Famissa, both of whom were regarding him with mixed emotions. “All right,” he said, clapping the Flame Vault on the shoulder as the man allowed his golden flames to dissipate. “Looks like it’s time to get to work.”

The remaining daylight cycles blurred into each other. Became moments of hectic activity, threats of violence, efforts to help the injured, reassure the panicked. Exero, Famissa, and Scorio worked tirelessly in Ward 4, defusing tense confrontations, using their powers to rescue those stranded atop mutated chunks of architecture, stepping up to assert order in loud speeches to groups of wild-eyed citizens.

Scorio didn’t get a chance to familiarize himself with his two new companions, but by watching them deal with tense situations quickly learned that Exero possessed a deep well of patience tinted with mild contempt, while Famissa was prone to letting her temper flare only to quickly forgive or move on.

They worked hard, and when Second Rust gave way to Second Clay, Exero decided they’d done enough.

Weary, they walked back in silence to the Academy. Scorio’s elation had long ago given way to a numb sense of muted horror, which now gave way to wonder: nothing was so strange as to walk north as the sun-wire went dark instead of south.

Famissa paused at a water fountain to wash her face, then turned to him as they resumed walking, hesitant yet curious. “Is it true that you helped the Imperator?”

“I guess so,” said Scorio, finding the fact strange himself. “I did, a little.”

“How?” Exero sounded genuinely baffled. “Imperators are… omnipotent. What could you have done that Sol the Just couldn’t do himself?”

Scorio laughed, the sound raspy from hours spent shouting. “It wasn’t much. Just the timing, I suppose. He and Imogen were squaring off. She was pointing her scepter at him, he aimed his spear at her, and they both loosed these beams of magic that fought for dominance between them.”

“Their Ferula,” said Exero. “Not scepters or spears.”

“Their Ferula, sure,” said Scorio. “Anyway. Imogen was completely focused on the contest. I stepped in and distracted her. It was enough to tip the contest in Sol’s favor, and he established preeminence.”

Famissa’s eyes were wide. “You distracted Imogen the Woe? And lived?”

“That’s her name?” asked Scorio. “The Woe?”

“Yeah. She’s infamous. She and two other Imperators—both associated with House Basilisk—fell during the House Hydra’s push eight years ago to close the Pit.”

Scorio stared at her. “There are two more like her?”

“Sure,” said Exero, tone heavy, resigned. “Unfortunately. Zellair and Joranvyn. They’re out there now, somewhere, hidden away in their domains. Leaving House Basilisk with no end of shame without a single patron Imperator. It was a shocking fall from power, dwarfing even House Hydra’s loss of Imogen.”

So many questions. “Eight years ago. That’s when the, ah, Empyreal Prophecy said we’d close the Pit, right?”

“Right,” said Exero, his tone growing even more subdued. “Didn’t happen.”

“Not for lack of trying though.” Famissa crossed an arm over her chest to grasp her other arm. “You’ve obviously seen how the ruins are growing, right? Well, the Celestial Prophecy was—ah—dug up maybe forty years ago to address that.”

“Is that the term your instructor used, Cinder?” asked Exero, brows lowering. “‘Dug up’?”

Famissa stared defiantly at him. “Fine. Miraculously discovered. Everybody pinned their hopes on it, and all four Houses mobilized to make it a reality. Political disagreements were papered over, resources were deployed, and everyone really thought it would work.”

“Should have worked,” muttered Exero. “Had to have worked.”

“But it didn’t,” said Scorio softly. “What went wrong?”

Famissa shrugged. “Who can say? Nine Imperators launched a coordinated attack on the Pit, Sol and Imogen amongst them. And… they failed. Imogen burned through the last of her Heart, it’s said, to save Sol and some others from the onslaught of a greater fiend. It was a tragedy, an awful sacrifice. She lost her compass in doing so, and disappeared.”

“Her compass?” asked Scorio.

“Sure,” said Famissa, glancing sidelong at him. “The knowledge of right and wrong, the force that aligns all Great Souls against the Pit.”

“Oh.” Scorio rubbed the back of his head. “Didn’t know there was a name for it.”

Exero slowed down to fall in on Scorio’s other side. “She’s appeared randomly ever since to destroy our holdings. An outpost would go silent, and when people went to investigate, they’d find everyone dead or disappeared, and the buildings all…” He gestured at the cancerous architecture they were walking by.

Scorio hesitated. Each question would only reveal his ignorance further. “Our holdings?”

“Our holdings, yes.” Exero raised an eyebrow at him. “Us being the Great Souls. We have different Houses, sure, but we’re all united against the fiends.”

“Got it, got it,” said Scorio, nodding to emphasize that he did.

Famissa was unabashedly staring at him, her green eyes, flecked with gold, wide and unblinking. “How did you… distract her?”

Scorio flushed. “I, ah, punched her Ferula, I guess.”

They walked in silence for a dozen steps, both simply staring at Scorio incredulously.

“You punched her Ferula, you guess,” repeated Exero at last, his tone somewhere between amazement and mockery.

Famissa’s stride slowed as her eyes widened even further. As Scorio slowed in turn, looking back, she caught herself and hurried to catch up, averting her eyes as she blushed. “That’s insane. I mean—” She glanced at him, looked away just as quickly. “That’s the kind of thing I’d imagine a Blood Baron or Charnel Duke doing. Not a—what are you?”

“Cinder,” said Scorio, staring at the ground.

“Wait.” Exero came to a stop. “You’re a bleeding Cinder?”

“Well, I was bleeding earlier, but I think I’ve, ah, healed up since then,” said Scorio, trying for a wry smile. “Get it?”

“No, I get it,” said Exero moving forward again. “Just not sure I believe it.”

“You have to believe it,” said Famissa. “The White Queen herself said it was true.”

“Yeah, point,” said Exero. “Then I guess I don’t understand how this hell we’re living in works after all.”

Scorio felt his ears burning now, and kept his gaze firmly on the road’s flagstones. “Anyone would have done the same if they were in my position.”

“Sure,” said Exero dryly. “That’s why all the Pyre Lords and Blood Barons were lined up right behind you, awaiting their turn.”

“That’s just amazing,” said Famissa, moving to walk closer by his side. When he looked up at her, she was smiling at him, a smile that slowly grew as he held her gaze. “I mean, you literally saved Bastion.”

Exero sighed pointedly. “I think Sol literally saved Bastion.”

Famissa flipped her curly black hair back over one shoulder, ignoring Exero. “And now you’re joining the Academy, right?”

“Right,” said Scorio, throat tight, widening the space between them just a fraction.

“Well, I’m a Cinder like you, but I’d be happy to show you around,” she said, voice warm. “The Academy’s huge, and it took me weeks to orient myself. Where the food hall is, how to get to all the different training chambers, how to navigate the quartermaster and the way to requisition new clothing or whatever.”

“Oh,” said Scorio, unsure as to how to answer. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”

She laughed. “It’s nothing! Despite what Exero says, we all owe you a debt of gratitude, right? Least we can do is help you figure out how the Academy works.”

“Thanks.” Scorio offered her a wan smile—her gaze was direct and intense, and her smile seemed to only grow wider. “I’ll, ah, keep an eye out for you.”

“Great! I’ll hold you to it. When we get back, I’ll take you to the administrators, if any of them are around. They’ll help you find a room.”

“I think I’ve got that part under control,” he said. “I’ll be stopping in to visit some friends at the Hall of Golden Reflections.”

Famissa’s voice rose slightly in surprise. “Oh, you already have friends in the Academy?”

“Just a couple,” he said with a rueful smile. “I’m amazed they’ve put up with me this long, but yes.”

“Oh. Well.” Her smile resurfaced. “That’s great. My offer still stands though.”

He beamed at her, feeling on more solid ground. “That’s great, thank you.”

When they arrived at the Academy, they found a scene of controlled chaos; people were streaming in through the front doors, a combination of intent messengers and House bureaucrats along with exhausted Great Souls and servants.

Famissa escorted him to the staircase leading down to the Hall of Golden Reflections, then waved as she turned reluctantly to head toward her own quarters. Weary and elated both, Scorio hurried down the steps and into the gloomy hall. It felt surreal to walk openly down its length, and he kept expecting the Hell Whip to grab him by the shoulder and turn him around.

Instead, he stopped before the deeply recessed third door, its bronze surface inlaid with an abstract pattern of pearl and silver.

Grinning, Scorio pounded his fist upon it, then stepped back.

A moment later the door was yanked open by Lianshi, who let out a squeal and launched herself into his arms. Laughing, Scorio staggered back as the strength of her hug caused his spine to pop in several locations. Leonis crowded out beside them, laughing and shaking him by the shoulder, till they all collapsed into a group hug.

“What did you do?” Lianshi thrust herself back to arm’s length, her eyes glimmering with delight, her face betraying her incredulity. “Scorio! What did you do?”

“I don’t care about the what, I want to know how,” said Leonis, grinning broadly. “Get in here! Don’t spill your secrets in public!”

Heads were popping out of the other alcoves down the length of the hallway, but before anyone could come closer his friends dragged him into their room and closed the door firmly behind him.

Naomi sat at their dining table, rolling a cup back and forth between her fingers, her face closed, brow lowered.

Their cheer quieted under her fierce scrutiny, and Scorio straightened. “Naomi. You’re here.”

“Not as if I had much choice,” she said quietly. “What with an Imperator telling me it was time I left the safety of the ruins to come back to the Academy.”

“Sol didn’t give you a choice?” asked Scorio, tugging at his robes as he drifted up to the table.

“Well, not exactly. I mean, he did. Technically.” Naomi looked down at her cup. “But it’s hard to say no to an Imperator who’s decided to do you a favor.”

“Oh.” Scorio felt his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to ask you, and didn’t want to risk his leaving without giving you a chance to join us. I didn’t mean to force your hand.”

“We’ve only just met,” said Leonis, “but I can already tell Naomi is a terminal grouch.” Naomi narrowed her eyes dangerously at Leonis, but he only grinned wider at her. “What? Are you going to disembowel me for speaking the truth?”

“And she was given a choice,” said Lianshi firmly, linking her arm through Scorio’s. “We pried it out of her. We’ve been here all afternoon, waiting for you to get back.” She stepped away again and slapped his shoulder. “How could you leave us languishing here without any idea what had happened to you?”

Scorio raised his hands defensively and laughed in pleased surprise. “I wasn’t given a choice! Praximar sent me off with Exero to help quell the problems in the city. You weren’t given duties?”

“We’re Cinders,” said Leonis grimly. “We’re not trusted to wipe our—”

“Leonis!” admonished Lianshi.

“I mean, we’re, ah—no. We were told to stay in the Academy.”

“Well, Praximar told me to go help out. Which I did. Which was… exhausting. Almost more overwhelming than dealing with Imogen.” Scorio rubbed at the back of his head. “So many people were panicked, so many were hurt, that I felt more helpless than ever to make a difference.”

“You’re a Cinder,” said Naomi wryly. “You have to lower your sights. You’re not yet at the level where you can help entire cities.”

“He did defeat Imogen single-handedly,” said Lianshi.

“Well, not quite,” said Scorio.

“How did you do it?” Leonis raised his fists, stepped in close, and threw a couple of feints. “Uppercut to the gut, knocking the wind out of her, then roundhouse to the jaw?”

“Right, exactly,” said Scorio. “Of course first I asked her to put her Ferula down, whatever that is, and then told her it wasn’t fair for her to fight me while awake, so she obliged by going to sleep—”

“Stop!” Lianshi slapped his shoulder again. “Seriously, Scorio! The Academy’s going wild with speculation. The White Queen herself brought you to Praximar, right? Said that you had played a crucial role in the fight? So tell us already!”

“Ha, fine,” said Scorio, smiling self-consciously. “But first—Naomi. Do you really not want to be here? I’m sure you could return to the ruins if you wanted to…”

“No,” said Naomi, staring down at her cup, her voice growing very small. “I don’t want to go back to the ruins.”

Leonis cupped his hand to his ear. “What was that? I didn’t hear. Can you say it louder for those of us in the back?”

Naomi rose to her feet, and in a blur shifted up to her Nightmare Lady form. And despite his familiarity with that dark, emaciated shape, her lipless maw, her burning green eyes, Scorio felt his stomach clench as her bladed tail rose to orient on Leonis.

“Careful how far you push me,” she hissed.

Leonis, however, spread his arms open wide. “Right here, oh dread Emberling. Pierce me through the heart.”

Her tail wavered, then Naomi shrank back down into her human form and sank her face into her hands.

“Hey, easy now,” said Leonis, tone growing soft, losing its bravado. “You’re back in the Academy. You can’t throw your weight around like you did out there on your own turf. If you want to be part of our group, you’re welcome. More than welcome. But not if you think you can whip out your killer tail and threaten us whenever you feel uncomfortable.”

Naomi shoved the chair back as she stood up, expression closing like a fist.

“Wait!” said Lianshi, darting forward to touch her arm. “Leonis is a complete and utter ass, and nobody pays any attention to him—”

“Hey!” protested Leonis.

“But we want you here, right Scorio?” She turned to include him in her words. “We’d love to have you join our group. This suite has four bedrooms. Two are available. Please, stay.”

Scorio stepped forward at last. “Lianshi’s right,” he said softly. “We do want you here. I want you here. Naomi, you deserve this. I know it’s frightening. I mean, I’m frightened. And I know how many memories you have of this place. Bad memories. But this is a second chance for us both. It would kill me if you left and returned to the ruins. To your tower room. Stay. Try it out. Who knows. Maybe you’ll find that you deserve a room that’s safe. Maybe you’ve earned a second chance at… well, everything.”

Naomi’s eyes glimmered with tears, and she scowled and looked away sharply, her dark hair falling like a curtain before her eyes.

“Please stay,” said Lianshi, taking her hand. “I promise to not let Leonis annoy you too much.”

“It’s your choice,” said Scorio. “Obviously. And if you go back to the ruins, I’ll still find the time to come out and annoy you. But it wouldn’t be the same without you here. Wouldn’t be right. So—what do you think? Can you give it a chance?”

“All right, fine,” said Naomi, and then sniffed in annoyance. “Just stop harping on about it already. I’ll stay for a little.”

“Great!” Lianshi leaned in impulsively to hug Naomi, who simply stood there stiffly until she let go. “Now Scorio. Please. Don’t make me beg. What happened out there?”

“Wait!” Leonis extended both palms, his tone alarmed. “We can’t have this conversation like this.”

“What?” Scorio tensed up. “Why not? What’s wrong?”

Without breaking eye contact with Scorio, Leonis pointed grimly toward the screen of hanging vines and banks of ferns. “We’ve a private pool of perfectly heated water that you have yet to enjoy, and I would be a poor friend if I allowed you to stand there looking like…” He paused, searching for the right word.

“A six-day-old corpse,” suggested Naomi.

“A murderous vagrant, and not the good kind,” said Lianshi with an apologetic wince.

“Something malodorous and unloved,” finished Leonis. “So. Let’s welcome you both to the Academy life in style. Let’s soak while you regale us with your legend-in-the-making.”

“No,” said Naomi.

“Come, I’ll lend you a bathing shirt,” said Lianshi, pulling Naomi toward her room.

“And you can borrow one of my linen undershorts,” said Leonis magnanimously. “The Academy provides them just for swimming. Come!”

A minute later, Leonis led Scorio to the far side of the room where ferns and massive fronds framed a stone walkway. They followed it to a set of three freestanding steps that rose then turned to the right to a broad platform of polished wood. This overlooked the luminous pool of azure from whose surface tendrils of steam arose.

“Not quite deep enough for a good dive,” said Leonis with a frown as he untied the thong that held his hair back. “And not quite large enough to swim vigorously. But after a hard day of training, there’s nothing better than a soak. Come on!” And with a great stride, he leaped off the platform’s edge, curled his knees up to his chest, and hit the water in an explosion of water that burst out in every direction. A moment later, his head broke the water’s surface with a great gasp. “Come on!”

Scorio grinned like a fool. The water’s luminous, chalky blue hue made it impossible to determine the depth, so he simply leaped in, spearing down neatly to sink into the heated water in a column of bubbles.

Down he sank, his body going soft in the delicious heat, till his feet touched the rough stone floor. He hung there, submerged, and opened his eyes. Leonis was a dark blur just before him, legs slowly kicking.

It was deliriously good. The tiredness and aches of the day, the weariness and grit and grime all seemed to dissolve. He’d never thought something could be this decadent, this delicious, this delightful. Scorio allowed his natural buoyancy to carry him up, and when his head rose above the water’s surface, he closed his eyes to float on his back.

“Not bad, hey?” boomed Leonis, delighted on his behalf. “I spend more time in the water than in bed.”

“Which is why this grotto reeks of armpits,” said Lianshi as she and Naomi stepped up to the platform, both wrapped in towels. “Please excuse the wildlife, Naomi. They’re noisome and uncouth, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Naomi was a hesitant shadow behind Lianshi, her shoulders bare, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“Come on,” said Scorio, straightening and giving Leonis a shove. “Show me the, ah, extent of the pool. Give me the tour.”

“The tour?” asked Leonis distractedly. “Oh! The tour. Of course. Follow me, oh gracious savior of Bastion. There’s a ledge just under the water on this side. Ideal for resting.”

They swam over to the back wall, and indeed a broad shelf extended under the surface at a depth of a foot or so. Turning, Scorio sat upon it and found that the curved wall made for an excellent back upon which to rest.

Lianshi and Naomi had taken advantage of their distraction to slip into the pool and now treaded water, their hair spreading out about them like ebon halos.

“Is it not worth the indignity?” asked Lianshi.

Naomi didn’t reply. Her eyes were closed, eyebrows raised, expression unguarded as she experienced the same delicious heat.

“I can’t believe you’ve both been luxuriating in this while I’ve been suffering out in the ruins all this time,” said Scorio, shaking his head in amazement. “Is this the Academy’s idea of how best to raise warriors?”

“Warrior kings, my friend,” said Leonis with a contented sigh, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back against the curved wall. “If we are to one day be the lords of hell, we must grow used to such finery.”

“More accurately,” said Lianshi, treading water with graceful poise, “it helps in our recovery and allows us to train harder overall. But yes. It is an unexpected luxury. Not that I’m complaining.”

“I never had one of these when I was here,” said Naomi, tone distracted, eyes still closed. “I had a single room off the servant’s quarters. Size of a supply closet.”

“Well, this is yours now,” said Lianshi firmly. “We’ll put in the request tomorrow and make it official.”

“And I dare anyone to deny us,” said Leonis, voice rumbling with amusement. “Especially when they catch sight of that tail of yours.”

Naomi’s eyes flickered open, and she frowned at Leonis. “Having me in your group will make things harder for you.”

“Nonsense!” boomed Leonis. “We’ve Scorio on our side, Beloved of the Imperators and Savior of Hell. All our petty concerns will disappear compared to the attention and adulation he’s sure to receive.”

“You think?” Scorio frowned. “I don’t want that kind of attention. I just want to train.”

“Then, my friend, you should not have drawn so much attention to yourself.” Leonis closed his eyes once more. “No, your fate is sealed. You are the hero of the hour. You will draw eyes wherever you go, and your friends shall grow favored and much desired by association. We shall all have to suffer nobly together.”

“I can’t believe I’ve had to spend so many months alone with this buffoon,” said Lianshi, shaking her head in wonder. “Thank hell you’ve both come to my rescue.”

“Oh, don’t protest so loudly,” said Leonis, his smile not slipping from his face. “Have I not taught you boldness, to stand up for yourself? Have I not shown you how to assert your wishes, to push back against those who would run roughshod over you, and by sheer example how best to enjoy the pleasures in life?”

“Yes, fine,” allowed Lianshi reluctantly. “But shall I list the downsides? The snoring alone—”

“Scorio!” Leonis sat up abruptly. “Someone said something earlier about your saving the world. Care to tell us?”

Leaning back against the smooth, curved grotto wall, Scorio took a moment to just drink in the moment. To appreciate where he was, how far he’d come since Praximar had singled him out and cast him through the Final Door, and the warmth and joy he felt deep within his chest to be here with three friends he realized he was coming to love so dearly.

The steam rose from the pool’s radiant blue surface, the heat was truly sinking into his bones, causing kinks and aches to relax, and he had before him nothing but endless training with the very best of the Academy’s resources at his disposal. He’d earned respect and gratitude for his role in Imogen’s attack, and even the chancellor had seemed willing to let him begin with a fresh start, to let bygones and prejudices be put behind them so that Scorio could continue to excel.

Taking a deep breath, he fought down a tremulous smile. “Well,” he began, “do you recall my yelling for you all to enter the Gauntlet? I managed to activate the crystal in time, and leaped onto the bier just as the dark fog rolled over me…”

Chapter 44

The rest of that Eighthday cycle was chaotic and atypical; classes were suspended as students and instructors were directed to help establish order across Bastion. Scorio and his friends reported each First Clay to one of their instructors and were given their orders for the day; often this involved liaising with House operatives and guards to help clear away rubble, demolish intrusive new architecture, or project force and authority to help calm the populace.

Scorio loved it. Even when the work was drudgery, even when his shoulders ached from swinging a sledgehammer for hours or clearing collapsed buildings by hand, his sense of elation never quite left him. For at each moment, he felt a new sense of belonging.

Not having to hide. Not having to duck his head and turn away from officials. To be able to stand side by side with his friends and laugh and tease each other as they crossed the city, to be seen and acknowledged as a Great Soul—it remained novel and invigorating no matter how many days passed.

The best part was when they returned to their quarters each evening. When they’d bathe and change into fresh robes and then lounge about their common room, discussing the day, the strange and notable things they’d noticed, speculating about the high level and mostly invisible political jockeying that everyone knew was taking place among the major Houses.

More than once Scorio became painfully self-aware as he lounged on a spread of cushions, his robe new, clean, and of the softest weave, a cup of some honeyed tea in hand. He’d suddenly feel removed from the jesting and conversation, the light raillery and sober introspection. He’d grow almost melancholy, observe the scene as if from outside, and marvel he could lie there at all.

Could be so natural, ensconced in the very heart of the Academy, a part of its wondrous machinery, a favored Great Soul, a man with a future, filled to the brim with potential to change the very nature of hell.

Scorio would find himself watching Leonis telling a convoluted story that struggled toward some humorous reveal, Lianshi feigning ever-mounting impatience and disgust, while even Naomi would lower her guard and allow herself to smile. And in moments like that, when he should feel the most at home, he would find himself outside the situation, self-aware, and swept by a great and tender wave of what he could only call melancholy.

Only one event jarred him during that first week, a moment that threw him back into his old life and caused him to jerk aside into a hallway.

Heading toward his apartment suite, he’d stepped into a large hexagonal room that served as an intersection between three hallways. A dead fountain dominated the center, an idealized warrior raising an amphora to the sky from which no doubt water had once splashed down. Now the basin’s edge served as an informal meeting place for students and servants, who sat and luncheoned and relaxed as crowds of people moved through the chamber and down one of the six hallways.

He’d almost missed her. Almost walked straight through the crowd and down the hall that led to the student apartments. But out of the corner of his eye, he’d spotted a head of gray hair, a sturdy frame, and turned to see Kayla from The Double moving purposefully along the far side of the chamber.

Familiar mustard-colored robes revealed a hint of the intricate tattoo that covered her chest, and he’d known it was her, a chill washing over him as he’d hurried to place the fountain between them.

She’d not seen him and rapidly disappeared down a hallway, merging with the crowd. For a long moment, he’d just stood there, people jostling around him in annoyance, and then stepped to the basin’s edge to interrupt a couple of young men who were munching on sticky buns filled with some manner of meat.

“Excuse me. That hallway over there. Where does it lead?”

“Hmm?” The young man paused, mouth filled with food, then hastily swallowed. “That one leads to a bunch of places. Instructors’ quarters, executive suites, meeting rooms, council chambers, and in the basement levels you’ve got your more exclusive cellars, storage room, treasure vaults…”

Scorio had nodded slowly. What was Kayla doing here? On Dola’s business? Should he follow her?

He stood, irresolute, until he realized the opportunity had slipped him by. He’d missed his chance, and now she was gone.

Which, in a way, brought its own measure of relief. The sooner he left his past behind him, the better.

Their free Eighthday finally came and went. In celebration of how far they’d all come, they dined at the same restaurant in which Scorio had always met Leonis and Lianshi, and spent more octs than Scorio had thought possible. Leonis had been in his element, roaring with laughter, ordering more drinks, demanding more platters of food, calling for musicians to be brought in from the street, buying rounds for the other patrons, and in short becoming a master of the revel, so that when they finally left, long after Second Clay, the streets wet and gleaming under the copper manalights, a great cheer had followed them out into the street, and Leonis had led them home, head held high.

Only for the suite’s lights to glow to life of their own accord at far too early an hour—Scorio, who had indulged in only a few drinks, immediately awoke. Tossing off his covers, he’d hurriedly dressed in his new exercise robes and washed his face briskly in the bowl set on the narrow table against the wall.

He paused, water running in rivulets down his face, to stare at his reflection in the copper mirror.

This is it. Your first day, your first chance to show everyone that you belong here, that you have what it takes. Deep breaths. Keep it together. You’re going to do… well. Fine, I’m sure.

Emerging into the common room, he saw Naomi seated at the dining table, an empty mug before her, face haggard from lack of sleep.

“You been here all night?” Scorio asked, moving up to stand behind one of the chairs.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, staring down at the mug. “Gave up trying.”

Scorio considered her words, bit back the obvious questions, and then simply nodded. “Well, it’s a new chance for both of us. I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.”

She considered him, eyes heavy-lidded, then grimaced, an expression which he knew was her attempt at a smile.

“By the ten hells and every fiend that ever cursed my name, it can’t be First Clay already,” groaned Leonis, languishing against the doorframe of his room. “Tell them I’m poisoned, that I’m on the verge of death. Ask Helminth to send flowers.”

Naomi raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Are you discovering that sixteen glasses of flaywine don’t agree with you after all?”

“Have you no heart?” muttered Leonis, running his hand over his waxen face. “Can’t you muster even an ounce of sympathy for a man laid low by fate?”

“Fate?” asked Naomi.

“I carry a heavy burden.” Leonis forced himself to stand straight. “I care for the good of the people of Bastion. Should I have refrained from bringing joy to their hearts?”

Lianshi slipped into the common room, cinching her sash tight, then gathered her black hair to expertly twist it into a braid. “No, of course not, Leonis, and I’m sure the people of Bastion are busy making plans to erect a statue in your honor as we speak. Let that comfort you during our five-mile run.”

“You think they will?” Leonis fell back into a pained slouch. “I should get in touch with their planning committee. I have definite ideas about which poses are to my best advantage.”

“Ask Praximar,” said Lianshi, moving to the door where she slipped on her sandals. “Naomi, Scorio, you ready? We’ll have to run the circuit ten times if we’re late.”

“Ready,” said Naomi, standing smoothly.

“Be good to stretch my legs.” Scorio pulled on his new sandals. “Long as these break in quickly enough.”

“Don’t fall too far behind, Leonis,” said Lianshi, opening their front door. “I won’t lie for you again.” And she led them out into the Hall of Golden Reflections where other Great Souls were emerging from their own suites, voices low, more than one looking the worse for wear after their Eighthday festivities.

Scorio felt his heart pounding as he followed Lianshi down the hall. Nobody else looked excited—far from it—but to him, this moment was alive with meaning, each face a fascinating enigma he couldn’t wait to decipher. Just walking the center of that growing throng was exciting; when traffic slowed at an archway that acted as a bottleneck he found himself bouncing from foot to foot and jostling good-naturedly with Leonis as the big man pressed in from behind.

More than one of the other students glanced at him, and a few openly stared. He could hear whispers about him, and his name mentioned several times. Cheeks flushing, Scorio ducked his head, not wanting to meet their eyes, and was glad when they reached the Amber Circuit, a broad and subterranean corridor that ran uninterrupted just within the Academy’s perimeter, forming a large, smoothly curved oval lit overhead by evenly spaced lanterns.

The Great Souls fell into a light run as they stepped out into the circuit, moving to fill its breadth in a loose crowd and jogging ahead as more and more of their fellows emerged behind them.

“A hundred and seventy-six lanterns per circuit,” said Leonis. “Every forty-fourth lantern is painted red, so when you see your fourth, you know you’ve run a circuit. Twenty red lanterns and you’re done with your run.”

“Sounds good,” said Scorio, feeling light on his feet, gazing around at the other Great Souls, some of who immediately set a swifter pace, others content to just drift along in lazy groups, still waking up.

“If you’re going slow, you’re supposed to stick to the right wall,” continued Leonis. “All ten student groups are running here, so you’ll make no friends if you get in people’s way. If you’re intent on lapping others, stay left. But only hug the left wall if you want to make a public statement about being the fastest.”

“Who is the fastest?” asked Naomi.

Scorio sensed Leonis’s shrug more than saw it. “There’s a core group that usually finishes first. The usual suspects.”

“Jova Spike,” said Scorio.

“And Ravenna Accardi,” said Lianshi. “Girl runs like the wind and never breaks a sweat. She and Jova are locked in a very public rivalry. Ravenna ended up getting the premier sponsorship from House Hydra, but everyone knows that’s because Jova turned her chance down.”

“I feel like pushing myself a little,” said Scorio, fighting to keep his tone light. “Naomi? You want to go a little faster?”

“I could go a little faster,” allowed the other woman.

“See you guys later then,” said Leonis. “I’m going to shuffle along the right wall. It’s my best friend.”

“I’ll keep him company. Don’t get in any trouble,” said Lianshi. “And remember, no igniting Hearts.”

Scorio flashed a smile at her. “This is just the morning run, right? What trouble could we get into?”

And then he lengthened his stride. He fought the urge to go fast right away; he was stiff after days of heavy labor and gave himself time to warm up, occasionally rolling his shoulders and rotating his neck. But soon he found his pace; almost he could imagine the ruins scrolling past him, the cylinder that was Bastion rotating under his feet, an endless diorama of sere rock and shattered facades.

Naomi kept pace without comment, her stride efficient, her elbows close to her sides, her thick hair bound back into a rough ponytail.

Most of the Great Souls were content to just jog along to the right, but a good quarter of those doing the morning run was intent on making good time. Scorio came to know them well, each one running either in the center of the broad, curving hallway or along the left side; each inexorably drew closer as Scorio and Naomi caught up, their gait becoming familiar, their awareness of his and Naomi’s approach at their rear either causing them to swing out to the right or momentarily pick up their pace; inevitably they pulled ahead for a few hundred yards, then began to fade; drifted back, struggling to keep their speed, until they gave up and angled to the right.

One by one Scorio and Naomi passed them. He knew he should be counting the red lanterns, should at the very least mark the entrances and exits, but found himself focusing on the next runner, the next opponent.

To his surprise, he saw Asha up ahead; she was moving at a steady and rapid stride, her legs devouring the hallway, just barely in view around the curve.

Scorio pushed himself to go just a little faster, sensed Naomi’s questioning glance, but was soon rewarded by Asha coming more into view; she had her hair braided and coiled into a bun; had folded her robes back up to her elbows and knees, and wrapped white bandages in an interweaving pattern up her forearms and shins.

She was fast, she didn’t tire, but Scorio felt a flicker of joy as he gained on her, and when they drew abreast, he relished her startled glance. To her credit, she didn’t try for an artificial burst of speed; she fell behind, and Scorio felt his chest open with exhilaration.

“Second lap,” Naomi said, voice tight, brow damp with sweat. Scorio eased up the pace just a little, and then an instinct told him someone was coming up behind him. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw them.

Jova Spike was in the lead, face expressionless, her gaze spearing past him as if he weren’t even there, half her scalp shaved as before, eyes ringed in dark make-up, lips painted black, none of it running as she didn’t seem to be sweating at all.

Right beside her was Ravenna Accardi, pale and fiercely focused, jet-black hair cut raggedly at jaw length, looking slight and angular compared to Jova’s panther-like strength and athleticism.

They were coming in fast, some thirty other Great Souls at their heels. Real fast. Scorio veered out to the right, and the pack slipped by him smoothly, only a few of them glancing sidelong at him and Naomi as they powered around the curve.

“You got it in you?” asked Scorio quietly.

“To beat that lot?” Naomi’s lip curled up derisively.

“Let’s go then,” said Scorio, and he really opened his stride. Felt his heart pounding in his chest, a joyous, riotous beat, his body alive with strength and resilience, the endless Eighthdays he’d spent racing through the ruins coming to him, filling him with certainty and speed.

The pack had pulled nearly around the curve, but now it slowly drew closer once more. Scorio paced himself to keep them in sight, not wanting to just sprint past them and wind himself, but to maintain, to hold them close.

“Third lap,” said Naomi, words clipped. They passed Lianshi and Leonis, who stared at them in alarm, but were past before they could say anything.

“One more lap at this pace,” said Scorio, chest starting to feel tight, “and then we show them.”

A few at the rear of the pack had seen them; casual glances had turned to amused stares, and they’d picked up the speed themselves, compacting the pack which as a result transferred the energy to the lead two; eventually, Jova and Ravenna glanced back as well to see what was going on, and made eye contact with Scorio.

He gave them a predatory grin.

Jova seemed to dismiss him, while Ravenna frowned before turning back.

“Fourth lap,” said Naomi. “Can’t go much faster.”

“Do your best,” he said, and as he pushed himself, the very act of running began to feel effortless, as if it would be harder to stop now than to go faster. His body seemed to fade away, and with it his awareness of his breathing, his tempo. The world reduced itself to his feet impacting the ground, his mind crystal clear, his body strong, his being driven, energetic yet strangely relaxed.

It felt as if he were floating, his body surging and perfectly in harmony, capable of devouring endless miles, of outrunning anything and everyone.

He drew abreast of the rearmost Great Soul in the pack, a reed-like, dark-skinned man who studied him with wry amusement but made no attempt to run faster. Past him, past the next woman, worked his way up the pack, taking them from the inside on the right.

He leaned into the curve, almost at a sprint now, chest expanding, a smile plastered on his face, sweat running down his back, alive, so painfully alive.

Everyone on their right was staring, eyes wide, as he drew up beside Ravenna and Jova, and then passed them.

If only for a second.

Neither woman was about to let him by so easily. The air seemed to grow denser, and then as one they lowered their chins, gained more speed, and in a dozen strides caught up to him.

The three of them ran. Scorio had never run like this before. He’d always either sprinted for his life, or jogged steadily, but this incredible, all-out race was a new experience, and he relished the challenge, felt a strange joy and camaraderie with both women, as if they were in it together, sharing something incredible, an impossible talent. But when he looked at them, smiling, he saw that they were ignoring him.

“Ready?” he heard Jova ask.

“Ready,” said Ravenna.

And they somehow went faster. Smoothly pulled ahead of him, running so swiftly the balls of their feet barely touched the ground.

Scorio scowled, dug deep, tried to keep up. But they seemed to glide ahead effortlessly, going so quickly he had no choice but to give it all he had. Let loose with the last of his reserves, and for a glorious second, he began to catch up again, was going faster—but then a deep cramp stabbed into his side, right under his ribs like a knife sliding home, and his euphoric sense of invincibility began to crumble.

His breath rasped in his throat, his chest grew tight, and his thighs began to burn. He strained to keep going, but Ravenna and Jova continued to pull away, fleet as thought, rounding the curvature of the hall even as he went ever slower, losing speed.

The next person in the pack passed him, then the second and third. He had nothing left to give. Had scraped the very bottom of his reserves, and could now only struggle along, losing momentum, till the last of the pack had passed him, the slender man flashing him a victorious, caustic smile as he did.

“Fifth lap,” gasped Naomi, coming up behind him and pointing at a crimson lantern that slid into sight. Jova and Ravenna had already left the circuit, and the last of the pack was following suit; everyone else continued to run past it, at least one lap behind.

“Argh,” gasped Scorio as he ran through the archway into the dimly lit hall and staggered to a stop. He bent over, hands on his knees, and just stood there gasping, sweat dripping from his nose.

“What… was that?” asked Naomi, stepping up alongside him.

“What?” He straightened, wincing, and kept walking, his legs feeling loose and strange. “The way they just went… impossibly fast, as if they didn’t need air like the rest of us?”

“That,” agreed Naomi, wiping the sleeve of her robe across her face then just coming to a stop, both hands pressed to her hairline, chest rising and falling. “That... I didn’t sense them ignite.”

“Nor me,” said Scorio, lowering his voice as he saw the pack up ahead. They’d come to a stop as one and were stretching, everyone talking lightly. A dozen or more of them in all, two of the women chatting with Jova who was smiling at their commentary, Ravenna off to one side, drinking from a water skin.

“Nice run,” said Scorio, giving them a chin-up as they walked by.

Someone made a soft, scoffing sound, but Scorio didn’t see who. Jova and Ravenna simply stared at him, not with hostility, but something akin to indifference. It made him feel small and cold, and he was glad when they’d walked past the group and out into the intersecting hall that led back to their quarters.

“And what was that about?” asked Scorio, bewildered, once they were out of earshot.

“Simple,” said Naomi. “They’re the top predators of the school. You tried to threaten their dominance. They crushed you as was right, and now you’re a nobody to them again. No, worse than a nobody—an upstart nobody.”

“That how it works?” Scorio grinned and inhaled deeply. “Well, I hope they enjoy owning the roost while they can. I’m coming for them.”

Naomi snorted. “Give yourself a few months of ingesting the best elixirs and pills that Academy has to offer, along with whatever their House sponsorships give them. Then make Emberling, and maybe you’ll develop the reserves and strength they’ve got.”

Scorio frowned. “That’s what’s going on?”

Naomi scratched briefly at her scalp, then shrugged. “It’s the rule of the Academy. The best get the greatest rewards to maximize their potential. The weak? They’re left to fight over the scraps. The Academy’s meritocracy system is a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Scorio with a smile. “You know I like a challenge.”

“It has been a while since you’ve had a suicidal cause,” smirked Naomi. “I’ll give you that.”

Protocol involved returning to their rooms, cleaning up, and putting on fresh robes before heading down to the mess hall for breakfast. Leonis and Lianshi arrived some ten minutes after Scorio and Naomi, and consequently rushed to get ready so that they could all go to the mess hall together.

“It’s fiendish,” grumbled Leonis as he led the way to breakfast. “The faster you run, the more time you have to bathe and eat. Whereas we poor souls who are built like champions—”

“Built like what?” asked Lianshi innocently.

“Built like mighty oxen, and not meant to race about like fleet-footed deer—”

“Can I call you that?” asked Lianshi, elbowing him in the ribs. “Mighty Ox?”

“Scorio, save me from this harridan,” begged Leonis.

“Not I,” said Scorio, laughing over his shoulder at them. “Lianshi might shift her tender attentions to me as a result.”

“Coward,” muttered Leonis. “But as I was saying, those of us who need the most food to get through the day are consequently deprived of essential sustenance! How am I meant to maintain peak condition when I can only bolt down a bowl of gruel before classes begin?”

“Run faster,” said Naomi from the back of the group.

“Well, there is that, I suppose,” said Leonis.

“Drink less flaywine the night before?” asked Lianshi.

“Now that’s a barbaric suggestion.” Leonis jutted out his chin. “Might as well tell me to give up living.”

Scorio chuckled softly as they entered the mess hall. It was a stately and dignified chamber, high ceilinged and reminiscent of the basilica, its fluted columns flanked by huge potted ferns, its windows filled with ancient panes of glass whose colors had begun to bleed into each other, the soft lead that defined their partitions having sagged over the centuries.

The sound of animated voices echoed off the vaulted ceilings, and a crowd milled before the tables laden with food, their trays heavy with trenchers ready for all manner of delicacies.

Scorio still wasn’t used to the richness of their fare. No gruel was to be found anywhere, and instead, they had steaming cauldrons of creamy grains, platters of freshly cut fruit, sizzling spits of sausages, boiled eggs, small, dark loaves of nut bread, wedges of sharp cheese, salted fish, and a variety of drinks served in thick clay pitchers, the favorite of which was a powerfully aromatic coffee.

They chattered amicably as they loaded their trays high, then moved to join a line.

“Back in business, looks like,” said Lianshi softly as they slowly moved to the front. “Guess life is returning to normal in Bastion after all.”

“What’s this about?” asked Scorio. “I thought the food was free?”

“It is free—” began Lianshi.

“But the quality can vary widely,” interrupted Leonis, tone dark. “There have been days when the food is no better than soup and vegetables. Hard times, those days. Sucks the joy right out of you.”

“As I was saying,” continued Lianshi, “this is the treasure line. You present your badge, which reflects your ranking, and are given the according treasure. Supposedly. They often run out, or have trouble buying them, or something. Not too surprisingly, given that there are almost five hundred of us Great Souls in our cohort. Must cost a lot of octs to keep us supplied.”

Scorio thought of the ivy growing over the balconies in the basilica, the many cracked flagstones, the faded art, the scores of rooms that stood empty and abandoned.

Lianshi continued. “The lowest-ranked three hundred of us have badges with one notch, and get Black Star pills. Next hundred have two notch badges, they get Fat Crickets.”

“Fat Crickets?” asked Scorio skeptically.

“Yes,” said Lianshi, smiling in amusement. “Don’t judge, they have a real kick.”

“She did not just say that,” said Leonis with a groan.

“Next fifty have three notch badges, they get Glittering Sage pills. Next twenty-five have four notch badges, they get Luminous Ghost dust.”

“Then you’re at the top twenty-five in the whole class,” said Leonis dourly. “That’s where the good stuff is really doled out.”

“Not to mention, at that rank they’ll definitely have House patronage, which usually means even better treasure.” Lianshi sighed. “It’s tough to claw your way out of your ranking.”

“What do they get?” asked Scorio.

“Next twenty get five notch badges and all sorts of special privileges, along with Peaceful Wheel elixirs. Top five? It’s ridiculous. They get one of everything. What it would take us a month of hard training to achieve, they get every day at breakfast. A number of the elites only do a bare minimum of training, even, and they’re still pulling far ahead of everyone else.”

“One of everything?” asked Scorio, eyebrows shooting up. “Black Star, Fat Cricket, all of it?”

“All of it,” said Leonis, and now his voice had turned grim. “Two of the top five you know. Jova and Ravenna. The other three have become almost as famous. Zala, Jova’s best friend and who made Emberling right after her. She clawed her way to the top five after only scoring in the top hundred on the original Gauntlet run. Kuragin, whom I really advise you to avoid at all costs; and Chen She, whom I trust the least of all because he seems really nice.”

“What’s wrong with being nice?” asked Scorio.

“Wait till you have to fight a duel against him,” said Leonis darkly. “You’ll see what I mean. Guy nearly killed me by accident.”

“So one Fat Cricket is worth how many Black Stars?”

“Don’t know,” said Leonis dourly. “Twenty? More? It’s deeply ironic. Those of us at the bottom of the rankings work ten times as hard as those at the top, and it doesn’t seem to make a difference. It’s enough to drive one to flaywine.”

They reached the front of the line, and Leonis received a Black Star pill while Lianshi was given a Glittering Sage. Naomi and Scorio both showed their blank badges, and after a moment’s hesitation, the proctor gave them each a Black Star as well.

Taking their treasures, which felt paltry compared to the pills and rare bottles he’d glimpsed in the boxes arrayed along the proctor’s desk, they retreated to one of the alcoves where they claimed a circular table. Everyone downed their pill with a drink, then focused for a few moments as they worked upon their Hearts.

The silence was finally broken when Leonis sighed in satisfaction and took up his utensils. His tray was practically hidden by the piles of food, and he set to work eagerly.

“You’re going to have a lot to catch up on, course-work wise,” said Lianshi, smearing thick honey cream over a slice of dark bread. “Our entire cohort is broken into ten groups of roughly fifty students. Each group is assigned four instructors. On the first day of the week, we have the History of Bastion under Hera, which she takes very, very seriously.”

Leonis’s cheek bulged out obscenely as he chewed enthusiastically on an entire salt herring. “She’sh shupposhed to have shtayed here deshpite multiple invitashions becaushe—”

“And you were a king?” asked Lianshi, staring pityingly at him.

“Golden King,” he said jovially, chewing on.

“Golden King of barbarians,” she said despairingly.

“History of Bastion,” said Scorio. “That’s—what—a thousand years’ worth of material?”

To his surprise, it was Naomi who responded. She’d served herself a modest plate of mostly creamed grains and fruits, and was stirring the berries into her bowl. “There are only five phases of note. You’ll learn them quickly.”

Leonis washed his herring down with half a cup of coffee. “You sat in on the classes, Naomi?”

“Nothing so grand,” she said, her smile bitter. “I found that I was permitted to sweep the classrooms beforehand, and could then hide in the alcoves along the top of the amphitheater when classes began.” She paused, frowning. “I found the subject interesting.”

“Fair enough,” said Leonis. “But yes, of course, you’re right. Five main phases, though Hera will love you if you pretend to debate with yourself whether the Himiko Interregnum counts as a sixth.”

“We’re well into the Red Peace Era,” said Lianshi, sipping her coffee. “Third period, so named for how the destruction of imperial House Naga paved the way for the rise of House Hydra, and its consequent dominance under the century-long rule of Imperator Nguru, known as the Cleanser.”

“Pretty impartial cleanser, if you ask me,” said Leonis, leaning forward to spear a sausage off Scorio’s plate. “Anyone who looked at him funny got cleansed.”

“I thought Imperators had to reside deeper in hell,” said Scorio. “How’d this Nguru rule Bastion?”

“Proxies, mostly,” said Lianshi. “Anyone who disobeyed his puppets disobeyed him, and defiance would be met with his returning home to kill everyone. It worked for a century, at any rate, but when he died in the Pits of Ebullience—”

“The what?” asked Scorio.

“Whatever, hell is weird. When he died, House Hydra was forced by House Basilisk and Charnel Duke… what was her name… to sign the Accord of Indemnity, whereas—”

“Whereas,” continued Naomi softly, “no Great Soul over the rank of Blood Baron can claim direct control over Bastion and its political bodies.”

“Huh,” said Scorio, food forgotten. “What’s to stop an Imperator from breaking the Accord, though?”

“Nothing, really,” said Lianshi.

“The other Imperators?” asked Leonis.

“Custom,” said Naomi, looking down at her bowl. “Centuries of bending their efforts toward reaching the Pit. It’s been four hundred and sixty-five years since the Accord was signed by House Hydra and Basilisk, and Chimera and Kraken signed on when they, too, rose to sufficient power. The signing marked the end of the Era of Red Peace, and the beginning of the Great Southern Expansion.”

“You really do know your history,” said Leonis. “Can we study together?”

“Don’t agree,” said Lianshi sharply. “His idea of studying is very disagreeable.”

“History sounds interesting,” said Scorio. “What about the rest of the week?”

“Tomorrow is the Geography of Hell with Helminth,” said Leonis, picking up another salted herring. “You know, it took that class for me to notice why her name is so ominous.”

“Oh, Mighty Ox,” said Lianshi pityingly.

“That’s Golden King to you,” said Leonis, pointing the herring at her face. “Though the Wielder of Nezzar is equally suitable.”

“Thirdday is my favorite,” said Lianshi, ignoring him. “Fiends with Instructor Rex. Though given that there seem to be thousands upon thousands of them, it’s clearly a lifelong study.”

“Mana Theoretics is on Fourthday,” said Leonis. “Really, really fascinating stuff. I mean, truly and utterly riveting. My absolute favorite.”

The three of them simply stared at him till he laughed and raised both hands. “What can I say? I’m a masochist at heart. Lay on those dry philosophical treatises!”

“Fifth Day is Great Soul Organizations, which is fascinating,” said Lianshi. “Apparently it’s a new addition to the curriculum—Praximar was blackmailed into including it eight years ago when House Hydra lost so much authority with the failure of the Empyreal Prophecy. A bunch of distant groups threatened to force their way into the Academy and teach it themselves. The instructor rotates from outside the Academy and is tasked with giving us a fair assessment of the political structures deeper in hell outside of the Houses. Showing interest is a surefire way to lose any hope of patronage, however.”

“Wait,” said Scorio, leaning forward. “Which organizations are these? They’re—”

The lights in the mess hall flickered in a defined pattern, and Leonis immediately began shoving food into his mouth.

“Time’s up,” sighed Lianshi, setting her spoon down. “First Rust is imminent. We need to be in class before the cycle changes. Ready?”

Naomi had finished her bowl of oatmeal. Her tray looked positively spartan compared to Leonis’s riotous and half-eaten feast. “Ready.”

“Sure,” said Scorio, rising to his feet. He’d not eaten his fill on purpose, wanting to remain on edge and alert, and followed Lianshi as she led the way through the mess hall toward one of the exits.

Was it his imagination, or were people still watching him? Some surreptitiously, turning away when he glanced at them, others more openly, frowning when he met their eyes? He resolved to just stare ahead, relieved when they entered the hallway that led toward the distant classrooms.

Through the bustling corridors they went, losing themselves in the flowing crowd, till at last Lianshi and Leonis peeled away and hurried down a side corridor where the lower halves of the walls were covered in gold leaf. Through an archway at its end, and into a small amphitheater that was already filled, Great Souls slouching down into their seats, pulling forth stacks of parchments, arranging their ink wells and plumes, whispering to each other and settling in for what was obviously going to be a long lecture.

Their arrival caused a fair amount of stir; students turned to stare, others leaned in close together to whisper, while a few affected stiff disinterest.

“Good morning, class,” said Leonis, spreading his arms wide. “I, Leonis the Golden King, have arrived. Please, do not be unduly affected. Surely you are used to being graced by my presence by now.”

Mutters, some stifled laughter, and the other students looked away.

“There,” said Leonis, leading the others down to an empty row of seats. “I have masterfully quelled all curiosity.”

Instructor Hera entered a few moments later; tall, severe, her waist-length braids held back by a golden circlet, she swept the class with her glittering gaze as she moved to stand at the lectern. “Good morning, class.”

Her gaze fell upon Scorio, who held it for a beat before sitting up a little straighter, everyone once more turning to regard him.

“Cinder Scorio, Emberling Naomi, welcome to the History of Bastion. Scorio, you’ve missed many months of material, but I expect you to learn it regardless in time for the final exam. Now, seeing as you performed a great service to Bastion and have already become a part of its history, I won’t expect you to catch up to speed for a few weeks yet. That doesn’t mean you can relax; you will need to arrange a study group to cover the missed material. Good luck, however, on finding volunteers.”

A blonde woman seated in the front row raised her hand, her smile genuine. “I would be happy to help tutor Scorio, Instructor Hera. It would be an excellent way to review the material as well.”

“Is that so?” asked the instructor, raising an eyebrow. “Very generous of you, Juniper. Is anybody else interested in helping?”

From the skepticism in her tone, she clearly didn’t expect more volunteers, but a half-dozen hands went up, and Scorio was surprised to see that most of them were women, Famissa amongst their number.

By his side, Leonis could only shake his head.

“Well, it seems I was wrong in my assumptions,” said Hera wryly. “Everyone interested in so nobly assisting their new classmate should meet with him by the west door after class is over to structure a learning plan. Now. Considering the unrest in the streets, it’s poetic that we should be studying an ancient parallel. We’ll pick up where we left off, with the Garannil Uprising of 745. Who can explain Garannil’s reasons for starting the non-violent revolt, and why he thought Bastion would be better served by having regular citizens dictating policy instead of Great Souls?”

Scorio slouched down in his seat, cheeks burning. More than one of the volunteers continued to glance his way as the class began, a few shyly smiling, most just considering him in a speculative manner.

“It would seem,” murmured Lianshi to his right, “that your reputation has preceded you.”

“It’s confusing,” whispered Leonis on his other side. “But his scrawny physique must be appealing somehow.”

“He’s far from scrawny,” said Lianshi, frowning. “Scorio just isn’t a shambling bear like you.”

Leonis looked innocently ahead. “Shambling bears are criminally underappreciated.”

“And Scorio is very handsome,” whispered Lianshi firmly, as if that settled the manner. “We’ll have to start barricading our front door.”

Scorio sank even deeper into his seat. Even his ears were burning now.

“I need some tutoring as well,” muttered Leonis. “Scorio, lend me some of your tutors? Say, three of them?”

“Shambling pig, I meant,” said Lianshi.

Instructor Hera’s gaze scythed across the students to where they sat. “Cinder Lianshi, since you seem so eager to contribute, perhaps you can answer the question.”

Scorio hadn’t even been listening, and for a moment panicked on his friend’s behalf, but Lianshi sat up straight, expression clear and forthright. “The blue sashes were worn by the protestors to indicate their alliance with the Peerless Heaven sect from the fifth band of Hell; they hoped to draw sympathy and support from Blood Baroness Nyala.”

Instructor Hera nodded grudgingly. “That’s correct. Now, Garannil’s attempts to draw on the support of sects such as Peerless Heaven and Hollow Moon was the right move, but still failed—who can tell me why?”

Scorio glanced sidelong at Lianshi. “You know your history.”

“I study hard,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

“Would you tutor me, then?”

“No,” hissed Leonis. “I’ll help you choose the best tutors—we could have Famissa and Juniper visiting our suites on a regular basis!”

“Sure,” said Lianshi. “I’d be happy to.”

“Thanks,” said Scorio, relaxing a fraction. The thought of sitting across from bright-eyed strangers who were all too eager to explain the esoteric past was slightly unnerving. “Much appreciated.”

Class ended when First Rust gave way to First Bronze, and after disengaging himself from the small knot of hopeful tutors that tried to corner him by the door, Scorio followed the others eagerly to the next class.

“Sparring and Forms,” said Leonis. “Now this is something I enjoy. Who’ve we got this week?”

“Instructor Feng. You’ll like him,” she said, turning to look at both Scorio and Naomi. “He’s fair and very impartial. I think it’s because he thinks we’re all equally terrible.”

“Sounds like someone Naomi could like,” allowed Scorio, but she flushed angrily and looked away. Lianshi gave him a shrug of commiseration, and he shrugged back when Naomi wasn’t looking.

They crossed the Academy, leaving behind the academic classrooms, momentarily joining a flood of students in a large passageway before splitting off again, descending two flights of stairs, and emerging into a cavernous hall. The air was cool and slightly damp, and everything was lit by a fierce, pale ironlight that was so subtly tinged with blue that it took Scorio a few moments to figure out why he felt like they’d submerged themselves into a clear pool.

There was stadium seating around both sides of the hall, eight rows high, the wood gleaming with endless years of varnish, while a circular raised platform of white stone arose in the center, its surface chalky and plain under the severe lights.

Nobody moved to take the seats. The gathered crowd, sparse and spread out, was instead warming up. Some shadow boxed; others had taken up wire-thin jump ropes and were lightly skipping; a few groups sat in circles, leaning forward to touch their toes or arching an arm over their head as they leaned over to the side.

“We’ve a few minutes before Feng arrives,” said Leonis, cinching his sash tight then shrugging his massive shoulders. “There’s a routine to the class structure. First, we’ll pair off to engage in some light sparring, then he’ll teach us new techniques. We’ll practice them on each other, and then do some bag work. Class ends with five fights. He picks the combatants and after each bout, does a question-and-answer session to see what we noticed and what the fighters did wrong.”

“Sounds fun,” said Scorio, windmilling his arms, his stomach light and fluttery.

“So much fun,” said Naomi, her tone indicating the exact opposite.

Lianshi bent down to press her forehead to her knees, wrapping her arm around the back of her legs, then dropped into a squat, one leg extended before her, balancing easily on her one heel. “It is fun, actually. If you win three fights in a row, you’re awarded a treasure of choice within a set category of power. It’s a powerful incentive.”

Naomi frowned, then nodded reluctantly. “That sounds better.”

“What are Feng’s powers?” asked Scorio, pitching his voice low. “I saw him use that cone of… dust?… in the Imogen fight. Any idea what it does?”

“Slows people down,” said Lianshi, shifting smoothly to crouch over the other heel. “The longer you’re in his cone, the slower you get, and the faster he becomes.”

“And if you’re in it, you’ll forget he’s there if you look away,” said Leonis. “He uses it on us during fights sometimes. Stop things getting out of hand, or add a challenge. It’s the weirdest thing to look around and realize you’ve forgotten all about him because you lost line of sight.”

“Interesting,” said Scorio. “So—”

“Line up,” came a barked command, and a second later, Instructor Feng strode into view, his robes so worn and soft that they’d gone from black to a smoky charcoal gray.

His command had an electric effect on the students; everyone leaped into place, forming a wall along one set of stadium seats. Naomi and Scorio fell in with everyone else, and Scorio stared straight ahead, chest tight with anticipation.

It was strange; seeing Feng alongside the Pyre Lords, Blood Barons, and the White Queen had somehow diminished him, made him appear as little more than a foot soldier. But now he radiated authority and a deliberate calm that drove home just how far above Scorio he really was as a Dread Blaze.

Feng stopped before them all, hands linked behind his back, his thick shock of black hair swept back, his expression sharp, exacting, severe. “Good morning, class. We’re joined by two new students, and as such, we’ll delay our usual routine until I can evaluate their skill. We’ll begin with Scorio. Everyone else, take a seat.”

The line melted away. Naomi stepped back last, as if reluctant to leave him alone, but finally gave him a jerky nod of encouragement and joined the others on the benches.

“Scorio,” said Feng, “Will you join me in the sparring circle?” And so saying, he strode to the raised platform and leaped onto it with ease.

His muscles felt strangely twitchy as he moved to follow, his mouth dry, the spot between his shoulder blades prickling as if from the combined weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. Scorio climbed smoothly up onto the sparring circle and moved to stand across from Feng under the harsh iron light.

“The goal of this exchange is for me to evaluate your speed, strength, resilience, and instincts.” Feng’s words were clipped and precise, his dark eyes intent. “We’ll begin with only our natural talents, but when you’re ready, you may choose to ignite. Begin.”

As one, the crowd seemed to inhale and lean forward.

Scorio lowered himself into the three-quarter profile combat crouch which he’d used so many times against Naomi, and forced himself to exhale smoothly. And then, in that moment of utter stillness, a rough and ready joy flooded his heart.

This was it. His chance to discover just how far he’d advanced. Whether all his hard work and brutal training had paid off.

Scorio fought mightily but failed to restrain a predatory smile. He met Feng’s dark, patient gaze, then moved to attack.

Chapter 45

The urge to simply rush at Feng was strong, but he’d spent too many hours practicing the First Form and internalizing Naomi’s training to abandon himself to a reckless charge. Instead, he approached slowly, forcing himself to remain relaxed, to hold onto a sense of calm that occluded his excitement and fears.

Feng remained motionless, chin lowered, eyes bright and probing. With his hands linked behind his back and in his faded gray robes he exuded no sense of menace; rather it felt like approaching a stern janitor, someone of great dignity but little threat.

Scorio stepped into striking distance and snapped out a couple of jabs. Feng simply leaned back just enough that his blows struck air, so he threw a high feint, right at the instructor’s face, which he immediately followed with a powerful cross, the weight of his body behind the blow.

Feng sidestepped, backed away, expression turning pensive, hands still linked behind him.

Rather than keep pressing, Scorio forced himself to relax once more, bounced a few times on the balls of his feet, shrugged his shoulders, then came in again; this time, however, he made the slightest of feints with both fists just before launching a powerful roundhouse kick at Feng’s chest.

Only to find the kick blocked, trapped between Feng’s forearm and bicep, the instructor stepping in rapidly to kick his other leg out from under him.

Scorio leaped, pivoting around his pinned leg, and tried to kick the back of Feng’s head; the attack was swift, instinctive, wild.

It nearly worked.

Feng released him, ducked down, and spun away, and again they faced off against each other, a thick lock of gleaming black hair having pulled free to fall before the instructor’s face.

“Good,” said Feng. “Again.”

Time to switch things up. Scorio leaped forward immediately and let loose an explosive volley of blows, jabs, and crosses, intermingled with uppercuts and hooks. Pressed Feng ever back, forcing him to parry and block, only to realize with a shock that he’d fallen into the pattern he’d trained against Naomi, the very one that had helped him ignite his Heart.

Feng had to know it, clearly did, for his blocks were perfect, almost automated, his eyes narrowing as he seemed to question Scorio’s own awareness of the drill he’d fallen into, which meant instead of a hook here as expected, he’d jack up his knee—

Feng laughed as he jerked awkwardly to slam his forearm down into a block, narrowly avoiding the attack, and danced back, his movements graceful and light, as if the universal pull of the world barely affected him.

“Very nice! Intelligent application of a common pattern with a surprise attack. I see variety, control, quick reactions, and power. Now let's test your defenses.”

And with that, Feng was upon him, striking with wicked precision and increasing speed, forcing Scorio back, ever back. The blows were coming so rapidly that he stopped consciously trying to track them, and instead allowed his arms to move almost of their own accord.

The only sound was of their forearms impacting against each other, the snap of cloth, and Scorio’s breath as it came in ever harsher gasps. Faster and faster came the strikes, then somehow Feng unleashed a tightly coiled roundhouse kick without twisting his hips in the least, simply snapped it out while facing him straight on, and brought his shin crashing into Scorio’s ribs.

With a grunt, he staggered to the side, saw Feng’s fist come powering down at his face, dodged, then took an elbow straight to the chest. Staggering back on his heels, he yanked his leg up to block a second kick, taking it on his shin, then received a flurry of punches on his forearms.

Teetering on the very edge of his balance, he could do nothing but widen his eyes when Feng hopped up, spun in mid-air as smoothly as a leaf caught in a steady wind, and slammed his heel into the center of Scorio’s chest.

The power behind the blow was incredible, and it lifted Scorio right off his feet and threw him back to crash onto his side.

Feng landed neatly, lightly, and without a sound, only to straighten his robes with two quick tugs and then link his hands behind his back.

“Good defense, good speed, and I see that you’ve received a decent amount of drilling. But like all novice fighters, you fall apart when the pace increases, and your desire to find patterns leaves you open to unorthodox attacks.”

Scorio pushed himself up slowly into a crouch, his lungs tight, his chest locked in a permanent spasm, trying not to gasp and wheeze before the whole class. There was nothing for it. He summoned his Igneous Heart and saw that the hall was filled with ephemeral clouds of pure gray.

Iron mana.

It was neither as slippery as Copper nor as reluctant as Coal. It was stubborn, however, in a completely novel manner, as if entering Scorio’s Heart was somehow beneath it. Summoning his will, Scorio forced a single gust of the mana into his Heart, and was surprised when that sufficed.

With a flexion of his will, he caused his Heart to ignite, and in his mind’s eye, it went up with a whoomph of silvery flames.

Power flooded into him, intense, rich, an elevating power that made the very thought of burning Coal again incredibly distasteful.

Feng raised an eyebrow but otherwise made no move.

Slowly, feeling as if a hasty movement could cause him to lose control and dash through the air, Scorio rose to his feet and once again dropped into his combat crouch.

“Yes,” said Feng, voice pitched low. “There you are. Now. Show me what you can really do.”

Fleet of foot, Scorio ran at him and leaped, soaring through the air to attack with a side kick. As expected, Feng dodged to the side, so Scorio hurled himself at the instructor the moment he landed, driving him back, striking at his face, snapping out kicks at his thighs, and thrusting his heel at Feng’s stomach. He felt alive, endlessly powerful, the Iron seeming inexhaustible. Feng blocked, swayed, dodged, and evaded all of his blows, but Scorio simply pushed himself faster, drawing in more Iron mana as he went, like a man swimming underwater might gasp for a rapid gulp of air before ducking back under the surface.

His thoughts ended. The separation of mind and body disappeared. He was wholly in the moment, utterly within his body, reacting without consideration, pushing himself to move faster, to strike harder, his blows drawing closer and closer to Feng as the instructor was forced to block with greater vigor.

But he couldn’t land a blow. Anger grew within him, a fiery knot of frustration that he barely managed to restrain.

But then Scorio saw it—an opportunity, wild and improvident, requiring an outflung cross that would open Scorio up completely if he missed, but if he hit—

Releasing his rage, he went for it, and his fist slipped past Feng’s guard, and time seemed to slow. Iron mana roared within his Heart, and the instructor inched away, eyes widening as Scorio’s knuckles nearly brushed the skin of his cheek. Scorio snarled as the length of his forearm passed right before Feng’s face, and then a massive blow to his side lifted him right off his feet once more, his legs flying out from under him, to crash face down onto the stone circle.

The breath exploded out of him, and he lay there gaping, focus blurred, unable to draw breath.

The Iron in his Heart surged one last time, then guttered out.

He wanted nothing so much as to lower his brow to the cool stone, but instead, he forced himself up to all fours, and then with a heave swayed up and back to sit on his heels.

Feng was considering him, expression genial, almost benign. “Well done, Scorio. Well done indeed. Good physical conditioning, good speed, decent strength. As before, your reflexes and instincts are admirable, but your temper was your undoing. It might also account for how briefly you were able to keep your Heart burning. You may take your seat. Naomi? Please enter the circle.”

Rising to his feet, Scorio bowed shakily and hopped off the edge of the platform to join his friends. Naomi’s expression was tightly controlled as she passed him, her eyes narrowed, but her grim nod said it all: I’ll make him pay.

Sitting down heavily, avoiding all the stares being directed at him, Scorio gratefully accepted Lianshi’s waterskin and took a sip. What did he mean, how briefly his Heart had burned? Was that considered brief here? Did he know that was the first time he’d burned Iron? He scowled, frustrated at not having landed a single blow. Had Feng even ignited his Heart?

“Well done,” said Leonis quietly, leaning in. “Seriously. That was impressive.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi. “Feng rarely says anything positive about anyone.”

Scorio sat up a little straighter and forced himself to release a shaky breath.

The fight between Naomi and Feng proved riveting to watch. She moved in confidently and quickly began driving Feng backward, coming at him with great skill and power. Feng’s face took on a more calculated and focused expression, and after allowing Naomi to push him back to the circle’s edge, he deliberately turned the tables and began counterattacking.

Only for her to immediately explode up into her Nightmare Lady form, the transition near-instantaneous. The sight of her dread black form, gleaming and emaciated, elicited gasps from the other students, but Scorio ignored them. He leaned forward, watching avidly, as her wicked tail blade shot forward over her shoulder to pierce Feng’s chest.

A frisson of power flooded out from the sparring circle as Feng ignited his Heart, and with incredible precision he smacked away her tail blade with the palm of his hand and stepped away, ducking under a sweep of her claws then throwing himself into a backward roll as her tail lanced down to dig deep into the white stone where he’d stood.

He came up smoothly, smiling with enjoyment, but the Nightmare Lady was on him immediately; her tail was nearly a second opponent on its own, coming at him from all angles even as she slashed and kicked at him with terrible speed. He was forced to parry her frontal attacks and then contort and throw himself aside each time her tail sought to impale him or cut him in half.

“How is he doing that?” asked Scorio in awe.

“Dread Blaze,” was Leonis’s only response.

But even he was hard-pressed to avoid her attacks; her tail was simply too flexible and strong, able to change direction mid-sweep without effort, so that when she caught hold of his forearm and brought her tail blade speeding toward his back, Scorio was sure the fight was over.

Instead, Feng stretched out his free arm and caused a burst of white dust to flow forth in a cone, washing over the tail and slowing it, reducing the strike to a turgid, almost lazy-looking attack. He wrenched his arm free, leaped back, then brought his cone over the Nightmare Lady so that she stood as if in the center of her own, personal blizzard.

“Feel free to concede whenever you like,” he said, tugging at his robe with his free hand to smooth it out.

The Nightmare Lady snarled and leaped at him, but she was visibly held back; Feng, nimble and quick, avoided her clumsy slash, stepped around her tail as it slowly sailed toward him, then hit her in the knee with a smart kick.

With each passing moment, the Nightmare Lady moved ever slower, as if she were drowning in honey, and Feng moved commensurately quicker; soon he wasn’t even bothering to block but simply ducked casually under her blows, stepped brazenly within her guard to tap her throat with two fingers, and otherwise displayed his mastery of the combat.

Even more incredibly, each time he stepped around her flank or out of her line of sight, she’d suddenly stiffen, freeze up, and cast around, looking confused and unsure of herself. Only to react in shock when he touched her shoulder or tapped her in the center of her spine, whipping around and seeming to remember what was going on.

By the time the Nightmare Lady sank into a crouch, her tail settling beside her, she was so stiff and slow that a child could have walked safely past her without much concern.

“Not a terrible first technique,” said Feng, stepping safely back and ending his cone of dust. “In time, and as you develop your other powers, you’ll become an effective close-quarters combatant. Still, try not to rely on your tail so much; deploying it so wildly will result in it being severed. Hold it back for critical strikes. Dismissed.”

Naomi reverted to her human form and rose to her feet, face downcast. Scorio could sense her fury and misery from where he sat. She trembled as she stood before Feng, thick hair sliding forward to obscure her face, body rigid, and when he dismissed her, she quickly returned to her seat, where she sat tightly coiled up upon herself.

Scorio wanted to talk to her, to reach out, to connect, but everyone was staring. He knew that Naomi would loathe any more attention at this point, so with great reluctance he let her be.

The rest of the class was more methodical; they drilled against each other, moving at first at half-speed, working on the cleanliness of their technique and trying to react smoothly to each other’s strikes, then at three-quarters speed, then at full.

This was followed by Feng demonstrating different bare-handed parrying techniques against different weapons, such as how a block against a stick differed from that of a swung knife. They took up wooden props and practiced, and then transitioned to working together on striking large, stuffed pads, going all out until Feng called time.

It was humbling how quickly Scorio ran out of strength when he gave the strikes his all, pounding the pads as hard and as fast as he could. Humbling when he was forced to slow while others continued savagely beating their targets, and in those moments, hands on his knees, sweat dripping down his brow, he thought on how real the advantage everyone else had over him due to their months of optimum training.

It only hardened his resolve to do better and cover lost ground.

The last section of class was the five demonstration bouts, and though they were held between unfamiliar students, Feng’s commentary was both thought-provoking and logical; Scorio found himself nodding as the instructor demonstrated why certain decisions had proven poor or inspired, and by the end of class felt eager to return the following day.

When the lights pulsed to signal the end of class, everyone set to putting away the equipment, while the five losers of the showcase matches went to fill large buckets with water and set to mopping the ground.

“Good work, class,” said Feng, fixing his hair as he turned away. “Tomorrow, do better.”

“He always says that,” said Leonis, scratching at his beard.

“Good advice,” said Lianshi, face gleaming from exertion and sweat. “Come on, let’s head back to our rooms. Leonis, I want to practice that take down a few times before lunch.”

“Do I look like a punching bag?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered,” said Lianshi with a laugh, tossing her hand towel over her shoulder.

The pair of them moved ahead, discussing the move, so Scorio allowed himself to move slower, matching Naomi’s pace. She’d done everything since losing her bout with listless energy, as if going through the motions, and more than once, Scorio had caught Feng watching her pensively.

He didn’t ask her anything though, just walked by her side. When Lianshi looked back to say something, she caught his expression, closed her mouth, and resumed walking ahead.

They entered the common room in silence, and Lianshi dragged Leonis aside when the big man went to make some jest.

For a moment Naomi just stood there, staring blankly at the floor, and then she turned and strode into her room, closing the door behind her.

“Hey,” said Scorio, rapping his knuckles softly on the wood. “Naomi?”

Nothing.

“Hey,” he said, knocking again. “Can we talk?”

Nothing. Or wait—was that a sound? Something small, barely heard.

Scorio tried the door, found it unlocked, and cracked it open.

He saw Naomi sat on her bed, arms wrapped around her shins, face buried against her knees. Her shoulders were jerking silently, and she didn’t look up when he stepped up beside her bed and sat slowly down on its edge.

“Naomi,” he said, unsure of himself, half-expecting her to change into the Nightmare Lady and cut off his head. “Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Her struggle to remain quiet grew all the more violent, and when he tentatively moved to sit beside her and wrap his arm around her shoulder, she let out a pained moan that sounded as if it had been torn right out of the bowels of her soul and leaned against him, her whole body a clenched fist.

“Hey,” he repeated, squeezing her gently. “Hey, it’s all right. You’re all right. You’re with friends. It’s going to be fine.”

She leaned against him as stiffly as a cartwheel set against a wall and wept. Deep, guttural sobs that were clawed out of her, fistfuls of pain that she fought against every time, and lost.

“I wanted to beat him,” she said between breaths. “I—I wanted to destroy him, to—to show him I was worthy of—of—”

“You are worthy,” said Scorio. “Are you kidding me? You forced a Dread Blaze to use one of his techniques on you. You were incredible.”

She looked up at him at last, eyes red between the thick strands of her hair. “You—you don’t understand, this was my chance, this was my chance. To show them, to show all of them…” She trailed away again in utter misery, tears welling up in her eyes and overflowing.

“You did. Were you expecting to beat him, Naomi?”

“Hurt him,” she said, voice thick with emotion, guttural. “Make him bleed.”

“That’s, ah, not a realistic expectation, I don’t think—”

“He mocked me!” Her cry was raw, loud, sudden. Jerking away from him, she glared with feverish intensity at Scorio. “He was one of them, Scorio! Who refused to train me, who said I wasn’t worth the time, that I wasn’t a true Great Soul! In front of a class just like that! He told me to go back to cleaning, and they laughed, they laughed at me as I walked out, so numb I felt like I wasn’t even a person anymore, I was so miserable I wanted to die—him, Scorio! And when I had a chance to prove him wrong?” Her face twisted in disgust as she stared down at her hands. “I didn’t even hit him, he just played with me, laughed at me, and then—and then he broke me down, humiliated me by forcing me to stop, to give up, till there was no way to fight him.”

“I mean, that’s his power, right? To slow opponents? He did it out of self-defense.”

“No,” she said, voice a low hiss. “I’ve never seen him do more than check his students with it. Ask Leonis and Lianshi. He saved his full power just for me.”

Scorio didn’t know what to say. She curled her arms about her shins again and lowered her face.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “If that’s true, then there’s only one thing we can do.”

“What’s that?” she asked, voice muffled.

“Get strong and kick his ass.”

She jerked her head up and frowned at him.

“I mean it,” he said with a grin. “He’s a Dread Blaze, sure, but it’s a big hell out there, right? Let’s do it together. Grow so strong that one day we can come back, and you can show him what you really think.”

She searched his face, looking so wretched and unsure of herself that Scorio felt his heart break. Finally, she gave him the slightest of nods. “All right,” she whispered. “Let’s do that.”

He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her again. “We’ll get through this, yeah? We’ve both been screwed over through no fault of our own. The odds have been against us from the start. But here we are. Doesn’t matter if it’s fair or not, we’ll still make it all the way. You and me. Together.”

“Together,” she said, and put her hand upon his forearm, temple resting against his chest. “Yes.”

They sat thus for a spell until a gentle knock sounded at her door. “Guys?” It was Lianshi. “I can’t keep Leonis back for much longer. He’s raving about lunch. Do you want to come with, or should I bring you back some food?”

“We’re coming!” called out Scorio. He stood and looked at Naomi. “Right?”

She sniffed loudly, wiped her sleeve against her face, then sat up straight. “Right. Give me five minutes?”

“Take as long as you need,” he said, moving to the door. “But we’ll be gone in five.”

She gave him a deadpan look. “That makes no sense.”

“I try to make as little as possible,” he said. “It allows me to keep pushing through this world without allowing reality to get me down.” And even though he knew the joke was terrible, it allowed him to smile at her, and to elicit a slight smile from her in return.

Slipping into the common room, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Leonis and Lianshi were standing by the front door, hesitant and unsure. He gave them a nod of assurance, but deep within him burned a spark of unyielding rage.

Damn Feng, he thought, pushing off the door. Damn him to hell.

Chapter 46

Each end of the Mana Studies hallway disappeared into obscurity, its length punctuated by islands of pearlescent light in which a Great Soul student knelt. The air was cool, charged with power, and scented subtly with mint; Scorio sat cross-legged, waiting as he was bid, and studied the small altar before him.

It was identical to the others, lacquered crimson and elegantly carved, a broad shelf with a golden sphere under each corner to lift it a few inches from the floor. It featured ten indentations, in three of which were objects that could only be classified as treasures.

The first was a ragged shard of dark, stratified rock which gleamed in the light of the thick candle set at the rear of the tray. Faint smears of iridescence glistened on its flat planes, seeming to ooze without ever actually moving.

The second was a bundle of copper shavings, fastened by a twist of copper wire, standing erect upon its indentation so that it had the appearance of a fountain frozen in time. Whenever he looked away from it the shavings seemed to move as if stirred by a light wind, but would prove immobile the moment he snapped his gaze back.

The third was a squat cube of gray metal, ponderous and crudely formed, composed of small rectangular ingots melded together. Its surface was dull, and Scorio derived a sense of sullen strength from it, an obdurate and stubborn power that felt no need to sell itself.

Scorio could sense their potency even without summoning his Heart. His attention drifted from one to the next, and to his surprise, he found that each had its own appeal; the Iron for its formidable strength, the Copper for its motility and lightness, the Coal for its familiarity, and possibly consequent sense of rightness.

Instructor Hera had commanded him to do nothing but meditate till she returned, but Scorio found it impossible to focus. He surreptitiously studied the students to his left and right, who clearly knew what was expected of them. They sat with their eyes closed, backs straight, one hand extended, thumb crossed over the palm.

There was no sound, however; the entire hallway, despite housing some fifty students, was still; the very intensity of focus and mana manipulation taking place made the atmosphere feel ponderous and heavy, as if he sat at the bottom of an ocean, surrounded by gelid currents that pressed down upon him at all times.

Finally, Instructor Hera appeared, emerging silently from the darkness to sit cross-legged across from him on the other side of the altar. The candlelight caused her striking features to appear even more dramatic, a mask of shadows and raised, illuminated surfaces. Her presence, however, was calm, and under the weight of her regard he found himself settling, shoulders relaxing, breath slowing.

“This must have been a very stimulating day for you, Scorio,” she said, voice soft, hushed, intimate. “But now is the time to put away all your thoughts and questions, your hopes and fears, and focus on the single most important talent any Great Soul can hope to master: mana manipulation.”

He nodded eagerly while trying to make his expression severe and serious.

“You’re a Cinder, which means you’re no stranger to the basics. The fact that you managed to ignite your Heart while outside the Academy is truly impressive; I understand that Naomi assisted in this matter?”

A question, a rhetorical one, perhaps, but Scorio nodded again.

“Then tell me what you know of mana and your relationship to it. We have time, as I’ve an assistant walking the hall to help the other students if a need arises. Be thorough, consider your words, and don’t worry about the limits of your knowledge.”

Her words had remained gentle and warm throughout, a stark contrast to her exacting tones from that morning’s class, and Scorio felt a sense of confusion and wonder; how quickly he’d formed a judgment about her, created a silent narrative that explained her as a person. The woman seated before him could have been that teacher’s sister, related but utterly distinct.

“Right,” said Scorio, and rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms on his knees. “Everything I know. I’ll begin with the, ah, relationship between our Hearts and the ambient mana.” And he outlined, as clearly as he could, the triangle of power, and how one’s inner flame was sparked by applying tension to their Heart once it was suffused with ambient power.

“Correct,” said Hera with a smile, and Scorio felt a rush of pride. “Stress, tension, or a sufficiently honed will can cause the very substance of your Heart to release as a spiritual vapor. This vapor reacts with the saturated mana to ignite your Heart, unlocking your ability to draw ever more power from the world around you. But note that you cannot ignite your Heart without consuming some small part of it; a balanced Great Soul will rely primarily on mana, and never consume more of their Heart than it can easily regenerate. Desperation, greed, or untempered ambition can lead Great Souls to empower their techniques with too much substance, resulting in the deterioration of their Hearts. The more you consume, the longer it takes to regenerate; the rate is exponential. A large part of what we practice here, therefore, is mindful control over the ratio of spirit vapor to ambient mana, so that it becomes instinctive to never use unhealthy amounts, no matter the short-term temptation.”

Scorio tongued the inside of his cheek as he absorbed this. “Naomi told me that some Great Souls can extend their ignition purely by consuming their Hearts, but that you change as a person the more you burn.”

“Correct. Your Heart is not merely a source of fuel for your techniques. It’s very literally you. Your sense of self, your morality, your values, your goals. If you burn your Heart away completely, it will never regenerate, and you will become a monster that others will hunt and put down.”

“Is that what happened to Imogen?” he asked softly, wondering if he dared too much.

A shadow passed over Hera’s face, and then she nodded. “Yes. She burned the entirety of her Heart, and was left with what’s called a Lacuna, a space where her Heart once belonged. This is thought to be a direct channel to the Pit, and results in ever-greater power, though the mechanics of this tragedy are not fully understood.”

“I see. But… she claimed to still love Imperator Sol.” Scorio searched Hera’s face, looking for some hint that he should stop speaking. “That she wanted to return to his side.”

“If she truly loved him, perhaps as she once did, do you think she would have created the situation that forced them to fight?” Hera’s smile was pained. “The Fallen, as they’re called, don’t see themselves as monsters. Nobody in this world does. Imogen no doubt still believes herself guided by love and the same virtues as before. But they’ve come untethered from reality. They are now little more than justifications for whatever she desires. If you were to ask Sol, do you think he would say he recognized the love that his former wife once had for him?”

“No,” said Scorio softly.

“No,” agreed Hera. “After what you witnessed firsthand, you more than most then will be served by this example and understand why you should never be tempted to burn your Heart recklessly as fuel. But moving on.” She sat up straight again. “What else can you tell me?”

So he told her about the variables in mana, ranging from degrees of purity to its density to its regeneration rate. The variables that governed training, namely frequency, intensity, and sheer amount. How Naomi had sought to find his edge where he was pushed to his limits but not overwhelmed. How the power of an Igneous Heart was determined by its depth, its reactivity, and ability to condense mana.

“Very good,” said Hera, her warm smile returning. “All the basics that we cover during our first month. Anything else?”

Scorio searched his memory for a moment, then smiled. “Ah—right. That what determines the limits of one’s advancement is the nature of one’s ambitions.”

“Excellent. Yes, and that’s what we work on during the second half of the year. Clarifying and identifying your motivations, and trying to modify them by finding deeper roots that will allow you to quest ever further for more power and change. Unfortunately, all Great Souls are hampered by a natural limitation. Do you know what that is?”

Scorio narrowed his eyes. Did he know? His long conversations with Naomi felt blurred now, a jumbled mass of information and discursions that probably had contained that fact. But nothing specific came to him, so he shook his head.

“Motivation and ambition stem from experience. A regular citizen of Bastion is born as a baby, with nothing more than the simple and primal desires to flourish, to love and be loved, to be safe, well-fed, and eventually be fulfilled at work and to create a family. Those desires are insufficient to fuel a Great Soul’s ascent to power. No, what drives us to reach the rank of Imperator is the injustices, the wrongs, and the traumas that we experience along the way. They must outrage us to the point that we strive to correct them, not just for ourselves, but for all others. Yet when we reincarnate, what have we lost?”

“Our memories,” said Scorio softly.

“Our past. The very experiences that drove us to become the legendary heroes that helped defeat the demons almost a thousand years ago. Those drives are still there, within us, but lost to our conscious minds. We cannot access them except through vague, emotional impulses. Angers that we don’t understand, intolerances that surprise us. But what is our salvation in this matter?”

Scorio’s blank face was answer enough.

“The Four Trials,” said Hera with an air of quiet satisfaction. “It is forbidden for Cinders to learn the details, but each trial reveals a facet of your original past. It is a process of rediscovery, though what you learn may shock you, disappoint you, challenge the person you are today. Regardless, these recovered memories are what ultimately drive students to Dread Blaze and possibly beyond.”

“I see,” said Scorio, her words crystallizing a sudden and undeniable desire. “We rediscover who we were, and that allows us to harness our old ambitions to become more powerful today.”

“Precisely. Now, the Academy begins this process by inculcating in our students a raw desire for power in and of itself. This desire is ultimately insufficient to get you far, but it reliably gets you to your First Trial, where your own memories and drives then take over and push you all the way to Dread Blaze. That is where most Great Souls find their natural choke point; unable to reconcile the person they’ve become today with the host of memories they’ve inherited, they stall out, not from lack of desire, but from an inability to collapse their former and current selves into a new whole.”

Scorio felt gripped by wild, rushing energy that swirled within his being like an unleashed vortex; he sat up straight, gripped his knees tightly, and studied Hera with renewed fascination. He’d spent so many cycles, so many Eighthdays, so utterly focused on his immediate problems that the complete lack of past, his lack of self-knowledge, was often something he forgot; but now the need to know who he was, what he had done, who his parents had been, where he’d grown up, what he liked, everything and anything about himself was so strong that it brought tears to his eyes.

With a breath that was half-gasp, he forced a self-conscious smile, and bounced his knees a few times as he sought to master the tempestuous emotions that sought to overcome him.

“I understand exactly what you’re feeling,” said Hera warmly. “We all do. We’ve all been there, many, many times over. It’s a void you can’t quite wrap your mind around until you face it fully; an absence you don’t appreciate until you’re given the chance to fill it. Almost everyone makes Emberling, Scorio, though it takes time, extreme effort, and access to the finest treasures. The drive to know coupled with the desire for power ensures that everyone reaches their First Trial eventually. How far you go from there will depend on what you discover about yourself and how well you can reconcile that knowledge with the world you live in today.”

Scorio gave a sharp nod. “Thank you, Instructor Hera. I’ll let nothing stop me from reaching Emberling as soon as possible.”

“So says every Cinder,” she said. “But how does one reach Emberling? It’s not simply a question of desire.”

Scorio relayed what Naomi had explained, the need to reach the very limit of his Heart’s ability to draw in mana, to expand its size to the point where he could barely cause ignition.

“Correct. It sounds simple, but in practice, it's as laborious as training to double the amount of weight you can lift. An exercise in discipline that requires time and constant work. Let’s see where you’re at with your development. Go ahead and summon your Heart, and then ignite with whichever mana source you desire. I’ll observe.”

Scorio felt a fluttering in his chest and swallowed quickly. He resisted the urge to smooth out the fabric of his robes over his knees, and instead closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to watch Hera watching him in turn.

This was it. After endless Eighthdays of training, after pushing himself to his very limits and risking everything to achieve this level of power, he’d finally get an objective evaluation of how far he’d come.

He took a deep breath, settled himself more comfortably, and then summoned his Igneous Heart. It appeared before him, large and faceted, dark and mysterious, and he took a moment to consider its obsidian substance in the light of his conversation with Hera. There, given form, was his very sense of self. His being. Raw-edged, enigmatic, its surface scrawled over with spidering lines.

Scorio then turned his attention to the ambient mana, and was nearly overwhelmed. The three treasures on the altar exuded incredibly potent and remarkably dense power, such that vivid streams of black, copper, and gray flowed up and washed around him, never mixing but forming endless layers in the air all around.

Which should he go for? Coal for its familiarity? Copper for its fluid flexibility? Iron for its greater power?

Iron. If he wished to impress Hera and show that he belonged, then anything less would speak to a lack of ambition.

He reached forth with his will, thinking of it as always a paddle, broad and strong, and sought to sweep the Iron mana around his Heart. He could feel Hera’s gaze, the weight of her consideration, and strove to move the Iron with efficiency.

It wasn’t intrinsically heavy and dull like Coal, but rather dense and requiring its own unique form of focus. As if Scorio had to be deserving of its service, had to manifest the requisite amount of authority to command it to do his bidding. Focusing intently, Scorio willed it into motion, and slowly it responded, moving about his Heart at a calm pace.

Then, with great focus, Scorio inhabited his Heart, became one with it, and drew upon the Iron, inhaling it into his being even as he willed it to flow into its core at the same time.

The Iron poured into his Heart smoothly, and Scorio felt his own sense of self change subtly in response; he felt more solid, more composed, his nerves soothing and his edginess washing away.

Once he’d drawn in as much as he could—though hardly a fifth of the Iron around him—he flexed his will and caused his Heart to ignite.

The effect was immediate; his Heart released great tongues of gray flame, and strength flowed into his body, making him feel fell and masterful. Scorio observed the burning Heart for a moment longer, admiring the ethereal flames, and then opened his eyes.

Hera, however, was frowning.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Your Heart,” she said. “You’ve been training exclusively with Coal, have you not?”

“Of course.” It took effort to keep his voice from becoming sharp.

“But not just Coal. A lot of Coal. You’ve been driven like all Great Souls to acquire power, and it’s cost you.”

“Cost me how?”

“Your Heart,” she said again, her voice turning stern. “It’s heavily fractured. Coal will do that if used in excess. You vent a good portion of the mana you take into your Heart before you can burn it.”

Scorio’s head drew back sharply as a sensation of dizziness swept over him. “Wait. Fractured?”

Hera nodded slowly, seeming to stare straight through him. “You’ve got patterning that indicates severe moments of stress that your Heart wasn’t strong enough to absorb. Did you consume elixirs or work with treasures of beyond Iron grade?”

Scorio nodded numbly.

“Right. I won’t ask how you came across such resources in the wild, but it's taken a toll. Right now you’re venting almost… I don’t know, a third of everything you draw in, and that amount will go up the harder you push yourself. Think of your current practice as jumping up and down on the edge of a crumbling cliff. Your best bet is to simply stand still, but even that won’t undo the damage you’ve already done.”

“There has to be something I can do to heal it,” said Scorio, though his voice seemed to come from far away.

Hera’s gaze focused and she smiled. “Of course. You’re far from the first Great Soul to have tried gaining too much too soon. Your Heart will heal, but remember what I said about it taking exponentially longer the more damage it's taken? Given the extent of the cracking, you’d heal up in a year or two if you didn’t push yourself until then.

Scorio immediately went to protest, but Hera raised a hand. “Of course, that’s not something anyone wants to hear. There are treasures and high-level pills available that will greatly speed up that process. Now, unfortunately, these are beyond the scope of what the mess hall will provide; we’re talking high-grade healing. Your best chance of acquiring such pills would be by acquiring the patronage of a major House.”

Scorio sat back, shoulders slumping. “I thought the Houses had already chosen their proteges.”

“They have. But you think them above acquiring a promising new candidate?” Hera’s smile was somewhere between pitying and encouraging. “They’ve evaluated the current cohort and made their selections. You weren’t there during that evaluation, and will merit scrutiny if you prove yourself.”

Despite her words, Scorio found it hard to wrench his mind away from the faults in his Heart. “And how would I do that?”

“The easiest way is to petition to enter the double-elimination tournament. I’m not sure how they would insert you—and probably Naomi—but if you enter and win enough combats, you’ll draw attention.”

“Right,” said Scorio, staring down at the altar of treasures. “Any other way?”

Hera pursed her lips and considered. “Accomplishing an impressive Gauntlet run at the end of the semester will draw attention, but you’ll be hard-pressed to stand out amongst your cohort as a Cinder with a fractured Heart. If you proved exemplary at your academic studies you might earn a recommendation from your instructors, but given how much material you must cover, that will prove challenging. We’ve many motivated and very intelligent students who are already excelling in class.”

“Great.” Scorio took a deep breath. “What about solving the problem with brute force? Simply becoming better at drawing in mana to compensate for what I lose?”

Hera raised an eyebrow. “Fine as far as it goes, but you’ll only cause your fractures to widen. It might be a temporary means to get ahead, but you’ll purchase your every success at the expense of your future.”

“Got it.” Scorio forced a deep breath and sat up once more. “Well, no regrets. I did what I had to do to get here. If my next step is winning the tournament, then that’s what I’ll do.”

“Impressive resolve,” said Hera with a wry smile. “Given that your cohort already boasts thirty-one Emberlings and you’re still but a Cinder.”

“Guess I’ll have to get to work then,” said Scorio, and managed a shaky smile back.

“Remember, I didn’t say you have to win the tournament. Simply draw enough favorable attention that one of the four Houses will offer you a sponsorship. You’ve already caused a significant stir with your role in Imogen’s defeat. Cement that interest with a few key victories, and then negotiate an offer to focus exclusively on healing. After that, you’d simply have to do your best to maintain their interest.”

“Right. By the way, how much would one of these healing pills cost? Can I just raise the money myself?”

Hera gave him a pitying look.

“All right, not going down that road just yet.” He let out a sharp breath, pursed his lips, and gave his despair one last moment before forcing it from his mind. “So. Mana Manipulation. What else do I need to know?”

“Given your situation?” Hera’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Let’s focus first on restorative techniques. I want you to close your eyes and envision what I describe next. Ready?”

Scorio did as he was bid. Felt his heart pounding in his chest, pounding fiercely, like an outraged prisoner clamoring at the cell door for his freedom. It’s not fair, he thought. I’d not be here if Praximar hadn’t hurled me through the Final Door. If I’d not been left to fend on my own, forced to drink toxic elixirs, to—

But with an act of will, he banished his fury and bitterness. The sooner he stopped expecting fairness from hell, the better.

* * *

Each evening after Mana Studies, their group would move at last to train under Instructor Rex in the bowels of the Academy, where he held court over a large battlefield, whose parameters he could shift through the powers of a wondrous purple gem that hovered by his side. Easily the size of a person’s head, it was utterly smooth like a great pearl, set in a cradle of platinum and gold of remarkable workmanship.

Scorio had caught sight of Rex during their fight against Imogen, but only briefly; as a formidable hand-to-hand fighter, the Dread Blaze had had difficulty getting in close to be of much use, but the wary deference even the other instructors showed him put Scorio immediately on his guard.

“All right, line up,” Rex had barked upon entering the antechamber on Scorio’s first evening. “Don’t waste my time, we’ve got a lot to get through tonight. You two.” Rex had caught sight of Naomi and Scorio immediately and moved to stand before them. “You know what you’re up against tonight?”

Rex was a lean, hard-bitten man with cauliflower ears and a face that looked as if a smith had used it as an anvil. His ruddy skin made him look as if he’d spent too much time under the light of First Clay, and his fair hair was thinning out on top.

The kind of man your gaze might drift over in a crowd, then be jerked back to uneasily as you noticed a feral intensity about him. An obdurate meanness that made you want to keep your distance.

“Yes, Instructor,” said Scorio. “A shifting battlefield where we either fight against each other or ghosts of your creation.”

“That’s right,” drawled Rex, linking his hands behind his back. “I’ll highlight two elements of these training exercises that you are to keep in mind before I throw you in. The first. Learn to fight as a team. That means use small group tactics, clear communication, and pick a leader, following their instructions. You won’t get far in the final Gauntlet run if you attack your foes like a pack of idiots. This is your chance to learn teamwork. Second, I spend just about every waking moment when I’m not wiping the drool off your chins dreaming up new and exciting challenges to throw at you all. The goal here is to be flexible and able to think on your feet. Make no assumptions. Assumptions will get you killed. And the goal?”

“To reach the far side of the battlefield,” said Scorio, “or reach it first if we’re facing another team of Great Souls.”

“That’s right. Speed will carry more battles than I care to describe.” Rex’s gaze glittered as he stared down at Scorio. “Speed combined with intelligence and aggression will win the day more often than not. Move fast, hit hard, and react before you get killed. The rest you’ll have to figure out as you go.”

“Yes, Instructor,” Scorio and Naomi both said.

“Very well.” He resumed walking along the line. “We’ll be tackling the course in groups of four. Today’s ghost day, which means I get to torment you all to my heart’s content. Each team will get a run, and then we’ll clear the battlefield for toe-to-toe exercises while I check in with each group to tell them why they failed so dismally. Asha, form a team and line-up.”

Scorio watched as the slender, dark-haired woman from his first Gauntlet run stepped forward, made eye contact with a few of their classmates, then picked out three willing accomplices. They lined up at the door through which Rex had entered and there conferred in low voices.

Rex then rattled off a dozen names, gave their class a leer, and stepped back out through the doorway into the battlefield.

Leonis had been one of the names Rex had spoken, so the four of them retired to a corner to sit cross-legged and confer.

“It’s simple,” said Lianshi. “Beyond the door is a huge room. It’ll be filled with some manner of battlefield, usually something that limits line of sight, and Rex will float above us with the Eye. He’ll direct the enemy and watch as we fight our way through.”

“Simple but brutally hard,” muttered Leonis, who then turned to watch as the light above the doorway flashed. Asha pushed the door open and led her team through. The door swung closed, and the light resumed burning with its steady light.

The second team moved to stand in position.

“We’ve run this course more times than I can remember,” continued Leonis. “And never reached the far side. It’s rare that a single team makes it all evening. People think it’s cause Rex increases the difficulty the closer you get to the far side.”

“Just like the Gauntlet,” said Scorio.

“Just so,” said Leonis. “But I think he punishes those who try to brute force their way through. Weaker teams who rely on tactics seem to make it further than impressive teams that just pound their way toward the finish line.”

“You missed the first week,” said Lianshi, voice hushed. “Rex gave us seven lectures and expected us to memorize every moment of them.”

Leonis gave them a lopsided smile. “It was fascinating stuff. Very practical. The key to success in the field is to shatter the enemy’s cohesion through a variety of swift, focused, and unexpected attacks which causes the enemy to lose control of the situation and suffer overwhelming defeat. Tactics become far more complex once we reach Emberling, and have a mixture of long-range and melee abilities, but for now, he wants to see us use appropriate planning, correct formations, intelligent use of the terrain, a clear chain of command, and an attempt to catch the enemy by surprise by audacious, concentrated attacks.”

“Sounds like a lot,” said Scorio.

“Just do what I say, and you’ll be fine,” said Leonis. “Again, a lot of this is just laying the groundwork for when we have more complex powers. Working together requires a lot of practice to avoid getting in each other’s way or even hurting each other. I’ll call out the commands as needed, and you both just try to execute them.”

The light over the door pulsed and the second team went in.

“What sort of terrain can we expect?” asked Naomi.

“Depends on how bad a mood Rex is in,” said Leonis.

“Which is always pretty bad,” said Lianshi. “Last time was marsh at night. Knee deep in mud and with almost no visibility. The evening before that was dense bamboo forest. And always with enemies that excel in that environment and are hard to pin down.”

“Sometimes we’re issued weapons,” continued Leonis, “but not often. Today’s just knuckles and kicks.”

“And tails,” said Naomi with a private smile.

“And tails,” said Leonis, reaching out to clap her on the shoulder. “With you here, I think we might have a chance of surprising Rex.”

The light over the door pulsed again, and the third team went in.

“That was fast,” said Lianshi.

“Come on,” said Leonis. “We’re up next.”

They lined up before the large, red door. Scorio felt pleasantly tired from the day’s activities—the morning run, the large meals, classwork, then the training with Feng, and the meditation cycle with Hera. But excitement made him feel light, ready for more, and he stepped in close to the others. “When do we ignite our Hearts?”

“Let’s evaluate the situation on the other side first,” said Leonis. “I’ll give you your cue.”

They waited another few minutes, and then the light over the door pulsed.

“Here we go,” said Leonis. “Stay close.” And led the way in.

They emerged into a large, ruined room, the ceiling missing, the floor strewn with broken furniture, torn clothing, and shards of glass. There were two doors, and no sign of anybody else.

Leonis gestured for everyone to move against a blank wall and dropped into a crouch. “No visibility, and I’m sensing mostly Copper. We’ll form a wedge, Naomi on point, and clear each room before moving on. Naomi, you’ll move in first, engage whatever enemies you see, and Lianshi and I will move in to flank and provide assistance right behind you. Scorio, take a moment to make sure we haven’t missed any hidden threats, then engage when you’re sure we’re aware of all dangers. Saturate your Hearts, but don’t ignite till we’re given cause. Clear?”

Naomi shifted up into her Nightmare Lady form and moved to the door on the left. Glancing up, Scorio saw Rex hovering in the darkness above them, the purple Eye floating by his side, his expression stern, forbidding, the cavern ceiling barely visible beyond him.

Leonis and Lianshi flanked the door as the Nightmare Lady slipped inside, and a moment later rushed in after her. Scorio stepped up to the doorway and peered inside, watched as the Nightmare Lady prowled down the length of a hallway to an arch, Lianshi and Leonis some six yards behind her, and then moved in once they were halfway down.

They repeated this process a couple more times, moving swiftly and silently through a series of rooms, all of them missing their ceilings, all of them looking as if a cyclone had torn through, and Scorio was just starting to get confident when violence exploded around them.

The walls, it turned out, weren’t as solid as they looked. They were traversing a long hallway when claws exploded through the painted wooden boards, grasping and clawing at Leonis and Lianshi in the center.

They reacted swiftly, but were hampered by the close quarters; the claws passed through their chests and necks and both flashed as red light flooded over them. The Nightmare Lady threw herself right at the wall and burst through it, crashing into the next room, and laid about her with her tail, slashing and decapitating a number of shadowy foes before being mobbed by dozens more who simply piled onto her.

Scorio ignited his Heart and sharpened his darkvision as he leaped in right after, striking and tearing foes off his friend, but there were too many of them. Those whom he focused on appeared like emaciated humans, genderless and without hair, features melting off their faces, arms elongated and roped with muscle. They swung and crowded in on him from all sides, and though he lashed out viciously, he soon flashed red as well.

“That’s it for your team,” said Rex from above as the walls and rooms and foes all faded away, revealing a huge, empty cavern easily a hundred yards long. “Move to the side quickly now.”

Leonis cursed and led them at a jog to the far side of the cavern where the other teams had gathered. A moment later, the battlefield manifested again, though for Scorio and the others all they were presented with was a long expanse of blank wall that no doubt formed the border of the ruined rooms within.

“Damn it,” said Leonis quietly as they gathered round. “We went down fast.”

Lianshi let out a deep sigh and gathered her hair behind her head into a ponytail. “We did almost everything right. Only mistake I can see was that we took the walls at face value.”

“Agreed,” said Naomi, tone curt. “I should have thought about that. If I could punch through them, anything else could have, too.”

Leonis scowled, genuinely upset. “That’s my mistake. I failed to evaluate the terrain properly. Still tend to think of things in terms of normal, human abilities, and not what we or our enemies can do. Won’t happen again.”

“Don’t get too down on yourself,” said Lianshi, slipping an arm around his waist. “You were leading two new people into combat. We just need to learn from this and not make the same mistake again.”

“That’s nice of you to say,” said Leonis, visibly trying to shake off his anger. “But how am I supposed to live up to being the Golden King and all that if I can’t even pull off a raid like this?”

“You probably didn’t earn those titles right away during your first life,” said Lianshi, sounding concerned. “Go easy on yourself.”

“Go easy?” Leonis stepped away. “There’s no time for going easy. Or, more accurately, all I do is go easy. But in moments like these, I need to do better. I need to show my quality. I owe it to myself, to my past, to—”

He cut off and turned away, frowning.

“Start with the basics,” said Lianshi. “Don’t make assumptions about walls. It’s a valid lesson.”

“Very valid,” said Naomi. “One I learned in the ruins but forgot here. My apologies.”

“Lianshi’s right,” said Scorio. “We’re here to learn, right? Well, let’s learn that lesson. I bet we won’t take any of the walls for granted when we make our Gauntlet run at the end of the semester.”

Leonis sighed and hung his head. “We’d better not. Mistakes like this could cost us everything. And I want to come back for the next semester, not be shipped out to some half-assed outfit in the Rascor Plains.”

“How so?” asked Scorio. “We don’t get to come back?”

“Remember? I think we mentioned it ages ago when we had our second lunch or something. You only get invited back if you’re in the top half of the class,” said Lianshi. “The fifty percent that does the worst at the Gauntlet doesn’t get to continue training.”

“Motivation,” Leonis said darkly. “Though it’s ironic that the ones who end up washing out each year are the ones who are given little more than Dark Star pills and receive no patronage upfront.”

“Self-fulfilling prophecy,” said Naomi. “Think of it as the Academy’s real lesson to you all. It’s the truth about how the world works.”

“We’ll make it,” said Lianshi firmly. “Scorio, you managed the top eighteen out of the whole class on your first run. We’ve Naomi now, and I didn’t do too badly either. If we can convince a top student to swap in for Leonis…”

And she laughed, ducking away as he made to grab hold of her.

“I stayed in the tournament longer than you did,” he said, expression dark. “So don’t mock me too much.”

Lianshi’s expression became concerned. “I was just joking, Leonis. Come on.”

“Yeah, I know.” But still, he turned away to stare morosely at the battlefield wall and Rex floating high above it all.

Lianshi shot Scorio a plaintive look, but he gestured for her to relax and give the big man some space. She nodded reluctantly, and they waited in silence thereafter as one team after another seemed to fail the course in roughly the same amount of time.

The battlefield faded away for the last time as the tenth group jogged over to join them, and Rex descended from the air, one hand upon the purple Eye, and frowned at them all.

“Pretty miserable showing, to be honest. Did you think you were running through your mother’s house, trying to find the kitchen for some warm milk? Oh, that’s right, none of you sorry bastards can remember your mother. You run like that through a battlefield, none of you’ll want her to remember you either. What’s the difference between cover and concealment?”

Asha, off to one side, raised her hand immediately. “If it doesn’t stop a blow, it’s concealment. Cover will hide and protect you both.”

“Correct, Cinder. Which makes it even more amazing that you forgot that principle in the field. Out there in hell, you’re going to fight across the strangest terrain you can imagine. Stuff right out of your nightmares, and if you can’t tell the difference between cover and concealment, you’ll find yourselves ambushed again and again and again.” Rex paused, his thin lips pursing in thought. “Correction. You’ll be ambushed once, and then you’ll be dead. Now, let’s move to team fighting. Pick a circle, any circle, and warm up with two on two.”

The great, smooth-floored cavern changed, as this time ten sparring circles appeared across its floor, the perimeter of each glowing a soft, unnatural lavender hue. Leonis led the way to the closest one, the empty nature of the cavern now causing their footsteps to echo.

“Warm up at half-speed,” called Rex, voice cutting through the low chatter. “We’re looking to land blows and coordinate with your partner. Cycle through the different tactics you’ve learned, and try switching from offense to defense. Go.”

They stepped into their circle, and Naomi and Scorio looked to their friends for guidance.

“Pretty simple,” said Leonis, rubbing at his beard and clearly trying to shake off his bad mood. “Teams will be Scorio and Lianshi, Naomi and myself. We face off, first fight in parallel, then cycle through back-to-back, split up, and try to catch the other team two-on-one. You’ll see.”

Rex called out the start, and they began, moving slowly, exchanging blows, parrying, warming up. It was interesting fighting alongside Lianshi; if they stood close enough together, they could assist each other, though it was clearly a skill to be learned; half the time, Scorio’s movements hampered her own, and threw her off. If they stepped a yard or more apart, it became more of a solo fight against their foe, though Leonis demonstrated how a coordinated play could shift both his and Naomi’s attacks against one of them for a moment, overwhelming their defenses, before shifting to the other if they weren’t on the lookout.

“Full speed,” called out Rex. “Let’s see some blows land, I want to see some effort, but don’t turn off your brains!”

All around them the teams began to spar in earnest, Leonis narrating as they fought in different configurations, explaining the benefits and drawbacks, whether it was the benefit of fighting back-to-back or moving swiftly around the circle as a pair, looking to corner another fighter as they angled for advantage.

If anything, it felt like a game; Scorio found himself grinning each time he and Lianshi managed to find advantageous positioning, each time they intuited what the other was trying to do and managed to work together to Leonis and Naomi’s downfall.

But their opponents were just as skilled, if not better; often Naomi would cause one of them to trip or stumble as she kicked their foot just as either Lianshi or Scorio were about to take a step, sweeping it out a moment before they placed their weight on it, and in that moment of staggering would leap on the other teammate to take them down with Leonis’s help.

Time lost meaning, and Scorio became fully invested in the contest; it really was more a matter of tactics than pure martial ability. Thinking quickly, maneuvering for advantage, tricking your foe with misdirection or feigned weakness could tip the odds rapidly in your favor, and if your partner was alert and quick, like Lianshi was, you could quickly capitalize on a moment’s advantage and wrest a smooth win.

“And time,” said Rex, who’d been walking between the groups and pausing each circle to offer advice. “That’s the full cycle. Tomorrow we’re going to start with team against team on mixed terrain, and then move in the second half of the class against ramp-up ghosts. Rest, eat, sleep. You’re going to need your strength. Dismissed.”

“Ramp-up ghosts?” asked Scorio, raking his sweaty hair from his brow.

“Yeah,” said Leonis, dropping down into a crouch to catch his breath. “Purple Eye illusions that get more competent by the second. We’ll fight them together. Sometimes it’ll be a single large foe, other times an equally sized group, sometimes numerous weaker foes. It’s pretty interesting, especially as Rex will often add anecdotes from his own fights and how he survived them.”

“That does sound good,” said Scorio.

Rex had exited the cavern by this point, and most of the other students were filing out as well. A couple here and there, however, had opted to remain behind, and were facing off in the glowing sparring circles.

“Ready?” asked Lianshi, smiling brightly. “A hot soak and dinner await.”

“Sounds good,” said Scorio. “That and I’ve got a question for you guys.”

“Oh?” Lianshi fell in beside them. “What’s going on?”

“It’s about my Heart,” he said, throat tightening up as he forced the words out. The other three turned to him, listening attentively. “And how entering the tournament may be my only hope to fix it.”

Chapter 47

“No,” said Naomi from the platform beside their pool.

“Why not?” Scorio folded his arms over the pool’s edge and rested his chin on his wrist. “You know you can defeat just about every other student here.”

“Because I don’t want to play their games,” said Naomi. “Because I don’t want to be sponsored by one of their loathsome Houses. Because I don’t want to perform like a trained animal for their amusement.”

“All valid points,” said Leonis from where he floated, arms outstretched. “But there are other reasons to fight.”

“I’m in no need of special elixirs or rare treasures if it means accepting ownership from a House. Aligning my future with their goals and needs. I would rather remain free and determine my own path.”

Scorio frowned. She sat cross-legged above him, still clad in her training robes, her expression fierce, defiant.

“Yeah, I understand,” he said at last. “I was just hoping for company when I went to knock on Helminth’s door.”

Her expression clouded and she opened her mouth before closing it again.

“But I really do understand,” said Scorio. “I’d not go that route if I had a choice.”

“I know,” she said. “I understand. But that’s not for me.”

“Too bad. Would have been fun to watch you tear everyone apart,” said Scorio. “Guess you’ll just have to settle for cheering me on, instead.”

Lianshi sat on the ledge at the rear of the pool, her form wreathed in mist, her head tilted back, a wet cloth draped over her eyes. “About time you gave us something to cheer for.”

“Hey,” protested Scorio, turning around. “What happened to that whole ‘saving Bastion by defeating an Imperator single-handedly’ thing?”

“That,” said Lianshi languidly, “was last week.”

“And sounds a little embellished, to be honest,” said Leonis, slowly bringing his arms to his side so that he slid across the pool’s surface. “Though I applaud the attempt.”

Scorio shook his head, his expression one of faux disgust, then sighed and pushed away from the platform’s edge to float back across the pool. “Anyway, there’s no guarantee the Hell Whip will let me in. Tournament’s on, what, its seventh round?”

“Seventh,” agreed Leonis placidly, sounding perfectly at peace with all of hell. “Should have been eighth, but no fights were held last Eighthday due to the, you know, Imperator attack.”

“The one I stopped,” said Scorio.

“Sure,” said Leonis with a smile. “Let’s think of it that way.”

Lianshi sighed and pulled the wet cloth from her face. “Even if you get in, you’ll have a hard time making the kind of impression you’re looking for. We’re down to sixty-four contestants in the winning bracket, and, what, a hundred and twenty-eight in the losers?”

“Nope.” Leonis reached the pool’s far edge and went vertical, gripping a ridge as he turned to regard them, long hair and beard plastered his head. “That was going into the sixth round. Losers’ bracket has been halved since then, down to sixty-four as well.”

“Top hundred and twenty-eight Great Souls in our class,” said Lianshi, “though half of them have lost a fight.”

“I came in the top—what was it? Our first Gauntlet run. Top twenty?” Scorio reached Lianshi’s ledge and sat beside her, swirling the water back and forth with absent-minded strokes of his arm.

“Eighteenth,” said Leonis, pushing back out into the pool to turn and float once more on his back. “Not that anyone’s keeping track.”

“Eighteenth,” said Scorio. “I should be able to compete in the top hundred and twenty-eight.”

“Thirty-one of which are already Emberlings,” said Lianshi, dipping her cloth in a bowl of cold water she’d brought. “Though a handful more should have progressed since the last count.”

“But they’re going to be in the winner’s bracket, right? In the top sixty-four? I’m planning to ask to enter the loser’s bracket.”

“Losers?” asked Leonis, turning his face sideways so one eye dipped under the luminous blue waters. “That the best way to make an impression?”

Naomi’s tone was wry. “It’s better than being cut in half three seconds into his first fight.”

“And helps me avoid Jova, Ravenna, Kuragin, and all the other top students,” said Scorio. “If I progress to the eighth round, I’ll be in the top thirty-two of the loser’s bracket. That might start attracting some attention, right?”

“I can see it now,” said Leonis, voice rich and reverberant with amusement. “Here lies Scorio. He was all right, I suppose, and made the top thirty-two of the loser’s bracket.”

Scorio splashed water over Leonis’s face, but the large man didn’t seem to mind.

“I think it’s the right move,” said Naomi seriously. “Whoever you’ll fight will have lost once, and that will make them wary. Desperate, even. You’ll be an unknown quantity except for the fact that you defeated an Imperator single-handedly. That will give you even more of an edge.”

“Really?” asked Lianshi, wringing the excess water out of her cloth and leaning back to drape it over her eyes. “That version is becoming canon now?”

“I just need to convince Helminth to let me in.” Scorio frowned at the swirls of vapor. “Just don’t see how she can slot me in if the bracket is already filled. Not like she can just ask someone to drop out.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Leonis. “I think you’ll be fine. There wasn’t the right number of us to begin the tournament neatly, so she asked which of us wished more glory by fighting twice to even out the bracket, and just about everyone volunteered.”

“You think she’ll ask again?” asked Scorio.

“Don’t see why not.” Leonis turned over and swam slowly over to join him. “Can’t you envision it? Her challenging any of the remaining sixty-four losers if one of them wants to prove themselves by fighting the Savior of Bastion?”

Scorio heard Lianshi let out a moan of exasperation.

“That’s true,” said Scorio, feeling a little more animated. “And since the fights take place in the Gauntlet, it’s not like they’ll suffer any consequences of an extra fight.”

“Not in the Gauntlet,” said Leonis. “But yes, you’re right.”

“Right. When do you think I should approach her?”

“You should have already knocked on her door,” said Naomi from the far side of the pool. “The longer you take, the less interested she’ll think you are, and the less likely she’ll be to make last moment adjustments.”

Scorio sat forward in alarm. “You think I should go now? As in, now now? At this hour?”

“Helminth will probably tell you to go away,” said Lianshi lazily, “but she’ll register the effort.”

“Right.” Scorio blinked rapidly, then gave a sharp nod. “I’ll go now, then.”

Nobody said anything, so Scorio dove forward, pulled himself up onto the far platform in an eruption of water, and grabbing a towel from the copper hook, ran along the paving stones through the thick bank of ferns to his room.

Ten minutes later he took a deep breath as he stopped before Helminth’s suite. The instructors shared a broad hallway high above the student rooms.

Was it too late? Had his friends been setting him up? Scorio glanced up and down the hallway. Completely empty. The copper light spheres burned steadily, giving no indication as to the lateness of the hour. It was still Second Clay, however; outside the rains would just be beginning to fall, the sun-wire dimming toward final darkness.

Still technically daytime.

Scorio rapped firmly and stepped back.

A moment later the door was yanked open, and there stood Helminth. She was breathing heavily, square shoulders rising and falling, her hair hanging loose, long strands stuck in dark, curving lines across her brow which glistened in the soft light with sweat. Clad in a rough and patched training robe, she looked almost startled to see Scorio standing there, her eyes narrowing in confusion, broad lips pursing. Then she raised her forearm to lean against the doorframe. “Scorio? What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I—apologies, Instructor.” Scorio bowed quickly, straightened, and took a step back. “I have an urgent request to make. I didn’t want to wait till tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s interesting.” She looked him up and down again, then pushed off the doorframe. “Come on in, then. Close the door behind you.”

The front door opened to a large reception chamber. The left wall was a bank of deeply recessed windows that allowed Second Clay’s bloody light to illuminate the row of chairs set against the wall opposite, and which caused the colors of the stunningly rich rug that covered the floor to smolder. Banners and old weapons hung from the walls, and the far end of the chamber was dominated by a large alcove in which a small waterfall trickled down over artfully placed rocks topped by a large hunk of green crystal that radiated powerful mana.

“Through here,” said Helminth, passing through an archway into the room to the right. Scorio followed and entered a more intimate sitting room. A low, circular table surrounded by cushions was set in the center, with a stone tea set placed upon a tray complete with miniature cups. Massive wall scrolls depicting what were probably advanced variations on the Forms hung artfully upon the walls where they were illuminated by the soft radiance of glass spheres suspended by copper threads from the ceiling.

An open door revealed what had to be Helminth’s office to one side, a glimpse of a massive table to be seen beyond, while other doors led deeper into her suite.

“So, Cinder,” she said, gathering her mane of hair from her shoulders and the sweaty nape of her neck to pull it into a thick rope which she tied off at the scalp with a leather thong. “An emergency worth risking my wrath. Shall we cut to the chase?”

“Yes, Instructor. It’s about the tournament.”

“Of course it is.” She strode to one side of the sitting room where two iron rods extended from the wall upon which an iron bar as thick as Scorio’s arm lay. Helminth stepped under the bar and up, so that it lay athwart her shoulders. Grasping it with both hands, she then stepped back. Scorio studied her back as she took a deep breath. “Go ahead,” she said. “Make your case.”

“You see, I was obviously expelled from the Academy before I had a chance to enter and compete. My return last week was meant to give me full access to all the Academy’s resources and opportunities—”

The Hell Whip took a deep breath and suddenly the bar sagged heavily into the muscles of her shoulders, causing her knees to flex before she straightened out once more with great effort.

“Keep going,” grunted Helminth, and with a deep breath, she slowly lowered herself into a crouch and rose smoothly once more to standing.

It was only then that Scorio saw the cracks radiating out from where she stood, the stone floor looking like a pane of glass that was about to shatter.

“I—right. I wanted, I mean, I believe I should have fair access to all the opportunities the Academy offers, including the chance to, ah, earn the patronage of the main Houses.”

Helminth took another deep breath and sank once more into a deep squat. Scorio found himself staring and she powered back up, her muscles straining, and half-turned to stare at a scroll hanging beside her office door.

“That’s it?” she asked, voice tight with effort. She wriggled her feet from side to side, as if settling herself into a better pose, and then the ground crackled under her feet as the rod pressed even deeper into her bunched-up trapezius muscles.

“No, I mean, I’d like to enter the loser’s bracket.” Scorio resisted the urge to cough into his fist. “I understand that we’re in the seventh round, and it doesn’t feel fair to ask to enter the winner’s group. I was hoping you might ask the current sixty-four if any of them would be willing to fight an extra round against me before their own bout, as both a chance to earn glory as well as, ah, afford me a chance to enter the running.”

His words hung in the air, and for a moment all he could do was stand there, staring at the wall scroll, listening to Helminth’s stertorous breathing as she labored under her bar.

With a gasp, she straightened one last time, and when Scorio risked a glance her way, he saw that the bar rested lightly on her shoulders once more. She lowered the bar onto the iron rods, ducked back out from under it, and turned to consider him, chest rising and falling once more due to the powerful effort. “The loser’s bracket, you say?” Her eyes gleamed, her lips curving into an amused grin. “How noble of you. Very considerate. But yes. Hera already spoke to me about your condition. Without this chance, you’re out of luck, aren’t you?”

Scorio stood a little straighter. “Yes, Instructor Helminth.”

“Yes, well.” She stepped over to a shelf, upon which dozens of small towels were folded in neat squares. “Given the fact that an Imperator sponsored your readmittance to the Academy, I think it only fair to give you a chance.” She shook out the towel and wiped the sweat from her face. “That and how you played a part in saving Bastion. You’ve earned a little leeway, and I’d wager a number of the students are itching to try their luck against you. So, yes.” She wiped the sweat from her brow and then stood there, towel pressed to the nape of her neck, considering him, her gaze flicking up and down.

Scorio held her gaze for a moment, then began to feel mildly uncomfortable under her appraisal. It was very direct.

“Thank you, Instructor,” he said after a beat. Had she been waiting for him to speak? “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“It’s only fair.” She dropped the towel on the circular table as she crossed the room to where a jug sat upon a sideboard. Poured herself a large cup of water, then turned back to him, leaning one hip against the sideboard, an arm crossed over her chest. “The fights are on Seventhday. That gives you five more days to prepare. I’d use them wisely if I were you, and not pass up any opportunities that present themselves.”

“Right, of course,” said Scorio, nodding sharply. “I’ll apply myself. Thank you again, Instructor.”

Helminth smiled against the lip of her cup. The silence drew out once more, and then her smile widened briefly in amusement, and she gestured with her other hand. “You’re welcome, Scorio. Dismissed.”

He bowed low, heart thumping, and hurried back through the reception chamber and out into the hallway. He closed the door and stood, frowning at nothing. After a moment, he took a deep, shuddering breath, then forced a smile. Success.

* * *

At breakfast the next morning, Scorio noticed the way the other Great Souls stared at him. He’d kept a low profile during the run, but even so, he kept catching subtle glances and even outright stares as he made his way to join his friends at the breakfast table, empty tray in hand.

“Don’t let it bother you,” Lianshi said, moving slowly down the steaming tables of delicacies and exquisitely cooked food. “You’ll quickly learn that even the sternest Great Soul is little more than an avid gossip at heart.”

“I say enjoy it,” said Leonis, dumping a fifth ladle of mashed root vegetables onto his plate. “Before you know it, Jova or Zala or Chen She will do something everyone’s thought impossible up till now, and you’ll be yesterday’s news.”

Scorio frowned down at his bowl of black honeyed beef soup, the nape of his neck prickling. “That sounds great to me. Can someone tell them to hurry up already?”

“Ignore them,” said Naomi brusquely, using a pair of silver tongs to help herself to a mountain of grilled meat in a gleaming orange sauce. “It’s the ones that ignore you that are worth paying attention to.”

“By that measurement, you’re the most important person here,” said Leonis, taking up a half-dozen breadsticks encrusted with glazed garlic and quickly stepping out of her reach. “Given that you refuse to even look at anyone else.”

Naomi scowled at him. “I’ll consider them when they prove worthy of the consideration.”

Taking their trays, they crossed the cavernous hall to their customary spot, a circular table set within a small alcove, the dusty skull of some ancient fiend presiding over their meal, its horned head jovially festooned with an equally ancient hat.

“So, Scorio, when will your entry to the tournament be announced?” asked Lianshi, scooting in beside him and filching a breadstick from Leonis’s tray.

“I don’t think it will be,” said Scorio. “At least, Helminth made it sound like it would just happen the day of, not before.”

Leonis reached out with a pair of slender eating sticks and snagged a grilled shrimp from Lianshi’s salad. “That’s better for you. More shock value. Helminth is proving surprisingly helpful in all this.”

“Nothing is freely given,” said Naomi, raising her bowl of noodle soup to her lips. “Look for the hidden dagger.”

“The hidden dagger? No offense, but someone spent too much time in the ruins,” said Leonis. “The real danger is Scorio’s disadvantages. He’s still just a Cinder, and with his Heart fractured, will have to go for a quick knockout. But it’ll be a short road, even if he wins his first bout. After all, Jova’s practically a Tomb Spark at this point and she’s not the only one eating treasures like grapes. Ah! Will you look at this feast? Carve the sight into your memories, my friends.” And he spread his arms to take in the whole of their table, which boasted almost a dozen bowls and platters of every kind of delicacy. “Are we not fortunate? Fed from the best that hell can offer, treated like royalty, and asked only that we work hard at that which we’re already passionate about?”

Naomi slurped her noodles noisily into her mouth, then wiped a napkin across her lips. “Didn’t you see the people we helped in Ward 3 last week?”

Leonis frowned. “Of course. And I lament their situation. But why should I suffer just because they’re going hungry? Should I starve and weaken myself because I’m fortunate?”

“No,” said Naomi. “Do what you please. But it feels wrong to be dining on…” And she reached over to his tray to lift a stick of candied rock crab as if it were an alien object. “… this kind of luxury when there are children out there begging for a crust of bread.”

“You’re right,” said Scorio, looking at his tray of food with a new eye. “I’ve been so happy to just be here that I forgot the endless lines outside the gruel fountains.”

“Gruel fountains?” asked Leonis, eyebrows rising. “You’re joking.”

Both Scorio and Naomi stared at him.

“You’re obviously not joking. That sounds hideous.” Leonis rubbed at his jaw. “Perhaps we can start an initiative of some sort? See if we can’t convince the administration to donate some of the Academy’s food to those in need?”

Scorio nodded soberly. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll go with you. It’s not right that we dine like kings while others starve.”

“Well, I intend to continue dining like a king,” said Leonis, “but there’s no reason we can’t help others at the same time.”

Naomi sighed and shook her head.

A group of students who had been passing by their alcove came to a stop as one of their members turned suddenly to approach their table.

Scorio looked up, a noodle halfway slurped into his mouth, and saw a towering man staring down at him, expression as friendly as a knife tip aimed at your eye.

“Kuragin,” said Leonis, tone amicable, but Scorio knew him well enough to hear the tone of mild warning. “Can we help you?”

Kuragin was a massive youth. He looked like some wasteland refugee who’d grown strong on the flesh of his fallen companions. Features hard and flattened as if by cruel elements, eyes glittering, hair a dusty black that looked hacked at with a sharp knife. Skin dusky and bronzed as if tanned by a foreign sun, his whole body radiating menace and the potential for violence. His eyes were stormy with intensity, his manner unyielding, and he didn’t answer Leonis at once, instead choosing to just stand there and study Scorio.

The other students clustered behind him uneasily, and with a start, Scorio noticed Asha amongst them, her expression dour, closed.

“Word is you helped an Imperator defeat Imogen the Woe,” said Kuragin, his words a mocking drawl. “That without your help Sol the Just would have lost, and the city been destroyed.”

Scorio considered, then sat up and slurped the last of the noodle into his mouth. “Something like that, sure.”

“Something like that.” Kuragin smiled mercilessly. “But I’ve also heard that you sided with Imogen at first. That you only decided to help Sol when you realized you’d made the wrong bet.”

The silence spread out from where Kuragin stood like ripples extending out from a pond.

Scorio sensed his friends tense by his side, but before any of them could reply, he wiped at his lips once more with his cloth napkin and stood, edging out from around his table, forcing Kuragin back so that they stood inches apart.

The movement bought him time. A hot wave of alarm rushed through him, his appetite disappearing and his gut clenching. How could Kuragin know that? The only ones who’d have heard him speak to Imogen would have been those controlled by her fog, who, outside of his friends, would have been Pyre Lords or higher.

“Kuragin, right?” Scorio kept his words soft.

The other Great Soul narrowed his eyes, expression hard. “Simple question, Scorio. You going to answer it?”

“Interesting that you should ask it,” replied Scorio. “Seeing as it was Sol the Just who declared I’d helped him. Something the White Queen agreed with. Are you questioning their judgment, Kuragin?”

The mess hall had gone completely silent. Over a hundred students were staring at them, drinking in the moment. Scorio ignored the frozen tableaux, and instead focused on the huge man before him.

The youth’s lips quirked into the smallest of smirks. “I’m not arguing that you helped. Just asking if you had a change of heart at the last moment. If you said those words. If you’re a coward who regretted picking the wrong Imperator to suck up to when Sol the Just showed you the error of your ways.”

Something within Scorio stilled. His smile remained on his lips, but the rest of the world seemed to fade away. In a rush, he felt his past wash over him, his every sacrifice, his every loss, each moment of pain and privation. How could he ever hope to explain that to someone like Kuragin? In whose dark eyes gleamed a surety of the truth? Should he explain, plead his case, tell them he said those words, yes, but had been trying to trick the Imperator, not expressing cowardice or opportunism?

No.

His pulse began to pound in his ears like waves upon a distant shore. His hands tingled, and his muscles suddenly felt twitchy, restless. Fire flowed through his veins, and he forced his smile to widen just a fraction more.

Kuragin narrowed his eyes in suspicion, sensing a dangerous change, but it was too late.

“Well you see,” he began, and then he jerked his head forward with as much force as he could muster, a violent explosion that brought his brow crashing down upon the bridge of Kuragin’s nose.

He felt cartilage crunch as cries of horror and alarm broke out everywhere.

Kuragin’s head rocked back, but he didn’t lose his balance; his eyes narrowed in pain, momentary confusion, and then turned into something vicious, something Scorio recognized: anticipation.

“You see,” said Scorio again, raising his voice, stepping in after the other Great Soul. “I’m not used to having my decisions and actions questioned by a Cinder who wasn’t there and had no effect on the outcome of the battle.”

“Scorio,” hissed Lianshi, grabbing at his arm. “He isn’t—”

“A Cinder,” said Kuragin, dropping his hands and glaring at Scorio, blood running down his upper lip. “Bad move, Red Lister.”

Kuragin began to shift. His body grew, his shoulders broadening, his neck shortening, his face transforming into something monstrous. His mouth split open wide, becoming a fanged maw the width of his head, while his nose sank away and disappeared. His eyes became burning yellow pits, his skin rough, his musculature exaggerated to the point of deformity.

But those were the least of his changes. His hands morphed into huge digging claws, massive and serrated, his fingers growing inflexible, while a thick carapace covered his back, the shell a mottled crimson and black, sweeping over his head to form a horned helm, down his back, across the fronts of his thighs and shins and along his shoulders, the sides of his biceps, and forearms.

Finally, a huge tail dropped into view, thick as Scorio’s wrist and terminating in a ridged club.

Leonis emerged from behind the table, palms extended. “Come on now, this isn’t the time or place—”

“Apologize,” growled Kuragin, his voice changed into a rasp, his tail lashing behind him. “On your knees. Apologize or I’ll punch your nose down the back of your throat.”

Scorio slipped his hand into his robe, palming his nubbin of chalk. He kept his sneer on his lips, his anger still pounding in his ears, but even in his rage, he wasn’t immune to the danger before him. Kuragin had grown some four inches in height and width, his limbs and body become massive, and his claws looked like they could tear through living rock.

How did you hurt someone like that?

Leonis stepped between them, placing a palm on Kuragin’s chest. “Come on, both of you. Let’s talk this over—”

“Don’t touch me!” roared Kuragin, and swung his claws at Leonis’s jaw.

Or tried. His fist shuddered to a stop inches away from Leonis’s face, having impaled itself upon a foot-long blade that had slid between his knuckles and deep into his wrist.

“Oh no,” whispered Asha, stepping back.

The Nightmare Lady crawled onto the table, somehow moving with sufficient grace to avoid knocking over any of the cups or displacing the trays. Her tail arced over them all, segmented and glistening, and her sulfurous green eyes were locked on Kuragin, who was staring at his fist.

“If you’re going to throw your weight around,” she hissed, voice low and lethal, “then I’ll play, too.”

With a wrench Kuragin yanked his fist back and off her bladed tail, causing dollops of thick, burning blood to fall upon the floor where they sizzled and sent up slender streams of smoke.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said, expression strained. “But I’m going to put you through that wall.”

“Try it, ugly,” whispered the Nightmare Lady, lowering herself down like a cat about to spring, her tail undulating overhead.

Suddenly a great weight fell upon Scorio, driving him to his knees with punishing force, then down to all fours. He saw Kuragin struggle and sink as well, and heard the table shatter under the Nightmare Lady as it failed to bear her weight. The crowd around them all suffered equally, everyone wilting and collapsing under the impossible pressure.

“Now, I know that Emberlings aren’t starting a fight in the mess hall.” Helminth strode through the crowd toward them. Her tone was amused, genial almost. “That would be an absurd flouting of the rules, something unheard of so deep into the semester.”

Kuragin reverted to his human form, and Scorio saw that the wound in his hand had healed over, leaving only an angry thick scab in its place. “Apologies, Instructor. This is my fault. I lost my temper.”

Scorio clenched his jaw as he wrestled against the suffocating pressure and pushed himself upright so that he could sit upon his heels. The effort made motes of black dance in his vision, but it allowed him to stare in surprise at Kuragin.

“You instigated this?” Helminth frowned down at where the Emberling knelt. She turned slowly to take in the entirety of the scene, from the Nightmare Lady amidst the wreckage of the table and all its food to the watching crowd. “I’m disappointed. Losing your temper is the opposite of an excuse. Those involved in this matter, follow me.”

And just as quickly, the pressure evaporated. Several of the affected Great Souls sighed in relief, and everyone rose to their feet.

Scorio, Leonis, Naomi, and Kuragin followed the Hell Whip as she cleaved through the crowd of gawking Great Souls to one of the exits.

They were led through the hallways at a brisk pace, Scorio keeping his gaze straight ahead as others paused to stare at their group, until at last, they reached Helminth’s suite. They paused as the instructor unlocked the door. Had he only been here last night? That entire encounter now seemed surreal, dream-like.

They filed slowly into the large reception chamber. Helminth pointed at the rows of chairs against the wall. “Sit. Kuragin, you’ll give me your testimony first. Follow.”

And with that, she led the Emberling through a doorway deeper into her suite.

Leonis sat heavily, clapping his hands on his knees as he stared at the windows with a frown. “That went well.”

Scorio sat beside him. “Insofar as you still have your face? I’d agree.”

“Thank you, by the way.” Leonis leaned forward to look past Scorio at Naomi. “That intervention was much appreciated.”

“He should never have swung at you,” she said sullenly. “He’d have taken off your jaw.”

“Well, I’m pretty tough,” protested Leonis. “I might have been a little bruised—”

“He’d have taken off your jaw,” said Naomi firmly.

“Fair enough.” Leonis leaned back with another sigh. “But by the ten hells, what were you thinking, Scorio? Headbutting him like that?”

Scorio frowned, chewed his lower lip, and said nothing.

Naomi was called in shortly after. Kuragin sat a few chairs down from Scorio and Leonis, arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes closed. Silence radiated from his form like heat, and Scorio took the opportunity to study him covertly. The ridge of his nose had healed from Scorio’s blow, and the thick scab between his knuckles had peeled off to reveal tender, pink skin.

“You’re next,” said Naomi, emerging from the room beyond, her face rigid with self-control and anger.

Scorio stood, tugged his robes straight, and stepped through the door into the private sitting room. It was surreal to think he’d been here just the night before. Putting the memory aside, he crossed it to the office door and stepped inside.

It was as clean and sparse as the rest of her suite; a broad table of lustrous wood dominated the space, its surface bare but for a scroll on which freshly-inked characters were drying; Helminth reclined in a large chair, her gaze narrowed as she studied Scorio.

“Come in and close the door.”

Scorio did as he was bid, and sat in one of the plain chairs before her desk.

“This is not a good look, Scorio,” said Helminth, tapping her quill upon her lips. “Kuragin has taken full responsibility for the exchange, but that doesn’t change the fact that you struck the first blow.”

Scorio remained quiet.

She sat up, movements brisk, and dipped the tip of her quill in a stone inkpot. “But let us begin at the beginning. Please give me your version of the events.”

Scorio did so, his words terse, making no effort to paint his actions in a better light. Helminth wrote her notes in a quick, elegant hand, and when he was finished, she placed her quill into a small hole set into the side of the inkpot.

“At least we need not sort through contradictory accounts,” she said, interlacing her fingers behind her head as she leaned back once more. “Do you have anything further to say for yourself?”

Scorio studied the powerful woman. Even relaxed as she was, reclining in her chair, she evinced a potent sense of mastery, of being able to explode into violence at a moment’s notice.

There was no doubting that he sat across from a Dread Blaze, and that very sense of her power quelled any inclination he had for making excuses or asking for understanding.

“No,” he said.

“Very well. I’ll say this: if you want any chance to acquire a sponsor, this is exactly the kind of trouble you should be avoiding. Now, return to the waiting room and send in Leonis.”

He arose, bowed at the door, and did as he was bid. Sat down next to Naomi as Leonis left, and together they simply stared straight ahead. Despite her simmering anger, he took comfort in her presence, and he could only hope she took the same from him.

Leonis’s account was perhaps the longest of them all, and the Hell Whip returned with him to stand before them, arms crossed over her chest.

“This is a disappointing breach in discipline,” she said, tone flat. “Kuragin, the Academy expects far better from you. You are denied Eighthday privileges and will report to Master Pully each morning instead of attending class to assist him and his crew in groundskeeping duties until further notice. Dismissed.”

Kuragin gave a stiff nod, his expression inscrutable, and left the waiting room.

“Leonis, you acted to defuse the situation, and are accused by none of your peers. You are free to go.”

Leonis gave a sharp series of nods, his brow furrowed, but as he arose, he didn’t seem relieved. He moved slowly toward the door, clearly hoping to remain for the rest of the sentencing, but a stare from Helminth saw him on his way.

“Scorio and Naomi, you will follow me.”

And with her notes in hand, the instructor led them back out into the hallway. Naomi and Scorio rose slowly, confused, and after exchanging a suspicious glance followed Helminth down the hall, up a flight of stairs, then down an even broader corridor that terminated in a grand set of double doors. A lectern was placed to one side, but nobody was in attendance.

Helminth directed them to sit on chairs set against the hallway’s walls, and then knocked on the door before entering.

“What’s going on?” whispered Scorio, taking in the luxurious corridor. Alcoves along its length displayed wondrous works of art, while skylights allowed the ruddy light of First Rust to illuminate the rich red carpet that ran all the way down to the stairway.

“This is Praximar’s office,” said Naomi, her words clipped. “We’re done for.”

“Done for?” Scorio stared at the double doors in surprise. “But why just us? Kuragin took responsibility.”

“Oh, grow up, Scorio,” snapped Naomi. “You think we’d be treated the same?”

Scorio’s frown deepened. “We have to be.”

To which she only sighed, crossed her arms, and leaned her head back against the wall to stare straight ahead.

They sat there for a spell until the door opened and Helminth emerged without her notes. “The chancellor will see you now.”

Scorio arose slowly. He wanted to protest, but the Hell Whip’s expression was severe and distant; he’d find no ally there.

Instead, he led the way into the room beyond, which proved to be a massive office, the ceiling sloping down at a subtly oblique angle, the far back wall composed of massive panes of glass that showed the city beyond. Praximar sat at a desk whose massive size was dwarfed only by the scale of the office; it was a lone island in a pool of light in an otherwise stark and empty space. A few doors were set against the left wall, but otherwise, the office was bleak and imposing.

Chancellor Praximar remained seated as they approached; he was dressed in sober robes of charcoal gray, and he watched them with an expression of disappointment and weariness that only infuriated Scorio further.

“Instructor Helminth has told me the particulars of this infraction,” he began, not asking either of them to be seated. “And I am gravely disappointed. The Academy was glad to honor Imperator Sol’s request, but I must admit we did so with some measure of trepidation; you are both unknown elements, and we feared that you would prove unable to adapt to the Academy’s system and regulations. It would seem those fears were well-founded.”

Scorio went to speak, but Praximar raised a hand to forestall him. “Understand the following. This is your first and last warning. Imperator Sol asked that you be readmitted, but that was all. Your continued presence in these hallowed halls depends upon your ability to observe the rules and prove yourselves model students. If you are unable to restrain your tempers, if you strike or wound another Great Soul or otherwise break a single rule, then I will have no option but to have you cast out of the Academy once more, and depending on the nature of the infraction, perhaps be forced to do worse. Am I being clear?”

Scorio took a deep, shaky breath. The man’s tone was infuriating; grave and solemn, saddened and disappointed. “Excuse me, Chancellor, but why is Kuragin not receiving a similar warning?”

Praximar smiled as if glad of the question. “Because Kuragin is an exemplary student. It is no coincidence that his first infraction involved the two of you. He has been adequately punished, and I am confident he will return to his normal behavior. You both, however, are far from having an exemplary record. I need not get into details. You know very well how you have strayed in the past from the high standards the Academy upholds.”

The chancellor shook his head sadly. “Alas, there is no room at this Academy for students who are unable to follow the few regulations we impose. Which is why another infraction of any kind will be grounds for termination. All that I ask is that you obey the rules and regulations of the Academy. Surely that is not too much to expect of you?”

Naomi continued to stare blindly ahead, her jaw tightly clenched.

Scorio once again inhaled deeply, then bowed his head. “Of course, Chancellor. We understand.”

“You do not speak for your classmate,” said Praximar, tone chiding. “Naomi?”

Still staring straight ahead, she managed a jerky nod.

“Insufficient, Emberling.” Praximar’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll ask one more time. Do you understand?”

Naomi slowly tore her gaze down to stare at the chancellor, and for a long, aching moment said nothing. Then, her voice devoid of emotion, she said, “Yes, Chancellor. I understand what you are saying.”

“Very good. Now, let us put this unpleasant exchange behind us, and look forward to a brighter future, shall we?” He smiled and stood up. “Make us proud, students. Excel, work hard, and stay out of trouble. Dismissed.”

Scorio and Naomi bowed, turned, and marched out of the office. When the double doors closed behind them, Scorio went to speak but Naomi kept striding swiftly ahead. He jogged to catch up and studied her profile when he did.

“Hey. That wasn’t that bad.”

She made no response.

“I mean, it could have been far worse, right? He could have expelled us without giving us a second chance—”

“Stop talking,” she said, tone murderous, and began rapidly descending the stairs.

Scorio slowed, blinked, then hurried after her. They made their way back to their suite in silence, and when they returned, they saw that Leonis and Lianshi were absent.

“We should get to class,” said Naomi. “Or they’ll use our tardiness as an excuse to throw us out.”

“Look, I lost my temper back there.” Scorio stepped before her, blocking the way to the door. “Sure Kuragin was being an ass, but I shouldn’t have head-butted him.”

“You did the right thing,” said Naomi, eyes narrowed. “Because there was no arguing with him. And if you hadn’t hit him, someone else would have come at you next, and then again and again until you snapped.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Her eyes blazed. “They don’t want us here, Scorio. You’re a Red Lister. I’m common-born. We don’t fit their narrative. We’re outsiders. They want us gone, and they’ll find a way to pry us out no matter what Imperator Sol said. So you did the right thing. You showed them you’ll not let them push you around. But there’s just one little problem with that.”

“What?” asked Scorio again, fighting against the rising tide of bewilderment within him.

“Not letting them push you around will get you expelled.” Her voice quietened. “Either you swallow your pride and become their punching bag, or you stand up to them and get expelled. Those are your choices. You ask me? We’ve got maybe an Eighthday, maybe two, before we’re out. Enjoy it while you can.”

And with that, she brushed past him and strode out the door.

Scorio stared blankly at the far wall of ferns and the hints of the steamy pool beyond, feeling his expression harden, his jaw clench. Then, with a savage jerk, he pulled his satchel of scrolls from the wall peg and followed.

Chapter 48

The rest of the Eighthday passed in a blur. The innocent joy in availing himself of the Academy’s resources sluiced away under the double threat of the upcoming tournament and the realization that he was on hostile ground. No longer did he take the stares as indicating admiration or wonder, but now saw them as accusations. And each time he began to feel good, to relax, or lower his guard, all he had to do was catch Naomi’s flat stare, and his resolve would harden.

He played the runs conservatively, no longer attempting to catch the lead pack, but instead working on setting a punishing pace that he could keep without losing his wind. Breakfast was a hurried affair, then each morning he was thrown into a different class, reviewing everything from the geography of hell to the nature of fiends. His favorite proved to be the class on the known powers of hell; the world outside of Bastion proved to be immense, varied, and populated with a bewildering number of fiends and potentates amongst whom the Great Souls fought, negotiated, and co-existed.

“I thought it was just war out there,” said Scorio to Lianshi as they left the class, new books under his arms. “Armies of Great Souls throwing themselves endlessly at the enemy.”

“There aren’t enough of us,” his friend replied in amusement. “If we declared war on all of hell, I don’t think it would notice. No; the goal is to reach the Pit, and there are many ways to get there.”

“So it seems.” They walked in silence for a spell, Scorio steeped in thought. “But most of hell doesn’t even seem… I don’t know, that bad? Strange, sure, dangerous, but more like…”

“A world? A place with its own ecologies, rules, and internal logic? Sure.” Lianshi shifted her satchel strap higher up her shoulder. “But it doesn’t have to be actively aggressive to kill you.”

“The Curse,” said Scorio.

“The Curse. It alone will destroy Great Souls who venture too far.”

“Or elder powers like the Living Mountain,” said Scorio. “The, ah, what was the inferno creature called?”

“Cazador the All Burning. Wait till you learn about the Viridian Heart and its living empire, or the Dying Dreamer. That’s my favorite.” Lianshi clutched her tome tight across her chest. “I’d love to meet one of its white riders and defeat it in spoken combat, earn a life boon just like Blood Baroness Esme did in the song.”

“White riders?” asked Scorio, bemused.

“Yeah, you’ll get to it. They’re ghostly emanations from the Dying Dreamer himself, fragments of his shattered mind. He sits in despair, a doleful, absolutely massive giant who was once a king, in his rusted armor on his broken throne.” She paused and shook her head slowly. “It’s overwhelming, don’t you think, to realize that they’re all out there at this very moment? While we’re walking down this hallway, right now, the Winged Plinth is calling down storms, the Javalynx is stalking its next prey, Wan Elderlings haunt the mist-shrouded Vale of Regrets, the Omnicide decides the fate of hundreds of thousands in the Scorched Swale...”

Scorio laughed and rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, when you put it that way. Though I’m more excited to see the Great Soul outposts and cities. Red Shoals, say, or one day even get to the Golden Star.”

“You’d need to join Endergrast’s sect to enter the Star,” said Lianshi, smiling in amusement.

“You kidding me? If a Crimson Earl asked me to join his legion, you think I’d say no?” Scorio laughed. “I’d take the suit of Enameled Armor and Browstar in a heartbeat.”

“You and everyone else,” said Lianshi. “Though sometimes—and don’t tell anyone I said this?”

“Sure,” said Scorio, stepping in a little closer.

“Sometimes I daydream about not questing for the Pit. Just… exploring. Going to areas where no Great Soul in living memory has ever been. Discover new wonders like the Shimmering Falls of Tranac, or the Forest of the Past.”

Lianshi curled a strand of hair behind her ear as she ducked her face, then glanced up at him anxiously. “Not that I don’t want to help, or fight for the cause, and all that, it just seems… sometimes the fixation on the Pit feels short-sighted.”

Scorio inhaled deeply, considering her words. “I mean, there’s more than one path to the Pit, right? Who's to say ours won’t cross through new lands?”

Lianshi’s expression brightened. “True! But we might be getting ahead of ourselves. We’ve your tournament to get through first.”

“Yeah, and my Heart to heal.” Scorio sighed and shifted the weight of his satchel. “Thank you again, by the way.”

Lianshi hip-checked him with a laugh. “You don’t thank your friends for being your friends. That’s what they’re for.”

“You say that, but nobody ever said being friends meant going without sleep to get in extra training hours. I didn’t see that stipulated in the contract.”

“That’s because we gave you the toddler’s version with the letters written in brightly colored paint.” Lianshi’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “We were worried you’d panic if you saw too many words at once.”

“Ha,” said Scorio. “Funny. But I’m still going to thank you guys, no matter how much you protest.”

“Thank us by winning in two days’ time. And getting a House sponsorship quickly so we can go back to getting our sleep.”

“Sure,” said Scorio with a smile. “I’ll work on it.”

* * *

Tournament fights were held during First Rust on Seventhday. Enough time was given for the run and breakfast, and then it was understood that everyone would return to their rooms to prepare. Scorio ran at a slow jog, conserving his energy but relishing the warm-up. Five laps passed in a fugue as he reviewed the day’s importance, the moment to which he’d been training and honing his skills, in a sense, ever since he’d begun fighting for primacy.

“It’s an intense spectacle,” said Leonis, back in their rooms. He paused in the act of sweeping and leaned against the broom. “The closest I can compare it to is that first, huge room in the Gauntlet. That sense of space, of momentous consequence. I loved it.”

“Overwhelming,” said Lianshi from where she was straightening the cushions. “The sound, the scope. I mean—well. You’ll see soon enough.”

Naomi stood by the door, ready. “We don’t know whom you’ll be fighting, but remember you have the edge. They’ll fear you. They won’t know what is truth or fiction about your helping defeat Imogen. But they’ll know you received the official blessings of an Imperator, and that will throw them off-balance.”

“Off-balance, right,” said Scorio, windmilling his arms then stretching one across his chest.

“Which means you need to maintain that edge,” continued Naomi inexorably. “Don’t allow them to pigeonhole you. To believe they’ve figured you out. Keep them off-balance, then destroy them.”

Leonis resumed sweeping. “And Helminth didn’t tell you how she’d set this up?”

“Nothing,” said Scorio. “You don’t think she’ll change her mind, will you? Because of the whole Kuragin thing?”

“No,” said Leonis firmly. “That’s not her style. She’s very upfront.”

The lights pulsed gently over their front door, and Scorio took a deep, shaky breath. “That’s the signal. You guys ready?”

“No, I need to finish tidying,” said Leonis with a roguish smile. “Can you tell Helminth to put things on hold till I’m done?”

“You should just stay behind and finish up,” said Lianshi, rising smoothly. “Make sure we have an appropriately clean suite to celebrate in when we’re done.”

“Ha,” said Leonis dryly. “The Golden King cleans for no man!”

“I’m not a man,” said Lianshi, tapping him on the chest as she strode past him to the front door.

“Alas,” said Leonis. “I know. Otherwise, I’d feel no compunctions about hurling you into the pool.”

Lianshi slipped her feet into her sandals and turned to him, eyebrow raised. “Oh, remind me. Who was it that knocked you out of the tournament? Was it a man or a woman?”

“It was a beast,” grumbled Leonis. “A monster of primal power and unearthly rage.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Ramona that,” said Lianshi sweetly. “I’m sure she’ll want to ask some follow-up questions.”

“Scorio, throw me a line here!” cried Leonis.

Scorio tightened his belt and smiled tightly. “Apologies, Golden King. You’ll just drag me down with you.”

“I’m surrounded by jackals and carrion eaters,” said Leonis, opening the door. “Ah well. Such is my burden. The greater the soul, the heavier the load. Shall we?”

Naomi brushed past them all in silence.

“Hey, Naomi,” said Leonis, following her out. “When are you going to start the obligatory banter? You’re not carrying your weight here.”

Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “You defeat me in single combat, Leonis, and I’ll start bantering.”

“Huh.” Leonis stuck his thumbs into his belt. “Motivation. I might try just to hear your idea of a witticism. Let me guess, it’d be something like, ‘Dying men are attractive because they’re…’ Hmm. No— ‘The only thing unattractive about a dying man is the stench he leaves behind.’ Something like that?”

Naomi turned, stepped in close, and put her hand upon his chest. She gazed up into his startled eyes, her own half-lidded, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “You know me so well, King Leonis. How about we get together later, just you and me, and I’ll share my idea of a fun night out?”

Leonis paled and stepped back. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me, Emberling. I care only for serious studying and deep meditations.”

Lianshi giggled and pulled Naomi away, draping an arm around her shoulder. “I have much to learn from your techniques.”

Naomi blushed furiously as self-awareness flooded her, but smiled self-consciously as she allowed Lianshi to lead her down the hallway. Scorio and Leonis followed at a short distance.

“How are you doing?” asked Leonis, tone sober.

“All right. Nervous. I need this win.”

“Yeah, you do. But I think you’ve a good chance. The loser’s bracket is a tough crew, but each of them is there because they’ve already lost once. Sixty-four men and women looking to regain their honor and prove themselves better than everyone else. They’re going to be under a lot of mental pressure. You can exploit that.”

“Yeah,” said Scorio softly as they merged with the other students heading toward the basilica. A few cast him sidelong glances, but most seemed preoccupied with their own conversations. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if I lose. I can’t wait years to continue advancing.”

“Don’t think that way,” rumbled Leonis, voice pitched low so that only Scorio could hear. “Take strength from your accomplishments. You’ve done more in a few months than anyone else here, including the new Emberlings. Who survived being thrown through the Final Door?”

“All right, yes, I understand,” said Scorio.

“No. You need to hear this.” Leonis stared straight ahead as they walked together. “I don’t think you appreciate how incredible your successes have been. You survived a literal death sentence. You forced Naomi of all people to begin training you. I can’t even get her to smile. You found a way to farm Black Star flowers. You brute-forced your way to Cinder through sheer bloody-minded determination. You discovered the other, ah, older run, then took to it like a drunkard to a pool of unrefined flaywine. But all of that’s nothing compared to what you then did. You helped an Imperator defeat Imogen the Woe. You played a part in that. You had the wits to survive when even the White Queen was taken, and then the discipline to wait for your moment. Which you took, and which made all the difference.”

Leonis grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him out of the flow of the students into a side alcove. He set him against the wall, his strength irresistible, and stared at him with a sober, grave look that Scorio had only seen him manifest in the Gauntlet. “You need to internalize those facts, my friend.” He thrust a finger into Scorio’s chest, right above his heart. “You need to understand what it is you’ve done, because it’s our actions that define us, and yours speak volumes as to the manner of man you are. You said that both Sol and Imogen recognized you from previous lives. That Imogen allowed you to remain alert and yourself because of her memories of you. Think on that. What that means. You’re an individual of such presence and power that an insane Imperator chose to respect you and enjoy your presence.”

Scorio inhaled deeply, transfixed by Leonis’s stare. It was so intense that it was almost a glare, pinning him to the wall. “Yes,” he said at last and gave a curt nod. “I hear you.”

“No, you don’t. I can tell. You think those deeds happened by luck, or that anyone else could have done them. And you’re right, to a degree. Any one of us could have pulled off one of those accomplishments. Jova, whomever. But you did them all. Back-to-back, you accomplished the impossible, again and again. And now you’ve a new trial before you. But you need to understand: this fight is just another stepping stone on your path toward success. You’re going to win. After what you’ve been through? This is nothing.”

Leonis grabbed a fistful of Scorio’s robes, pulled him away from the wall, then thrust him back hard. “You hear me?”

“Yeah,” said Scorio.

Leonis glowered, pulled him away, shoved him back harder against the wall. “You’re not convincing me. Where’s that damn fire, Scorio? You showed me more fire when I told you to ease off your training back in the ruins than you’re doing now.”

Scorio inhaled again, and his chest felt tight, his stomach fluttery, and his palms prickled. He felt again that spark of resolve, remembered his rage when he’d thought his friends were telling him to not take advantage of his scant resources. How he’d been willing to cross to the Old Academy all by himself and risk physical and spiritual destruction to keep honing his skills.

How this one fight was only the next obstacle. The next hurdle he had to leap over to continue his fight.

“You’ve been given nothing but bad cards since you reincarnated,” said Leonis, tone hard. “And you’ve played them to your best advantage, again and again. So now your Heart is ruined, and you need to win this fight to earn a chance at healing it. Take it. Whoever volunteers to fight against you, crush them. Destroy them. Manifest that rage, that will to power, and grind them to the finest powder. You hear me, Scorio?”

“Yeah,” said Scorio, and a prickling fire washed over his skin, his hands curling into fists. “I do.”

“There it is,” said Leonis with a predatory smile. “There’s the look I’ve come to fear and love.”

“I’ve got this,” said Scorio, pushing off the wall. Leonis released him and stepped back. “Thank you, my friend. I needed that.”

“Nah,” said Leonis, brushing off Scorio’s shoulders with quick sweeps of his hand. “You had it all along. Let’s go.”

They were at the back of the crowd now and hurried to reach the basilica before it was too late. It was passingly strange to enter the Aureate Hall here, to see the walls and roof undamaged, the murals gleaming and vivid, the trees growing in their massive stone containers verdant and straining toward the crimson light of First Rust.

But then they swept through the double doors and into the basilica, and the sound hit him like a wave, an ocean of movement and voices, students filtering between the biers to find their own, the excitement palpable, the tension rich and provocative.

But it wasn’t just students. Nearly as many strangers were there, moving to claim biers as well, clad in august robes of the main Houses, along with errant Great Souls who had chosen to watch the student fights.

Leonis led the way confidently down to their original biers, close by the base of the Archspire, and Scorio slowed as they drew close to trace the height of that wondrous spike that climbed so high into the air. Allowed his gaze to travel over the high, impossible domes, along the far-away balconies wreathed in ivy, the resplendent and impossible glory of this one, single, massive chamber, the adumbrated lockers, the shafts of ruddy light streaming down from the high windows, the air alive with energy and melding voices.

“Greetings, Class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three!” Chancellor Praximar’s voice rolled across the room, silencing all conversation and drawing every pair of eyes. He’d stepped up onto the far stage upon which Scorio had first seen him, and was clad in a gorgeous robe of beige that was so heavily encrusted with golden filigree and diamonds that it appeared more a suit of armor than ceremonial vestments.

Students stood to attention beside their biers, their knots breaking apart so that soon the silence was absolute.

“What a time to be alive! History is in the making, and I believe that your class will witness events beyond the norm. Era-defining moments that will be studied in future history classes, if any of us remain to study them. Bastion itself is only now starting to recover from a grievous attack, one which was repulsed only at grave expense. A living legend, Imperator Sol, journeyed here from the Abyss itself to give us succor, leaving his comrades in arms to fight alone for precious days. A gift for which we, and every soul in Bastion, shall be forever grateful.”

Scorio felt his skin prickle as stares were turned upon him. Would Praximar mention his role? Would he single him out? Scorio found himself fervently wishing he wouldn’t, and stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.

“But that is but a sign of the times! Word has reached us that the Emerald Host is on the march, for the Viridian Heart has chosen to migrate for the first time in a century. Elsewhere, a mana quake of unprecedented strength has sent Gold mana flooding thousands of miles north, washing over territories that can hardly withstand the assault such flooding will allow. The White Queen herself told me that the Cerulean Oracle has returned to life and begun giving prophecies! Worse, that LastRock has fallen to the Blood Ox, and our forces stream back across the Bone Plains in disarray.”

Voices arose in wonder and consternation, and Praximar raised both hands, waiting patiently for silence once more. “Momentous events! Once you have lived as long as I, you will realize that these convulsions come in waves. Years of peace and stasis followed by times of great chaos. It is in these moments that losses are suffered, yes, but also in which striking victories can be achieved. We cannot guess what the next few years will bring, but now is the time for brave souls, for intrepid warriors to stream forth from the halls of this Academy to buttress the ranks of those who have been fighting for our cause! You, Cinders and Emberlings, are the future, and hidden amongst your number are the Charnel Duchesses, the Blood Barons, nay, even the Crimson Earls and Imperators that will lead us in tomorrow’s victories. I, and every member of the Academy, salute you, and wish you the greatest success in the struggles to come!”

Scorio drew a breath of surprise and pleasure; he glanced sidelong at his friends and saw Lianshi’s eyes shining with emotion, Leonis frowning as he nodded slowly, even Naomi listening intently, reluctantly.

“But today! Today, my friends, we do not march into glorious war, but rather continue the process of refinement, of separating the wheat from the chaff, by watching you pit your best efforts against each other. Know that to lose in these fights is not dishonor; it simply means you have more to learn, and that your chance at glory remains ahead of you. But the victors shall continue forward, earning ever more accolades and attention, striving for the chance to be part of the final two teams who shall assail the Gauntlet with every House’s blessings. Fight, my friends, as if your future depended on it! Fight, students of the Academy, as if hell’s fate rested upon your shoulders, because it does, oh you brave and wondrous Great Souls, it does. Fight and show us your worth, show us your mettle, prove yourselves before the eyes of the Houses and your peers, and seize glory!”

Praximar’s voice rang out, and hundreds of voices raised themselves in cheers, crying out with charged emotion causing a flock of doves to burst out of their roosts from some high ledge and sweep across the great void of the dome, wings fluttering in the red light, to alight upon the spreading branches of a slender tree that grew out at a pained angle from the highest balcony as it reached for the light.

“He gives a good speech,” said Leonis in a low voice so that only Scorio could hear. “You have to give him that. Even if he tends to repeat himself.”

Scorio’s heart was pounding, his mind light, his body feverish with the desire to prove himself. He could only nod, eyes locked still on the distant Praximar.

“Now, students, before you infuse your crystals and lie upon your biers, Instructor Helminth would like to issue a unique challenge to those sixty-four souls who shall be fighting today.

Scorio’s breath caught in his throat as the Hell Whip stepped to the fore, her smile broad, almost cruel. “Students! As you know, Imperator Sol himself requested that Scorio and Naomi be readmitted to our class and afforded all opportunities available within the Academy. Who are we, then, to deny these two students a chance at winning the tournament? Of course, the rosters are full, the brackets complete, but here lies my challenge: which of you sixty-four wish to prove yourselves truly worthy by competing against Scorio in a preliminary bout, the winner of which will then fight again in today’s matches?”

Hundreds of heads swiveled as everyone turned to stare at Scorio, who ignored them all and only stood straighter, chin raised. A cry sounded out as a student leaped atop his bier, hand raised to the sky.

“I will accept this challenge!” His voice shook with an excess of emotion. “I accept, Instructor Helminth!”

A youth, a boy with skin as white as milk and hair as pale as morning mist. Slender, gawky, but with a searing intensity that caused him to tremble as he stared fixedly at the distant stage.

“Very well, today’s combats will begin with a qualifying bout between Etheren and Scorio.” Helminth’s voice betrayed no sense of whether she was pleased or not. “Students, honored guests, and spectators, infuse your crystals and lie upon your biers! The Archspire shall convey you to the Arena, where we shall see who shall progress and who will be left behind.”

Leonis stepped in close. “Etheren’s a Cinder, won his last fight by luck; his opponent twisted her ankle halfway through and he showed killer instinct in taking her down. He’s fast but not strong, don’t underestimate his ability to take punishment and keep getting up. Put him down hard, and don’t turn your back on him.”

Scorio nodded and saw that Etheren had hopped down from his bier and was staring through the crowd at him. Even at this distance, Scorio could see that his eyes were as pale as the rest of him. Scorio moved to the base of the bier, palmed the familiar crystal, and swept Coal into its depths. When it flared to life, he hopped up onto the broad, jeweled surface, and lay back.

All around him came the whispers of cloth and sounds of movement as almost a thousand other Great Souls did the same. Glancing down the length of his body, he saw the officials atop the stage descending to biers of their own.

Scorio closed his eyes. Lay there in the warm darkness of his own mind, feeling his heart pound. It beat steadily, as if more assured of the outcome than he was. Over and over again it pounded, until a sense of change came over him.

He was standing, on his feet, and he snapped his eyes open to see that the world had changed. He stood across from Etheren on a plain sparring circle that was a larger version of the one in which he’d dueled Feng, but this hardly held his attention.

Instead, it was the arena around him that stole his breath away; the sparring circle stood like an island in an ocean of darkness that was bounded on all sides by a vast oval wall of pale red stone that rose some thirty yards to where the first seats ringed the entirety of it, with ever more rising behind.

The sky was dark, featureless, but the entirety of the sparring circle was lit by a pale and clear light that banished all shadows. The floor was composed of rough flagstones that might have been cut coral, and no retaining wall bound its circumference. It had to be some forty yards across, with nowhere to run, no features to use against his foe.

Etheren stood tall and resolute on its far side, jaw clenched, pale eyes focused on him with something akin to rage, perhaps hatred.

The arena was so vast that the thousand souls that had manifested on the stands to watch only took up the lower few rows of seating; above them stretched endless empty benches that culminated some hundred yards above the first. How many would it take to fill such a space? What sort of events had been held here in the past that something so vast was needed? The very scale of the arena was intimidating, and Scorio tore his gaze away from the spectators, their faces small and blurring into each other, to center himself and once more meet Etheren’s gaze.

“The rules are simple.” Helminth’s voice rang out from an invisible source up on high. “Anything is allowed. Victory takes place when your opponent yields, touches the ground outside the ring, or is rendered unable to fight. This being a mystical space, you have no need to fear unleashing your full abilities upon each other; no injuries will remain when you awaken. The fight will begin on the third chime, interfering in another combat will immediately disqualify you from the tournament, and there will be one bout. Good luck, contestants.”

Etheren lowered himself into a fighting crouch, hands closed into loose fists before him, face half-turned away, eyes turned to their corners to keep track of him.

Scorio wanted to laugh, to hop up and down a few times, to shake out his arms. Instead, he closed his eyes, blocked out all the sound, the distant conversations, the sense of pressure that came both from so many people watching him and his own internal pressures.

He recalled his long and lonely runs through the ruins. That fire that had led him through so many conflicts. That had guided him to victory, again and again. Thought of Leonis, fist gripping the front of Scorio’s robes, his gaze challenging, demanding.

I can do this, he thought, and the last of his fears fell away. He summoned his Heart, and it hung before him as if it had always been there, just waiting to be acknowledged. Around them swirled different streams of mana, and Scorio reached out with calm surety to guide a great stream of Iron into his core. Drew it in, heavy and comforting, till he could draw in no more, then with a flexion of his will he packed in another gust all the same.

The first chime sounded, crystalline and pure.

Scorio, eyes closed, sought to expand the reservoir of his Heart. He saw now the hairline fractures through which mana immediately began to seep. Swallowing his anger, his irritation, he swept in more Iron. Felt his Heart swell, pushed near to bursting. Saw more Iron seeping out.

The second chime.

He needed to win this fight. But he needed to win with great finality. Needed to impress upon the House representatives that he was worth betting on, worth sponsoring, spending their resources, and showering with treasures.

More mana. Felt the Iron swell his Heart further, saw the increased pressure cause it to vent faster. He’d not be in this predicament if he’d been treated fairly. But there was no fairness. There was only that which you could take out and seize.

The third chime sounded, and Scorio caused his Heart to ignite. It lit in a great rush of transparent gray flames, wreathed like a bonfire, and strength and power flooded his frame, a sense of invincibility, as different from a Coal burn as Amber was from First Clay.

His eyes snapped open, and he saw that Etheren was already sprinting toward him, letting out a battle cry, eyes wide in anger and determination.

Scorio let him come. Swept more mana into his Heart, shoring up its losses, packing it tight again, causing the flames to leap higher, his strength to grow, his fists to feel like great rocks, his legs yearning for movement, for release, to charge forth and meet Etheren in the center of the ring.

The other Cinder came right at him at full pelt, a thousand Great Souls watching, the crowd roaring, the sound swelling around them like the waves of an ocean in a bottle-neck cove, smashing about them, inducing a madness of its own, demanding spectacle, demanding a sight worthy of the event.

No plan. No conscious intent. But the power in Scorio could be held back no longer. Silent, he burst forward, three huge strides, each step feeling like it should shatter the ground, and then he leaped.

Etheren’s eyes widened as he drew close, head tilting back, his planned blow abandoned, skidding to a stop.

For a moment, a terrible, perilous second, Scorio felt himself hang in the air above the other Cinder, eight feet off the ground, and knew in his heart what this was that hawks felt in the second before the plunge.

Then he came crashing down like a landslide, like a collapsing building, and with every ounce of his strength, he drove his fist into Etheren’s face, the blow coming from the hips, his whole body turning and falling into the punch.

Etheren tried to block, flung up his arms, but Scorio slammed his fist right through his guard and smashed his knuckles square across his jaw.

He felt bone break. Felt the other man’s cheek jelly. Etheren’s head snapped down and aside, the force ripping through his body and causing it to lift off the ground and turn as if the violence was delayed, had to run down his length. The Cinder’s head turned and dropped as his body rose and spun, and then Scorio landed in a crouch just a second before Etheren fell heavily to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Scorio rose to his feet. Etheren’s neck was twisted unnaturally, but still, he recalled Leonis’s words and raised his fists, the fire that consumed his Heart wreathing his mind, his thoughts, his soul. He prepared for the other to rise somehow, for his head to turn back around, for the fight to continue, but then Etheren’s body faded away, and Scorio was left alone on the sparring circle.

Silence. Scorio lowered his hands and turned to stare at the arena’s audience. A thousand faces stared back, and for a moment he wondered if he’d done something wrong, broken some rule, disqualified himself. He felt a rising, crawling panic, a certainty that they’d throw him through the Final Door again, laugh at his protests, tell him he didn’t belong, that the nature of his victory proved him an outsider—

But then he heard a bellow that had to be Leonis’s, a smattering of applause broke out, and this seemed to galvanize the others who began to yell their approval, the sound building and building till the crowd’s roar washed over him like wildfire.

Scorio gasped, smiled in shock, then let the expression fall away as he turned in a slow circle. Not everyone was clapping. Not everyone was cheering. But enough people were that he felt the flush of victory, felt his heart tremble as his Heart guttered out, and then the Hell Whip’s voice spoke out once more.

“Victory goes to Scorio, who will take Etheren’s place in the tournament.”

The arena faded from view, and Scorio awoke upon the bier. Reflexively he tensed against the onset of pain, but nothing happened; he lay at his ease, unhurt, body hale and whole.

Sitting up, blinking in confusion, he realized that of course he’d not be wounded, he’d won, and then realized further that the whole assumption was based on a fallacy; he’d awoken from the original Gauntlet without pain. It was only the ancient murder trial in the Old Academy that left one with lingering psychic anguish.

“You did it!” Lianshi slid off her bier and skipped over to him, grinning widely. “What a blow! Where did—”

“Do not leave your biers, students,” came Helminth’s voice. “We return to the basilica only to reset the Arena. Contestants, prepare yourselves for your next round.”

Lianshi beamed at him as she gripped his arm tightly, then hurried back and up onto her bier. Naomi sat up just enough to give him a curt nod of approval, and on his other side, he caught sight of Leonis just in time to see the massive man give him a wink.

Then darkness swept up and claimed him once more.

Chapter 49

The Arena reappeared as before, massive red walls encircling the shadow-wreathed floor, but now the darkness was filled with countless sparring circles, each identical to the last, each in its own island of light and complete with two contestants. So massive was the arena that it was able to accommodate all thirty-two circles, the walls rearing up around them like cliffs from whose heights gazed the spectators.

Scorio dragged his gaze to his own circle’s far side and examined his opponent. He’d seen him around the Academy, a solitary, reserved figure that never seemed to walk with others, who sat alone to eat in the mess hall, but who was in none of his classes. Of medium stature, his defining feature was the long braid he wore down to the small of his back but which here, in the Gauntlet, now hung loose like a curtain of shadow, straight and coarse. His skin was toned like First Bronze, his mouth sensitive, his poise and balance such that even while merely standing he exuded a dancer-like grace.

Scorio met his dark eyes and the Arena seemed to fade away, so that only they stood in the light, eyeing each other with equal amounts of resolve and determination. In this Great Soul, Scorio sensed a brother, a man possessed of a fierce will and quiet bravery. No tremulous bravado, no uncertain desire for glory. The other man’s gaze was steady and reserved, unafraid and almost regretful.

As if he foresaw the damage he was about to inflict upon Scorio, the pain, and wished it could be otherwise.

“Well, damn,” said Scorio, swinging his arms open and closed a few times as he hugged himself, loosening up his shoulders. “A real fight, then.”

The crowd in the stands was murmuring, taking in the sight, but quieted when Helminth spoke forth.

“The time for speeches is over. We are gathered here in this ancient place of battle to see who has the courage, skill, and ability to continue into the tournament’s next round. Remember the rules, simple as they are: Anything is allowed. Victory takes place when your opponent yields or is rendered unable to fight. This being a mystical space, you have no need to fear unleashing your full abilities upon each other; no injuries will remain when you awaken. The fight will begin on the third chime; interfering in another combat will immediately disqualify you from the tournament, and there will be one bout. Good luck, contestants.”

Scorio closed his eyes again, but this time he didn’t feel as composed; victory over Etheren had given him a taste of success, and now he loathed to lose, loathed to make a mistake when sponsorship was nearly in reach.

But he centered himself, focused on slowing his breath, filled his chest to bursting, then summoned his Heart. And there it was, glittering and dark, hanging before him like a benediction, a threat, and promise. Scorio reached out to the ambient mana, and drew in Iron, willed it to swirl about him, and forced it laboriously into his core with a combination of assurance and need.

He restrained his frustration as Iron began immediately to leak forth, and instead lay in with more.

The first chime sounded, causing a jolt to run through him. He kept his eyes closed as before, focused fiercely on his Heart.

A quick victory. He couldn’t afford to drag this fight out.

More mana. It felt like trying to drink down the ocean, but he inhaled more of that pale gray power into his Heart, intensifying the pressure and feeling his reservoir expand.

The second chime sounded.

A quick victory. No fear, no doubts, no thought. The other man was competent, but he wasn’t driven by the same need. His very Heart wasn’t at stake.

Scorio would meet him and destroy him.

The third chime sounded and Scorio willed his Heart to ignite. It whooshed into pale flame, and as that terrible strength flooded his being he opened his eyes and saw the other man standing still.

No headlong charge.

There wasn’t time to wait. Scorio began to jog forward, feeling light on the balls of his feet, so rich in strength and infused with speed that he barely registered the ground at all.

His foe swept his mane of hair behind his back and turned to face him at an oblique angle, expression solemn, hands still by his sides. Watchful, eyes narrowed, otherwise unmoving.

The Iron mana burned within Scorio’s Heart, but he could feel it running out already, so he put into practice his meditative techniques and willed more into his Heart when he crossed the halfway mark of the ring. Around him, the cries and sounds of violence filled the air, thin and distant, but he didn’t allow them to distract him.

The best approach? To engage directly, push the man back, perhaps drive him right out of the ring.

And then he was there, drawing close, and only when he did so did he feel the frisson of power wash off his foe as his Heart ignited. Scorio put on a burst of speed and hopped up into a lunging front kick, seeking to stave in the man’s chest.

His enemy sidestepped, slapping Scorio’s leg away, and flicked out a backhand at his face. A feint, a probing strike, which Scorio avoided, then the fight began in earnest.

They exchanged blows, bodies twisting and weaving, dodging and blocking, the impact of wrist on wrist muffled and constant. Elbow to shoulder, cross just missing the chin, twisting to avoid the return uppercut, a couple of jabs, then an attempt at a headbutt, fast, fast, faster.

Scorio’s mind emptied. His emotions sluiced away, and he found his gaze locking on the other man’s eyes. His face, which seemed to float, unrelated to the frenetic activity that was taking between them, a single, slender vertical line between his brows the only indication that they were fighting for their lives.

Memories reared their heads like whales breaching the ocean’s surface, memories of drilling with Naomi in her Nightmare Lady form, exchanging blows, following sequences to the threshold of his ability, and then beyond. How to interweave strikes, to vary the combinations, to never lose sight of the opponent's knees, to watch the angle of their hips and shoulders.

Neither had landed a blow. Scorio began to lean forward, increasing the pressure, and his sense of presence began to swell as if he were becoming larger, swelling out before the man to loom over him, to crush him through the weight of his will alone.

The other gave a step back, then a second. Scorio’s wrists and forearms were throbbing with pain, each of the man’s blocks more of a strike, but he knew he was giving as good as he got. Hammered an elbow in just as the Great Soul twisted away and raised his arm to cradle it against his head and absorb the impact, but Scorio immediately drew his elbow back and hammered it home again—and again—not relenting, shattering his rhythm, his routine.

The other man staggered, the strength of the elbow strikes absorbed by the muscles of his arm which rested flush against the side of his head, but the strength was such that he overbalanced.

Scorio felt victory within reach, felt omnipotent, felt unstoppable. His next strike was a tight hook, which he pounded into the man’s blocking arms, hammering and hammering, lips writhing back from his teeth, wanting blood, wanting to break bone, wanting to drive him to the ground.

His foe was trapped. Scorio’s attacks were coming too quickly for him to react or move away.

Again and again, Scorio slammed his fist into the man’s upraised arm, then with a violent wrench, he twisted into an uppercut with his other arm and slammed his fist as deep into the man’s gut as he could.

It felt like hitting a bull’s shoulder, nothing but solid muscle, but the man gasped and staggered back again, his form falling apart for one crucial moment.

Scorio roared, went in for the kill, could see nothing but the man’s wide-open eyes, his shock flaring—and then his Heart guttered and died.

His punch should have caved in the front of the man’s skull. Instead, it merely split his lip.

For a second, they stood there, panting, staring at each other, and then awareness entered the other man’s eyes.

Scorio desperately reached out for Iron mana, but he didn’t have the chance. The man stepped forward, and now it was his time to attack. Scorio felt as if he were wading in mud, his normal strength and speed paltry compared to that of a Cinder’s, and he weakly blocked the first two jabs before a cross slammed into his cheek and sent him reeling.

And then he was retreating, stumbling, fending off blows, most of which slipped through, cracking into his ribs, ringing his ears, pounding into the side of his thighs.

Pain blossomed everywhere; he couldn’t catch his breath. The man came on, form conservative, ready for a trick, chin tucked, eyes burning with killing intent.

Scorio reached again and again for Iron, but it slipped through his fingers, resisted his authority, and refused to slide into his Heart.

The man slammed a front kick into Scorio’s chest, drove him back onto his heels, and then spun around, the back of his fist whiplashing around with terrible, unnatural speed to crack into Scorio’s jaw.

The Arena blurred, spun around, and then the floor rushed up to slam into his face. Scorio rolled onto his back, tried to rise, fell back.

He couldn’t focus. The man was a shadow above him, grim and heaving for breath.

A second. That’s all he had.

Scorio went to reach blindly for Iron again, then stopped.

No.

Instead, he reached for the Coal. For that dross, that despicable mana that all others despised.

Come to me, my old friend, he thought, and sank his fingers into that heavy, sluggish mass. So familiar, so right. It was stubborn, foul, and barely moved, but he knew it like he knew the walls of his room in his ruined home, and with a great burst of need, he got the Coal moving, swept it once, twice, thrice around his Heart and then slammed it home with all the violence and satisfaction of a janitor dumping a bucket of ashes into a waste pit.

The man raised his leg with remarkable control, extended it straight and true above, and then with a convulsive flex brought his heel whistling down toward Scorio’s face.

No time. He willed his Heart to ignite, his wretched, wounded Heart, and despite the pain, the fractures, the Coal burst into flame, wreathing him in black tongues, and Scorio brought up his hand to catch the man’s descending heel in the palm of his hand.

The man froze, still perfectly balanced on his other foot, eyes narrowing in confusion, but Scorio didn’t give him the chance to react. He sat up and slammed his other fist into the inside of his knee with as much strength as he could manage; not enough leverage to break the joint, but enough to send the other reeling and hobbling away.

Scorio flipped to his feet and dove after him. Caught him in a tackle around the waist and drove him to the ground. The other tried to twist onto his side, arms grasping Scorio, but he was unable to prevent Scorio from surging up to smash his brow into the bridge of his nose.

It felt like using a mallet to drive a wooden peg deep into clay soil. The man’s head cracked back, his hands tried to close on Scorio’s neck, but Scorio’s mind was screaming, raging, aflame with pain and raw, wounded need. He fended off the man’s hands and drove his head down again, reckless, wild, burying his forehead into the man’s face.

He heard the man’s nose break, felt hot blood spatter across his face.

Reared up just enough to drive his head down again, and again, and again.

The man punched and gouged, knees and flexed his hips, trying to shove him off, but Scorio held on with every vanishing ounce of his Coal-born strength. Took blows but focused on one thing: smacking away the man’s arms every time he tried to block so he could drive his head down, again, and again, and again.

His mind was a rushing roar, he felt the Coal mana burning away, heard the flames, saw them all around him. There was nothing but this immolation, he was in a pyre of black rage, and it was burning, consuming him, feeding him an impossible strength that would never end. A strength with which he could tear raw chunks of stone right out of the ground with which to break in his foe’s head, the strength of titans, all the strength in hell.

The man was now just feebly pushing at him, gasping, making wet noises, and Scorio couldn’t see for all the blood in his eyes. He reared up one last time and with a scream brought his brow crashing down as if it were a five-hundred-pound stone.

Bone cracked and the man went still.

Scorio remained on all fours, heaving for breath, unable to think, to see. With a heave, he sat up, wiped his sleeve across his face, but the blood wasn’t just the man’s, he could feel his own torn flesh.

And still, the Coal mana burned, the black flames wreathing his mind, promising more power, an eternal source. It was his greatest companion, his truest love, ready to feed his every desire.

All he had to do was reach for it and it would be there, ready to burn, ready to consume, to deliver his every wish.

He heard Helminth’s voice speaking from above, could hear the crowd cheering, but the sound felt indiscriminate, not for him alone, a general, bland voicing of approval. He heard the cries of victory from other contestants around him, and some bleary, bloody-minded part of him wanted to leap to their circles, to chase them down and tear them apart.

He rose to his feet, reeling, blinking, tried to orient on the next enemy. But his legs weren’t working right, or perhaps he was dizzy; he staggered and fell to his knees, reached up again to wipe at his eyes.

Black fire. Through the blood that was all he could see. Black fire, burning from the truest source. He was sweating, rivulets streaming from his face, his hair plastered. Couldn’t breathe, his entire body aflame, feverish.

With a cry, he tore his robes open. The world faded and sweet, merciful darkness swept in to carry the Arena away.

Chapter 50

Scorio came to atop the jeweled bier, and for a long, aching moment he didn’t know where he was, what had happened, and why he was staring up at the sun-sluiced interior of a vast dome. Words and voices of other awakening people washed over him like surf washing up the beach, then a hand gripped his shoulder, shook him, and he blinked, turned his head to see Leonis’s astonished face.

“What was that? I thought you were done for, and then you just went crazy on him—”

Lianshi was there, on his other side, trying to smile, to hide her alarm. “Are you all right, Scorio?”

“He’s not all right.” Naomi stepped in beside Leonis and placed her hand on his brow. “That victory came at a cost.”

“Cost?” Leonis frowned at her.

With a groan, Scorio sat up. Across the basilica’s floor, students were clustering, either congratulating victors or consoling those who had lost. The guests and House elites were also gathering, looking animated as they conferred. “I’m not sure what happened. I just… I couldn’t afford to lose.”

Naomi’s scowl was familiar, almost comforting. It meant he’d acted like himself, annoyed her through some means of achieving the impossible that nobody in their right mind would have considered. “Well, it’s not like anybody ever warned you to not burn your Heart like that before. So of course it was a completely innocent mistake.”

“Burned his Heart?” Lianshi’s eyes went wide. “Scorio!”

“Summon it,” said Naomi. “Go on. See what you did.”

Matching Naomi’s frown, Scorio called his Heart into being, and saw that indeed it was diminished; the angular shoulder on the upper left looked sanded down, worn and smoothed. Not nearly as much damage as he’d feared, but a clear change.

He placed his hand to his chest, inhaled deeply, focused on himself. Was he different? Did he no longer care about the same things?

No—he felt an upwelling of concern and love for his friends, the same determination to succeed at all costs, the low-lying bitterness, rage, and resentment over how he and Naomi had been treated. Had he lost anything? The only emotion that came to his attention was a cold acceptance of the damage he’d done for himself. He knew without a doubt that if placed in the same situation again, he’d make the exact same decision. If advancement came at the expense of his soul, then right now that was a fair exchange.

“No, you’re not a monster yet,” snapped Naomi. “But keep it up, keep borrowing power from yourself in your time of need, and you’ll become one soon enough.”

“Easy,” said Leonis. “So he borrowed a little of his strength so that he could heal his Heart. It’s a rough deal, but one he stands to benefit from in the long run.”

“That’s what everyone always says, at first,” said Naomi, and turned away.

“That was brutal,” said Leonis, squeezing Scorio’s shoulder again. “At first you both seemed evenly matched, though it was hard to make you out. We were placed pretty far away from your circle—”

“Students!” The chancellor’s voice rang out, quelling the conversations. Praximar had regained the stage, and stood with arms outraised, his expression beaming, proud. “What heroism and valor we just witnessed! To those who fought bravely and lost, know that to a student you did well, and none here think any less of you for having fallen out of the tournament. To those of you who persisted and won, congratulations! You shall pass into the eighth round, where the winner’s bracket will winnow their number down to thirty-two, sending another thirty-two contestants into your own category. You have two Eighthdays in which to prepare for your next bout, so use that time wisely.”

Murmurs arose. It was clear which Great Souls had won, for they tended to sit taller, be surrounded by beaming friends, while those who had lost were talking, explaining, or complaining, or simply looking downcast.

“Now, you have until First Bronze to report to your classes, so make use of this free time as you wish. Those with House sponsorships might wish to confer with their patrons, but everyone else is at liberty to relax and enjoy this rare break until the cycle changes.” Praximar lowered his arms. “Congratulations once more to our winners, and may you all learn from their example!”

Scorio took a shaky breath. “How does the sponsorship system actually work? Do I approach the Houses, do they have offices in the Academy where I can go petition, or…?”

“Look sharp,” said Leonis, voice low. “Looks like your question’s about to be answered.”

Three people in rich, green robes were making their way through the glowing blue light between the biers towards their little group, their intent obvious, their eyes trained on Scorio. The leader was a stern, handsome woman in her thirties, her skin dusky, a sprinkling of birthmarks rising alongside her left cheek. A striking man in his twenties flanked her on the left, olive-skinned and with stubble on the verge of becoming a tightly curled beard, his hair trimmed and cut short, everything about him purposeful and neat and sharp. On her right walked another man, leonine and bemused, hair like pale gold, apologizing quietly to everyone he stepped by as he went.

“House Chimera,” murmured Lianshi, stepping back. “They’re my favorite.”

And indeed, each wore a badge over their hearts depicting the lion and goat-headed monster with a snake for a tail.

“Cinder Scorio?” Their leader stopped before them, her hands on her hips, her manner direct, forthright. “I’m Principal Recruiter Selena, Dread Blaze, and member of House Chimera. This is Recruiter Wrack,” and she indicated the well-kept man to her left, “and Recruiter Gelegos.”

Both men nodded but remained quiet.

“Hello,” said Scorio, wondering if he should slide off the bier or remain seated.

“You fought well,” said Selena, her gaze traveling over him. “We’d like a chance to speak with you in private. If you’re not busy, I’d appreciate your following us to our offices.”

“Sure,” said Scorio, wondering if they could hear his heart pounding. “I’m not busy. Now?”

“Now,” said Selena, amusement glimmering in her eyes. “If you’ll follow me?”

Lianshi made a subtle, shooing motion when he glanced at her, and he smiled and slipped off the bier at last. “Lead the way, Principal Recruiter.”

The three House Chimera members began to pick their way through the biers toward the great doors. Leonis gave him an encouraging wink, while Naomi just looked… conflicted.

Straightening his robes, he cinched his sash tight and hurried after the recruiters. His passage drew stares, a few respectful nods, but mostly careful scrutiny.

No matter. He wasn’t here to make friends. Scorio stared straight ahead, schooled his features, and followed the trio out into the Aureate Hall.

Selena glanced back at him as she slowed upon entering the imposing hallway. “Scorio, how are you finding life here at the Academy? You’ve only recently returned, have you not?”

“Right, just a couple of Eighthdays now, though the first was spent out in Bastion helping deal with damage Imperator Imogen caused.”

Selena nodded, encouraging, and so he began to describe his experiences thus far, the classes, the training, the morning runs. Selena proved adroit at keeping him talking, asking questions that led to his sharing ever more of his opinions, though he was careful to not say anything that could be seen as too controversial; simply stated his preferences, some of the questions that had occurred to him, and outlined his hopes.

They crossed the Academy to a wing he’d not entered yet, climbed a few floors, and emerged into a large, open-plan chamber divided by cunning partitions, painted screens, and large, potted plants into various subsections.

“This is House Chimera’s space within the Academy,” said Selena as she led the way. “We encourage all of our sponsored students to think of it as a communal space, and to visit whenever they have the inclination.”

Scorio nodded, looking around with wide eyes as he took in the resources on display. There were countless nooks and secluded spots formed by the plants and screens, each with its own collection of cushions, benches, or reclining chairs. Here and there were small altars boasting different treasures whose power pulled to him, and down the center of the large room was a table whose purpose alternated down its green marble length, ranging from study stations to boasting bowls of succulent-looking fruits to a board game that had been paused halfway through.

“House Chimera is the youngest of the four Houses,” continued Selena, her words practiced, her tone warm. “We’re well aware of our status as upstarts, and have no interest in jockeying with the other three for local power, influence, or financial might. Instead, we focus our energies into forging our teams into elite units that can spear deep into hell in search of unique resources. We specialize in acquiring legendary treasures, in verifying rumors, and uncovering new lands. To accomplish that, we are very discriminating with whom we recruit, for it is our intention to invest heavily in every student that joins our ranks.”

Scorio nodded slowly as he followed her through an archway into a circular chamber whose far, curving walls were broken up by tall windows through which First Rust’s light streamed onto a table. Selena gestured for him to take a chair, and the three recruiters sat across from him. A servant in Chimera livery seemed to materialize from the shadows, and quickly set out golden cups into which she poured an amber liquid.

“Now,” said Selena, taking up her cup when the servant departed. “We’re obviously interested in learning more about you following today’s fights, but in truth, your incredible assistance to Imperator Sol had already brought you to our attention. Could you share with us in your own words what happened on the day Imogen the Woe attacked?”

“Of course,” said Scorio, sitting forward. “I was, at that time, ah, banned from the Academy and living in the ruins. I’d befriended two of the Great Souls with whom I’d originally run the Gauntlet, Leonis and Lianshi, and they’d agreed to come out and explore the ruins with me.” Eliding the existence of the old Gauntlet, he instead focused his tale on Imogen’s arrival, her interest in the broken Archspire and the Portal, and how Praximar had saved them all from her wrath. How they’d been caught up in the fight, and how her memory of him from past lives had caused her to listen to him when he’d asked to be her witness.

“So this was a purposeful plan of yours?” asked Wrack, his tone clinical, almost disinterested. “To trick her into keeping you free-willed until you could strike?”

Scorio frowned. “I’d like to say so, yes, but in truth, I was just trying to remain free-willed. I knew I couldn’t harm her in any way, and so thought my greatest hope lay in speaking with her. Once she started talking to me, I just reacted to her words, saying what I thought she wanted to hear, until at last, she agreed to keep me around to witness her actions.”

“Excuse the inferred accusation, but I would be remiss if I didn’t ask,” continued Wrack. “You weren’t at any time tempted to throw in with her, as it was, so as to ensure your survival?”

Scorio paused. The three of them were staring intently at him, reading his every emotion. Heart pounding, he felt himself flush, then decided not to bother hiding his anger. “No. I’m a Cinder. I knew I had two options: aggravate her and be destroyed, or tell her what she wanted to hear and remain conscious. I don’t know anything about Ettera, or why we should want the Portal opened or not. What I do know about is my friends, and helping them survive was my greatest priority. Letting her destroy Bastion didn’t seem like the best way to do that.”

“Fair,” said Wrack. “Please continue.”

Scorio took a settling breath and did so; repeated the events as they happened, right to his striking at her Ferula when he managed to break free of her control.

“How did that happen, exactly?” asked Selena. “You broke the mental control of an Imperator?”

Her skepticism was wildly and politely understated.

“I had a potion with me,” he said. “Concentrated Black Star syrup. About equal to a weak Gold elixir. Her focus was completely on Sol. When I drank it, I momentarily had the ability to snap the leash she’d placed on me. A leash I think she’d fashioned to control a Cinder, not what I temporarily became.”

Gelegos made a mildly incredulous face, as if he’d taken a taste of dog excrement and found it to be delicious. “That’s very impressive. Where did you come across this syrup?”

“A friend of mine made it,” said Scorio. “I’d started a Black Star farm. She took the raw materials and distilled the result.”

“Impressive,” said Selena, her tone final, her expression approving. “You are clearly a resourceful individual. Please excuse this line of questioning. You are a Red Lister, with all that means, and we’re considering sponsoring despite that. You can understand why we’d want to plumb those matters.”

“Sure,” allowed Scorio.

“You were cast through the Final Door, were you not?” asked Wrack, tone disinterested. “Can you tell us how you survived that sentence?”

Scorio nodded slowly, wanting to indicate agreement even as he let his feelings fall into place. He should have known they’d want to examine every dark corner of his reputation. “It’s a simple story. I escaped more due to luck than anything else.” And he told them, about Sal and his mechanism, the Brass Door, Ravert’s corpse. His subsequent explorations and eventual escape.

“Resourceful is putting it lightly,” said Selena. “I am most impressed, Scorio. You demonstrated as Char the wit and quick thinking we hope to see in a Tomb Spark. Very impressive. You claim that many of your past successes can be attributed to luck, but that modesty fails to convince when your accomplishments are considered cumulatively. Now, normally we request a series of brief tests to judge your mettle, but having seen you fight only half an hour ago, we can waive a number of those. However, would you be willing to let us examine the state of your Igneous Heart, both to gauge your potential and current health?”

Scorio felt his chest tighten but smiled. “Of course. Though, ah, having had to, um, take my own education in hand out in the ruins, I’ve been forced to push myself pretty hard. It’s one of the reasons I’m excited to acquire patronage.”

“Of course,” said Selena with a professional smile. “I understand completely. If you would face Recruiter Gelegos? He will tell us what we need to know.”

Scorio turned to face the languid, leonine man, who smiled at him in a befuddled manner and reached out to place the tips of his fingers on Scorio’s knee.

Nothing happened, and then Scorio felt a shiver pass over him as Gelegos’s gaze sharpened and became a piercing stare. For a moment, Scorio felt like a translucent sheet of glass, his every secret exposed, then Gelegos sighed and retracted his touch.

He took his time turning back to face the table and reached up to adjust his spectacles where they sat upon the bridge of his nose. “Not good, I’m afraid,” he said at last.

“I’m aware of how I’ve damaged my Heart—” began Scorio, but Selena raised a hand and cut him off.

“Continue,” she said to Gelegos.

He sighed. “Numerous problems. The first and most obvious is a slight degree of Heart burn-off. I’d rate it merely at level one, but…”

“To have any degree in a Cinder is an ill omen,” said Wrack. “Indicates a personality that is volatile, impatient, and reckless.”

Scorio bit down on his words, forced himself to wait.

“Second,” continued Gelegos, “his Heart has a moderate degree of fracturing. I’d rate his mana retention to about sixty percent; I noticed highly developed signs of caustic deterioration from within, no doubt to his extensive use of Coal mana and consumption of unrefined Black Star elixirs.”

“Sixty percent,” said Selena, tone grave.

Scorio’s heart sank.

“However,” said Gelegos, tone turning bright, “this is offset by a remarkable depth to his Heart; I doubt he’s anywhere close to his First Trial, but already I’d wager his capacity is at a fifteen or twenty. While this has no doubt been enhanced by his unrestrained consumption of potent mana, it also indicates a naturally potent Heart.”

“Worth checking with the Crystal Gauge?” asked Wrack, raising an eyebrow. “Not that I’m doubting your rating.”

“I’d never dream that you would,” said Gelegos, beaming at Wrack with apparent sincerity. “But yes, I’d be curious to evaluate him with the Gauge. Finally, for one who has progressed without assistance from the Academy, his Heart demonstrates remarkable reactivity; given its depth, this is a necessity, or he’d never have achieved ignition outside of these halls.”

“Interesting,” said Selena, nodding with grudging approval. “And a fine set of counterpoints. The Gauge, then?”

“The Gauge it is,” said Gelegos, rising to his feet and turning to a heavy black case that rested on a shelf behind him.

“A fifteen or a twenty,” said Scorio uncertainly. “Is that good?”

“Context is everything,” said Selena. “For an Emberling? Average to poor. For a Cinder? Above average, if they were on the verge of their First Trial. You, however, are far from it, which is quite exciting.”

Gelegos unsnapped the locks and opened the lid, revealing a black velvet interior formed around the objects contained within. With precise, tranquil movements, the recruiter withdrew and set up a tripod, upon whose apex he affixed a clear gem the size of his fist.

“This is an expensive toy that we acquired at some cost,” he said softly, leaning down to plug a metallic tube of delicate gold mesh to the underside of the crystal.

“By all the hells, don’t call it a toy,” said Selena in resigned exasperation.

Gelegos continued as if he hadn’t heard. “The crystal is the heart of an Attenuation Spider, a rather nasty predator from the Endless Ravines. It acts as a conduit, allowing Great Soul A to pour mana into Great Soul B. There.” The tube clicked into place, and he sat up to smile at Scorio. “The crystal shifts color as it channels ever more continuous mana. We can thus judge a Great Soul’s capacity to draw on mana by how far along the spectrum he can cause the crystal to shift.”

“And the source of the mana?” asked Scorio.

“I will provide,” said Gelegos with great humility, placing his hand to his chest. “You need but focus on directing the mana that will enter you via this cup”—he raised a hemisphere attached to the end of the metallic tube—“into your Heart. Don’t overdo it—we need to know your comfort level, not your extreme maximum.”

“Understood,” said Scorio, taking the cup and pulling it toward him. The gold mesh extended and narrowed as it pulled, making the tube ever slenderer. “Against my chest?”

“Just so,” said Gelegos. “Is your Heart empty?”

“Of course,” said Scorio, confused.

“Very well,” said Gelegos, not bothering to explain. “I’ve found that it helps for you to close your eyes and focus on your Heart instead of watching the crystal. Let us begin.”

Scorio did as he was bid, summoning his Heart and closing his eyes, so that it sprang into being before him, malformed after the burn-off, and hovering amidst scintillating clouds of copper and iron.

Was he doing well? Would they take him if they thought his Heart too damaged? That he’d cost them too many resources? If so, his only chance at changing their mind was by impressing them with the depth of his Heart, his ability to take on mana beyond anything they had ever seen.

Spiraling black Coal mana suddenly flooded into his senses, flowing out of the cup that he’d pressed to his chest and swirling around his Heart. Scorio took a deep breath, summoned his will, and visualized his trusty, broad paddle. Shepherded the mana as it blew forth, causing it to spin around his Heart, and when he had it moving at a good speed, he opened his Heart wide and inhaled, drawing the Coal into his core.

The very thickness of the Coal caused it to vent more slowly; it seemed to gum up in the fractures of his Heart. It still leaked forth, tendrils of black smoke spilling out, but Scorio felt it build within his core, grow ponderous and dense as he willed ever more of it into his being.

Then the mana emerging from the cup changed, becoming Copper. Slippery and quicksilver, it streamed forth, and Scorio had to center in order to adapt, to capture the mana with his paddle, to guide it about his Heart. It was like trying to herd eels; they wished to course away in every direction, and it was only the gravity of the situation that allowed him to focus so completely that he was able to draw it in.

The Copper was infinitely different, however, from the turgid Coal; it seemed to escape, nosing about within his Heart and finding the fractures swiftly, pouring forth almost as quickly as he drew it in. Scorio lowered his chin, clenched his jaw, and willed more into his Heart, which was beginning to feel uncomfortably full. Fought not to grow furious at how much Copper he was losing; Gelegos had guessed forty percent, but it seemed much more.

He was just starting to despair when the Copper finally gave way to Iron. Dense and independent, it flowed forth from the cup as if it wished nothing more than to remain free of all dominion. Scorio flexed his will, reached forth and exerted his authority over its own, found the Iron as before resistant, unimpressed. But Scorio didn’t yield; all his lessons under Hera came to the fore, and he maintained an active and steady pressure until the Iron succumbed and flowed into his Heart.

And there it coiled, growing denser, more compact by the second, as it sought to accommodate the heavy Coal and slivers of Copper that remained. Scorio drew more and more of the Iron, not allowing himself to relent. Sweat prickled his brow. His breath became shallow and rapid. His muscles wanted to lock up, and within his chest, his real heart pounded as if in alarm, as if seeking to warn him that he was entering dangerous territory.

But still, Scorio focused. Bent his will to the Iron that flowed forth to fill the air around him, pulling on it, guiding it into his Heart, which seemed to swell, creaking and cracking, to accommodate the pressures growing within.

He could do this. He could take more. He could always take more. If it was a question of capacity, and capacity was determined by tolerance, then he could consume all of hell.

He would not break.

His Heart groaned, stretched, and he felt it grow, not in size, but in depth, as if its very center were falling away, the space within its faceted confines growing greater even as the shell remained static in form.

More. Feverish, swaying in his chair, he gripped the arms to steady himself as he willed more Iron into his Heart, unable to breathe, his whole body rigid—then the Iron cut off, and he snapped open his eyes.

The three Recruiters were staring at the crystal, which had lit up with a painfully bright, almost white glow.

“High Iron,” said Selena. “Verging on Bronze.”

“Rank thirty-five,” said Gelegos, lowering the golden mesh tube to the table. “Quite impressive for a Cinder.”

“But look at him,” said Wrack, tone hard. “He looks fit to keel over. Which dovetails perfectly with what I said about his being reckless.”

“I’m fine,” said Scorio, voice coming from miles away. The mana burned in his Heart, and though it was flooding out through the fractures at a rapid rate, it wasn’t venting fast enough. “Permission to ignite my Heart?”

“Go ahead,” said Selena, bemused.

He flexed his will, and his Heart whoomphed into flame so powerfully that Scorio jerked back in his chair. Strength, terrible and puissant, rushed into his shaking limbs, washing away the feverish trembling. He exhaled in relief and smiled at them all. “That’s better.”

“Don’t float away from us now,” said Gelegos, grinning. “That much mana will go right to your head.”

“Don’t worry,” said Scorio, feeling sublime. “It’s like I said. I have it under control.”

Selena sat back and tapped her lips, crossing one leg over the other. “These fractures are worrisome, and your ambition is both laudable and a danger. If we were to sign you onto our team, Scorio, we would need to deal with both.”

Scorio felt at ease, powerful, almost contemptuous of the problems. “How so, Principal Recruiter?”

“The first would require treasures that would heal your fractures. We would dedicate the resources we allocated to you to that alone. A couple of Sublime Purification pills each Eighthday, with an Apotheosis pill every Eighthday or other Eighthday depending on how quickly you recovered.”

“A Thousand Step wouldn’t go amiss,” said Gelegos in a distracted tone, taking his crystal gauge apart. “Peaceful Wheel would be particularly apt, don’t you think, Wrack?”

Wrack frowned. “Given his second problem, yes.”

“I was getting to that,” said Selena. “We’d start you with Sublime Purification and Apotheosis pills to both heal and elevate your Heart, and yes, a Thousand Step to prevent brittleness as you healed would be apt. But your ambition cannot be healed with pills and elixirs alone. Peaceful Wheel would help ground and settle you, along with private meditation classes here at our center. But we’re going to have to work with you to elucidate this strong—”

“Reckless,” interjected Wrack.

“—desire to gain power at any cost. Already you’re running into the limitations your past strategies have created for you. There is a very distinct reason Great Souls do not acquire power at any cost. Anyone in your class could excel beyond all measure if fed the right combination of potent treasures, only to flame out and become a forgotten footnote to your cohort’s records.”

Scorio felt the first flickers of anger deep within his core, but forced himself to relax. “I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Selena gave him a firm smile as if to take the sting from her words. “I’ve conducted hundreds of interviews just like this one, Scorio. Sat across from ambitious, hungry young Great Souls who want nothing more than to hit the next level of power. Who, if given the chance, would consume an Apotheosis pill a day and drink elixirs of pure Diamond. Right up till their Heart shattered, imploded, burned off or they lost their minds and went mad. Which has happened. Our current practices are guided by previous centuries’ excesses. There were times in our history when we thought we had no choice but to feed young Great Souls treasures beyond their ability, and while that allowed Bastion and our kind to survive those crises, they came at a terrible cost: entire cohorts ruined, driven mad, and turned into burned-out husks of themselves. Those excesses inform our approach today, which means what we give you is calibrated to maximize your long-term success.”

Selena leaned forward and fixed him with her stare. “We are not interested in a moment’s fireworks. If we sign you up with House Chimera, we will do everything we can to ensure you have the very best long-term career that we can provide. We want you to reach Imperator one day, not Dread Blaze tomorrow. Now, with that long-term view in mind, do you see why your temperament is a problem?”

“Sure, but I’ve one objection,” said Scorio, sitting up and speaking the words even as they came to him, not knowing what the objection even was till he mentioned it. “Everything I’ve done up to this point has been to survive. I wasn’t given a chance at a normal career. I was thrown through the Final Door, then had to scrape by in the ruins till I was able to impress Imperator Sol and return to the Academy. If I had behaved this way from the start while always a member of the Academy, I’d agree, I’ve a temperament problem. But I don’t. I have an overwhelming need to survive. And with your patronage and continued education at the Academy?” He sat back, smiling genially, his Heart still burning with mixed flames of copper, black, and dull silver. “That’ll no longer be a problem.”

“Well put,” said Wrack, “but we just witnessed you burn your Heart for power.”

“So as to attract your attention and earn healing,” said Scorio smoothly. “Instructor Hera told me that without House sponsorship it would take me a couple of years to naturally regenerate the damage my Heart has incurred. I don’t want to wait that long. And with your patronage, I won’t have to, nor will I have to use extreme measures anymore.”

“Oh, I like him,” said Gelegos, snapping the black case shut and smiling benignly at Selena. “Can we keep him?”

“No, we can’t keep him,” said Selena. “Honestly, Gelegos.”

“But I want to keep him,” said the recruiter, turning to smile at Scorio. “And with the wealth of pills at our disposal, I believe he’d not mind being kept. What do you think, Scorio?”

“I’d appreciate the chance to impress you further,” Scorio said without hesitation.

“Yes, I’m sure you would.” Selena sat back and tapped her chin. “Well, I think you’re worth the risk. To be honest, your being vouchsafed by Imperator Sol makes you almost worthy of being admitted regardless of your personal qualities. I’m going to make the private meditation sessions mandatory, however, both to help you control your ambition as well as a means to keep an eye on your progress. We’ll have your treasures delivered to the mess hall, and will provide you with an official Chimera badge so that you may both claim them and demonstrate your allegiance. You’re to wear it when outside your rooms unless otherwise instructed, and your every action will henceforth both reflect on your character and our decision to sponsor you.”

Scorio sat still for a moment, stunned by what had just happened—they’d accepted him.

He was in.

“Now, official sponsorship comes with other perks,” Selena was saying. “Access to these rooms and the resources contained here, coaching on your final Gauntlet run, the opportunity to form your Gauntlet team with other Chimera students, all of whom are amongst the most elite in your cohort, and tours of the Chimera Tower and other official buildings, which involves meeting the senior management and leadership of the House.”

Scorio nodded rapidly to show he was listening but felt overwhelmed, unable to get past the fact that it had happened. He’d been brought in.

He was going to be healed.

“…don’t appreciate the opportunity, being fixated on their current challenges, but long-term success in the House depends as much on your connections to senior team members as it does your own talent, so we’ll coach you on how to behave on these tours, whom to look out for, and what questions to ask so that you make the best possible impression. Remember, your stint at the Academy will only last at most for two years; after that, you’ll be a Chimera man, and your fortunes will depend on how well you navigate those halls of power. But we can speak on all of that later. For now, let me take the opportunity to formally welcome you to House Chimera. Welcome, Scorio.”

And Selena rose to her feet, followed a second later by Wrack and Gelegos. She extended her hand and smiled her tight, customary smile when he shook it.

“We’ll let you know when the House contract is ready for you to sign, along with the other sundry forms like our Code of Honor and the Spirit of Chimera. You’ll receive your badge when you sign them, and at that point, we’ll figure out your schedule.”

“In the meantime,” said Wrack stiffly, “you can have your copy of House Chimera, a History.” He turned to another shelf behind him which was laden with exact duplicates of a small, leather-bound book. “It so happens that I worked on the latest edition with Flame Vault Upparo and was greatly honored to have my edits approved by Pyre Lord Zaffex himself.”

Wrack slid the book across the table to Scorio, traced the edge of its cover with one finger, then linked his hands behind his back. “All House members are expected to know our history by heart. Let this humble tome be your vade mecum, Scorio. You will find much wisdom and inspiration within its covers.”

“Thank you, Recruiter Wrack,” said Scorio, taking the book up. “I, ah, will be sure to read it carefully.”

Wrack gave a sharp nod, then turned to Selena.

“Excellent,” she said. “Then that concludes this interview. Welcome to the House Chimera family, Scorio. We’ll let you know when you should return to sign documents and collect your badge.”

“Thank you, Principal Recruiter,” said Scorio, bowing before her. “Recruiter Gelegos. Recruiter Wrack.”

“You’re welcome,” said Gelegos, pushing up his glasses again. “It will be fascinating to watch how you progress.”

“Yes,” said Wrack unenthusiastically. “Fascinating.”

Selena came around the table and stepped into the archway. “I’ll see you out. But I agree. I think you’re going to make an excellent addition to our House. And while I genuinely can’t wait to see how well you’ll fare in the tournament and the final Gauntlet run, I’ve a strong presentiment that those successes will pale in comparison to what you’ll accomplish down the line.”

“Thank you,” was all Scorio could say, and as he stepped out of the chamber his Heart guttered and died. Strength flooded from his body, leaving him feeling weak and worn, as if he’d not slept in days. “I’ll do my best to live up to your expectations.”

“Oh, I know you will,” said Selena, smiling and leading him forth. “You’ll have no choice in the matter.”

Chapter 51

Scorio had to bury his excitement and run to get to class before the lights pulsed. Seventhday academics was a course on the Four Houses, taught by Feng. Slipping into his seat next to Lianshi, he answered her demanding, silent query with a grin, then turned to face the front as Instructor Feng entered and moved to the fore.

“Good morning, class, settle down.” Not that anyone was speaking. Those who interrupted or failed to pay attention paid the price during the following training session. “We’re going to get right into it to cure you all of your tournament fever. We’ll begin with a review of the Amicable Discord pact signed in the year 812. Who can tell me why a formalization of internecine chaos was necessary?”

Normally Scorio didn’t pay too much attention; the Houses had always seemed the least interesting aspect of Bastion and hell, but now he thirsted for any information on House Chimera and listened intently each time its name was mentioned. He took notes, followed along in the text, and by the end of class felt himself a model student.

But the class did eventually come to an end, and with a tight smile, Feng called out the homework assignment as students rose to their feet. “You’re to write a one-page summary of why the first Amicable Discord Pact lasted only two years—what caused it to collapse, what fundamental weaknesses were baked into the agreement from the get-go, and what did the Second Pact of 819 get right? I’ll see you all soon.”

“And?” Lianshi whipped around to grip Scorio’s arm with talon-like fingers. “How could you just sit there and not say a word? Not even pass me a note?”

“Base cruelty,” said Leonis, leaning forward from his seat behind them both. “The man is a callous wretch who likes to leave us in torment.”

“Look at how he’s grinning,” said Naomi, climbing to her feet. “Is there any doubt as to how it went?”

“Tell us!” Lianshi punched him in the shoulder. “Or do you expect me to beat it out of you in sparring class?”

“You really shouldn’t,” said Scorio with smug coolness. “House Chimera is very defensive of its proteges. You’d find yourself in a world of—”

But Lianshi interrupted him with a squeal of delight as she attacked him, hugging him tight and squeezing him as hard as she could. “You got it? You really did?”

Scorio laughed, cheeks burning, aware that several other students in the class were watching. “Looks like it, yes.”

“Good job,” said Leonis. “That’s fantastic. They’re going to finance your recovery?”

“All of it.” Scorio hopped up to sit on his desk and face them both. Naomi, he saw, was already drifting toward the classroom door. “It’s incredible. They’re going to give me two Sublime Purification pills each Eighthday, along with an Apotheosis pill, Thousand Step pill, and Peaceful Wheel.”

Leonis let out a low whistle. “That’s incredible. An Apotheosis every week?”

Lianshi looked taken aback. “That’s top tier, Scorio. You must have made an impression.”

“What can I say?” His grin turned roguish. “Principal recruiters find me irresistible.”

“It has nothing to do with Imperator Sol’s personally vouching for you, of course,” said Leonis. “You earned this purely on your own merits.”

“Maybe a little of that, too,” said Scorio, and then he laughed in exhilaration. “But it worked. They want to invest in me for the long term, help me reach Imperator if that’s possible. With so many resources at my disposal, I’ll heal up fast, and then together we can crush the Gauntlet at the semester’s end.”

Leonis frowned. “You sure they’re going to let you team up with us? Neither of us is House-sponsored, nor are we still in the tournament.”

“They never said they’d pick my team,” Scorio said hurriedly. “Though they said I should meet the other House Chimera proteges and think about forming a team with them. But you know what? There’s no need to waste anybody’s time. We’re in this together. The four of us…”

“Huh,” said Leonis, twisting about. “Guess Naomi didn’t want to hear the good news?”

“She’s not ready to celebrate the Houses or Academy,” said Lianshi quietly. “Not that I blame her, given what she’s been through. But I know she’s happy for you. It must be hard for her to see you succeeding, though, where she’s only ever seen closed doors.”

“Was her decision not to enter the tournament,” said Leonis. “She could have destroyed anyone in the loser’s bracket in her Nightmare Lady form.”

“Well, I hope she’ll still team up with us,” said Scorio. “I mean, I don’t plan to give her a choice.”

Lianshi’s smile returned. “This is just brilliant. We have to celebrate!”

“Now we’re talking,” rumbled Leonis. “Something worthy of the occasion. And lo! Tomorrow is Eighthday. We’ll have all day long to mark the moment.”

“Celebrate,” mused Scorio. “Yeah.”

“What is it?” asked Lianshi.

“Just that… I don’t know. Since I was reincarnated in the Gauntlet, there’s not been that much to celebrate. Just one brutal trial or insurmountable obstacle after another. To have something like this to celebrate, something simple and good and right, feels… strange.”

“Get used to it,” laughed Leonis, rising to his feet. “This House sponsorship will take you far. Just don’t forget us little people when you head out to conquer hell.”

“No chance of that,” said Scorio, gathering his supplies. “It’s like I said, right? We’re in this together. From the start right to the bitter end.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi, shouldering her satchel. “You can count on us.”

“Just don’t ask me to carry your stuff,” said Leonis with a false glower. “I’ll knock your head off if you do.”

“Got it,” said Scorio, feeling almost giddy with delight. “No bag carrying. What about boot polishing? We should really review all the terms.”

Leonis went to rebuke him as they stepped into the hallway only to draw back sharply before he could collide with someone striding past.

Jova Spike. She studied them with her smoky dark gaze as she went by, looking trim and lethal, self-contained and panther-like in her intensity.

Impulse stirred Scorio, and he reached out his hand. “Jova? A word?”

For a moment he thought she’d keep walking, but then she stopped, body stiff, staring straight ahead. Did she expect him to move around to her front? No—she finally looked at him over her shoulder, a wave of black hair falling down one side of her face, to stare at him with one dark-rimmed eye.

“What is it?” Her voice was low, reserved, mildly irritated, husky.

“Guys, go on ahead, I’ll see you in class,” said Scorio. Lianshi and Leonis slowly moved away, as if reluctantly breaking free of some terrible gravitational pull, and Scorio nodded to an empty side corridor. “I need just a moment of your time.”

She followed him warily into the narrow hallway, and there stood in its mouth, arms crossed over her chest, chin raised, expression flinty. “Speak, Scorio. I won’t be late for class.”

“Right.” He gave a measured exhale, thoughts settling into place, and then stood straight. “I was just offered sponsorship by House Chimera. Imperator Sol personally vouchsafed my being readmitted to the Academy. I’m now in the top thirty-two of the loser’s bracket of the tournament.”

“Good for you,” she said, tone dry and utterly unimpressed.

“Which is all to say that I’m working hard at being a legitimate member of this cohort.” Scorio felt his palms prickle, his chest tighten. “And that’s to add context to my request.”

“You’ve less than a minute,” she said. “Then I’m walking away.”

“I checked my locker. Your name was carved deep into the rock of the back wall. Everything else was gone.”

Her dark-rimmed eyes narrowed. “My name?”

“Jova Spike. Meticulously carved. It’s the only clue I have to my past. I’ve been thinking about it, and the last time I reincarnated was two hundred and thirty-three years ago. So I was hoping you could check your journals, or mementos or whatever, and see if there’s anything there about me from that time period.”

Her gaze was suspicious, her expression unyielding. “You think I’d have agreed to write a secret message of yours in my private journals?”

“That’s my hope,” said Scorio, speaking more quickly. “I’m just asking you to check. It would mean everything to me. There has to be a reason your name was carved into the back of my locker.”

“No,” said Jova simply.

Scorio blinked. “No?”

“No. I wouldn’t have included any message of yours for the same reason I won’t help you now.” She spoke with deliberate clarity, utterly self-assured and unafraid of confrontation. “Because you are a Red Lister, Scorio, and no House sponsorship or Imperator recommendation will change that fact.”

For a moment, she just stared at him, as if making sure her words had hit home, then she simply turned and walked away.

Scorio stood there staring at nothing. Eyes wide, jaw clenched, he forced himself to dry swallow and process the sheer finality of her words. No? That wasn’t what she was supposed to say. He was part of the Academy now. It wasn’t even that big a request. And so what if he was a Red Lister? Even Praximar had agreed to let that be forgotten.

“Wait,” he called out, and ran after her, down the hall to where she strode away. She didn’t turn back, so he ran up beside her. “So what if I was a Red Lister? I’m legitimate now, I’m part of all of this, I’ve proven myself—”

“No,” said Jova, turning on him so suddenly that he tripped to avoid crashing into her, fell back against the wall. She stepped in right after him, eyes narrowed. “You haven’t proven yourself because you can’t. No good deed will erase the fact that you’re a danger to Bastion and our kind.” She spoke rapidly, furiously, and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You’re a Red Lister, Scorio, which means you have proven in every reincarnation that you imperil those around you, bring danger to our most sacred institutions, and care nothing but for your own goals. Maybe the others don’t care about that, but I do.” She held his gaze, pinned him against the wall with it. “So no. And don’t ask me again. I won’t be this patient if you do.”

She stepped back, looked him up and down once, then turned on her heel to resume marching down the hallway.

It was mercifully almost empty; everyone else had already hurried to sparring class. But the few students who were hurrying along stared at him with wide-eyed wonder.

Scorio’s face burned, his pulse raced, and a deep and terrible anger awoke within him. His chest rose and fell with burning breaths as if his lungs had become a furnace, and he wanted nothing so much as to leap after Jova and—what? Prove her right by attacking her?

“You’re scared,” he growled, voice pitched low but still carrying down the length of the hall.

Jova drew up short, head slowly rising, shoulders stiff, and then, without looking back, asked, tone incredulous, “What did you say?”

He pushed off the wall, voice a low snarl. “You’re scared. Of my successes. That I’m going to take your first spot. That I’ll dethrone you.”

He half-expected her to laugh, but instead, she turned slowly, oh so slowly, to glare at him. “Scared? Of you?”

The incredulity on her words stung, but he grinned at her, the expression all teeth. “That’s right. And you’re right to be. I’m going to crush you. I’m going to make Emberling, I’m going to keep getting stronger, and then I’m going to make the deepest into the Gauntlet at the semester’s end. And you know it.”

This time she did laugh, a snort of disbelief, and her lip curled into a sneer. “Good luck with that.”

He took a rapid step forward. “Then let’s make a bet. If I beat you at the Gauntlet run, you’ll help me as best you can by looking in your journals.”

“And when you lose?”

He shrugged, still smiling. “What do you want?”

“From you? Nothing.” She turned now to face him full on, and he felt the air between them tremble. She was drawing in mana, and even with his Heart unsummoned he could feel it, the rush of power flooding into her, the quantity such that it felt like standing in a gale-force wind.

By all the hells, he thought. Just how strong is she?

“Actually, more than nothing,” she said, voice ice cold and imperious. “If you fail to beat me at the Gauntlet, I want your word as a Great Soul that you’ll withdraw from the Academy, even if you’re offered a place in the second-semester cohort.”

Her words hit him in the gut. Reject a chance to continue learning from the best, from availing himself of the Academy’s resources?

But why was he afraid? He was a member of House Chimera now. If he was forced to leave the Academy, he’d just begin his training directly with them.

“Deal,” he said.

Jova’s dark-rimmed eyes were as flat and cold as those of a shark. “I’m going to hold you to this oath, Red Lister. The consequences of your changing your mind will be lethal. Now. Do not talk to me again, or I really will lose my patience.”

And once more she strode away; she turned the corner, and was gone. The few remaining students who’d overheard the exchange quickly disappeared too, and Scorio sank back against the wall again, mind reeling.

What had just happened? What had he just sworn? Could he beat the infamous Jova Spike at the final Gauntlet run? When she’d won the first, and had only excelled in every way since?

For a long, aching moment, he just stared into the middle distance, half-panicked, but then he summoned his will and inhaled deeply. He could do it. She was an Emberling, sure, but with House Chimera’s guidance and his own natural talents, he’d make Emberling, too. He’d train harder than anyone had ever trained. He’d do the impossible if it meant learning about his past. Understanding the mysteries that had resulted in his being labeled a Red Lister, a monster worthy of the Final Door.

Jova didn’t know it yet, but she’d given him the last piece of incentive he’d needed to dominate their Academy and their cohort.

Scorio took a deep, shuddering breath, and smiled.

They weren’t going to know what had hit them.

Chapter 52

“You think the Golden King will wait another full day to celebrate the success of his greatest admirer?” bellowed Leonis, a bottle of flaywine in hand. He stood, imperious, one foot atop a chair, his hair unbound and falling riotously down his broad shoulders.

“We get our allowance tomorrow,” said Scorio. “Shouldn’t we save an expedition into the city for the day we have no classes—”

“What is this twittering?” Leonis pressed his fingers to his temples. “This mewling sound that thinks it speaks reason but only reveals a lack of joy in life? No! We celebrate tonight as is customary! By tomorrow evening this news will be stale, the freshness sucked out of it, poor Scorio focused on conquering new impossibilities. Tonight!”

Scorio grinned and pushed back on the rear legs of his chair. “I approve of the enthusiasm. But Praximar has Naomi and me on short leashes. Wouldn’t do to be caught sneaking out of the Academy after hours and expelled.”

“Agreed,” said Naomi dourly.

“Caught?” Leonis blinked as if offended. “You think I, Leonis the Grim, the Favored of Eragoth, can be stymied by a handful of self-important bureaucrats? Come, Scorio, your insults cut me to the bone. I know how to exit and return without difficulty. I vow this to you on my illustrious albeit currently forgotten past.”

Lianshi frowned and sank a little deeper into her morass of cushions. “I mean, it’s normal for tournament winners to head and celebrate tonight. The others will be doing the same.”

“I’ve no desire to break the rules for no good reason,” said Naomi, scooting her heels up onto the edge of her seat so that she could lower her chin to her knees.

“No good reason? My friends, my friends.” Leonis’s voice dropped to a hush. “You think me overwrought? You think my desire to celebrate our friend inappropriate? Let me remind you of who we are, what we are.”

“We know,” said Lianshi. “We’re Great Souls.”

“No!” Leonis’s cry reverberated off the rafters of their chamber like a crashing wave. “We’re orphans, immortal sparks cast adrift on the tides of chaos! We’ve no recollection of family, of our bosom friends, our deeds and failures. We’re blank slates who were once great, once legendary, worthy of having their souls tied to the Archspire itself, but now? We’re timorous students, cowering behind the robes of our instructors, content to study and ask for permission if we’ve the desire to enjoy ourselves!”

Lianshi pursed her lips. Scorio reluctantly nodded.

“What binds us together?” Leonis stared intently at each of them. “Of what are our bonds forged? Experience, trust, admiration. I may not know much, but I know this: our lives are liable to be brutish and short, and all we can truly trust in is each other. If we don’t seize moments like these when they present themselves, then what manner of people will we become? How strong our bonds? Scorio has achieved his dream, has rescued his Heart from destruction, and I for one won’t gamely wait till it’s appropriate to celebrate. I say, we celebrate him now! I say, we live for the moment lest it pass us by! For pass it shall, and then another, and our friendships will turn anemic, will be weakened by a lack of passion. If we don’t dare, if we don’t brave great dangers for each other, then what manner of friends are we? No! I’ll not just pat Scorio on the shoulder, mouth mild compliments, and get a good night’s sleep. To the streets! To the bars and places of ill repute! To drink, to dance, to reforge our bonds, to cast them stronger, truer, and of unbreakable mettle! Are you with me, or are you whining milquetoast creatures with spoiled milk in your veins instead of liquid fire?”

“If we go, will you stop orating?” asked Lianshi.

“Only until the time comes to give a toast! Up, on your feet! Scorio? Are you with us? Will you let the other victors celebrate while we mope about indoors?”

Scorio laughed and shook his head even as he arose. “With a speech like that? How could I say no?”

“And you, Naomi!” Leonis turned to stab a finger at her. “Don’t you dare say you care nothing for us, for Scorio. Tell me his friendship isn’t worth the celebration!”

Scorio looked to her, fully expecting Naomi to tell Leonis to get lost, but instead, she met his gaze then looked swiftly away. “Fine. I’ll come.”

“Ah-ha!” Leonis raised his flaywine high. “Now all my doubts are settled, and I know that I’ve fallen in with a righteous crew! Get dressed, you fools! The night is a-wasting!”

Scorio spread his arms. “This is my only clean set of robes.”

“Well,” said Leonis, a glint in his eye, “then I shall not have much competition with the ladies. Naomi? Lianshi?”

“Come on,” said Lianshi, laboriously climbing out of the pile of cushions and setting aside her tome. “Let’s see what we can do, Naomi.”

“I’m not doing anything.” Naomi blushed. “I agreed to go, not dress up like a courtesan.”

“I’ve a little more subtlety than that,” said Lianshi, looping her arm through Naomi’s and pulling her off her chair. “Come!”

“Here,” said Leonis, handing the bottle to Scorio. “Now that we’ve agreed to go, do you have any suggestions as to a destination?”

“What?” Scorio paused, bottle halfway to his lips. “You don’t have a plan?”

Leonis grinned. “My plan was to get us out onto the streets of this fair city. From there, I’m willing to let fate guide our footsteps.”

“A place to go.” Scorio took a sip and then winced. “Actually. Yes. Though it might be hard to get in the door.”

“Don’t fret,” said Leonis, taking the bottle back. “I’ve yet to meet a doorman who can stand in my way.” He took a drink, then considered. “Though to be accurate, I’ve yet to meet a doorman.”

Five minutes later, they slipped out of their suite. Lianshi had put on a robe of green silk chased with black and gold trim, with a broad sash of scarlet around her waist. Naomi had reluctantly agreed to wear another gorgeous set of robes, an elegant black outfit whose surface revealed intricate patterns when the light caught it just right. Leonis led them quickly through the students’ halls down into the servants’ quarters, and from there down to the cellars where they entered a familiar room.

“The map revealed a series of connecting passageways that open up in a dry cistern,” said Leonis, moving to the secret door. “Last time we simply climbed to the basilica, but why should we ignore the other options?”

“Didn’t we guess that these secret passageways aren’t that secret?” asked Scorio.

“Well, whomever we meet along the way will be as motivated as we are to not raise an alarm. Come!”

Leonis opened the secret portal, and led them off to the right, following a cramped tunnel that turned erratically, following an architectural logic that Scorio couldn’t divine. They all sharpened their darkvision and thus were able to make their way through the shadowed interstices of the Academy till at last Leonis paused by a circular stone.

“Here,” he said, taking hold of two handles that had been carved free of the mass. “It takes a Cinder at the very least to open this up. Give me some elbow space.”

They watched as Leonis twisted the stone plug, his whole frame shaking as he exerted terrible strength upon the door. Which turned with a deep grinding noise, and then pushed free into the gloom beyond.

“There we go. Follow me!” Leonis ducked through the portal, and one by one they followed. Scorio cast a glance back the way they’d come, but saw nothing and no one.

The room beyond was a colonnaded chamber, low ceilinged and ancient, the brickwork deformed by the weight pressing down upon the vaulted ceiling. Replacing the stone plug, Leonis wiped the dust off his palms and then turned around, getting his bearings. “This is the old cistern. We go this way, I think.”

For a while longer, they crept through the dusty vault, till at last they climbed up onto a platform that might once have been at water level, and from there ascended a cobwebbed staircase to emerge into a dark gallery that encircled an abandoned courtyard. Silently, little more than shadows themselves, they slipped out through an archway and found themselves in a street, the hulking mass of the Academy looming before them.

“Does the Golden King not deliver?” Leonis spread his arms wide. “I hereby pass the baton of leadership to our illustrious friend, Scorio the… well. Which of your nicknames do you prefer?”

“I’m working on new ones,” said Scorio, leading them down the street. “Come on, we’ve got to get to Ward 11.”

“What’s in Ward 11?” asked Lianshi, stepping up alongside him, arm in arm with Naomi.

“Some friends. Remember Feiyan and Helena? They opened a… concert hall of sorts with the sunphire I gave them.”

Naomi frowned. “I thought Feiyan told you to never return.”

To which Scorio could only grin. “She enjoys being disappointed. Plus, Helena will be glad to see me. Come on!”

Buoyed by sudden energy, feeling terribly alive, young and filled with promise, he led them into the nocturnal streets of Bastion, whose main thoroughfares were lit as before by the delirious lights emitted by copper and iron spheres. Overhead the sun-wire was a smoldering filament, giving forth no actual illumination, but everywhere else was slate blue shadow, deep ebon darkness, and cool, exhilarating realms of surreal color and activity.

His friends clustered in close beside him as he led the way, following the wet streets that gleamed under the impossible lights, through night markets, past places of questionable business that only opened at night, stalls giving off clouds of steam as their cooks served up bowls of freshly grilled street food. Here and there were signs of Imogen’s destruction, the architecture perverted or inverted, even, but despite those markets the crowd pressed by uncaring in gaudy robes, music swirling from open windows where beautiful men and women beckoned for the passerby to come closer.

“I feel like I’ve fallen into a dream,” said Lianshi, eyes wide as she tried to take it all in. “It’s like this every night?”

“See?” Leonis tried for his boisterous grin and nearly managed. “I told you it was worth the adventure.”

“Watch your purses,” said Naomi, eyes narrowed. “We stand out like children at a brothel.”

“Ew,” said Lianshi. “What an awful metaphor.”

“This way,” said Scorio, spotting a steep set of steps that led down to a glimmering canal. “The Flame should be close, unless I’m completely lost. We’ve gone radially west enough, at any rate.”

Down the steep steps they went, laughing and holding onto each other as they took turns nearly slipping on the treacherously wet rock, then out beside the broad canal. Its waters gleamed like black oil, and up ahead Scorio saw a large crowd gathered outside an open doorway from which loud, melodic music burst forth, the rhythm insistent, infectious.

“There!” Scorio grinned at his friends. “Come on!”

Together they approached where the crowd milled in the copper light, and Scorio felt drab and underdressed compared to their finery; his functional training robes were completely at odds with their silk and sheer fabrics, the patterns and metallic hues.

“Why are their robes all torn?” asked Naomi, pressing in close. And Scorio saw that they were; almost everybody’s robe was ripped, revealing flashes of shoulder and inner thigh or bare midriff. Nobody seemed hurt, however, or upset; if anything, those whose robes were the most ripped were the most effusive and confident.

Scorio slowed as they finally reached the crowd. Two men stood on guard, one of them clearly the bald man from the last time he’d visited. “All right. Now, about getting in. Last time I threw that man into the canal, but I don’t think we should take that approach.”

Lianshi turned to stare at him, hands above her head as she twisted her hair into a knot and slipped slender sticks through it. “You what?”

“I can take care of this,” said Leonis, puffing out his chest. “And if my charisma fails me, my octs should open the way. One moment.” And he strode forward, parting the crowd with the sheer force of his personality, the waiting throng actually moving aside so that he could step up to both men.

“I’ll be genuinely impressed if he pulls this off,” said Lianshi, crossing her arms. “Naomi, you want your hair up?”

“I—sure.” Naomi blushed again. “But keep it simple. Nothing… silly.”

“Nothing silly,” agreed Lianshi, gathering Naomi’s thick hair in her hands. “Your hair is gorgeous. How do you get it so smooth?”

Scorio watched as Leonis leaned in to talk to both men, then gestured back to where the three of them waited. For a moment, he thought things might go well, but then the bald guard saw Scorio, and his face closed like a trap.

Leonis insisted, drew forth his pouch, but the man only lowered his hand to the long knife at his hip.

“Rats,” whispered Scorio. Where else could they go? Any bar would do, any venue, but there was a symmetry to celebrating at the Flame that appealed to him, to seeing Helena and Feiyan again, showing them how far he’d come—

A group was approaching from the other side, carrying bottles and fiddles, playing raucous, atonal music as they laughed and pushed at each other, and in their center, tall and rangy, dusky skin adorned with swirls and spirals of crushed paste that glowed luminously in the copper light, a familiar face.

“Helena!” He raised his arm and waved to get her attention.

She paused, frowned at him, and a smile lit up her whole face like the sun-wire hitting Amber. “Scorio!”

She broke away from her friends and approached, arms out wide, eyes alive with delight and amusement. “You live! And have new robes! And are clean and well-fed!”

“Helena!” He beamed, a warm rush arising within his chest. “These are my friends, Lianshi and Naomi, and over there trying to get us into the Flame is Leonis. We came to see you. To celebrate!”

“Celebrate?” She placed a hand on an angular hip and considered him, expression momentarily crafty before she raised both eyebrows. “What are we celebrating?”

Lianshi smiled bashfully. “Scorio was offered patronage today by House Chimera.”

“He was?” Helena’s eyes widened and she clapped her hands together with effusive joy. “That’s great! Come on!”

She led their trio through the crowd which called out greetings to her, but she only waved and smiled at the different people till she reached the men at the door. Leonis turned, bemused, and bowed his head; Helena impulsively leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek, leaving lip marks the color of the palest, glowing yellow on his skin.

Both guards parted immediately, and Helena reached back to snag Scorio’s hand, pulling him in after her, into the smoky darkness, into the rich and immersive music. The room beyond was as full of life and activity as before, the stage packed with musicians who were all accompanying and supporting a wild man who appeared lost in a trance, his mallets dancing across a great hollow drum from whose interior he summoned rippling, beautiful music that flowed out over the crowd like an endlessly crashing tidal wave.

Overhead burned lamps of Coal mana, casting forth a medley of different, virulent hues, but none so strong as to banish the shadows in which danced the crowd, many of them smoking pipes, lifting their hands to the sky, drinks in hand, laughing, pressing close.

“This way!” shouted Helena, not releasing Scorio’s hand, tugging him through the tight crowd. He reached back, clasped Lianshi’s hand, and saw that she was tugging Naomi along behind her. They wound their way through the crowd to the room’s far side, to a deep alcove in which a table was set, Feiyan laughing with friends, bottles before them, along with what looked like a pile of masks, her mallet, and other assorted weapons.

“Look who I found!” shouted Helena as she reached the table’s edge, raising Scorio’s arm as if he’d just won a race. “Remember Scorio?”

Feiyan’s brow immediately lowered, but before she could protest, Helena pointed out his friends, calling out their names. “Lianshi, Naomi, Leonis! They’re here to celebrate! Scorio’s got himself a House sponsorship!”

Feiyan’s heavy brows shot up in surprise, then immediately lowered in suspicion. The music was so loud that she didn’t bother to shout back but instead gave Scorio a grudging nod.

“Let’s get you some drinks!” Helena shouted into his ear, and they were off again, plunging through the crowd like seals diving into waves, Helena laughing and greeting everyone they came across as if she was best friends with the entire crowd. Which she very well might have been. Scorio pulled his friends behind him, and then bellied up to the bar, where he saw Old Memek, in a sophisticated suit of white, pouring wine into lined up cups, his hair pulled back into a tight bun, a line of glowing paste down the length of his nose.

“Memek!” Helena leaned in, waved at him. “Look who it is!”

Old Memek did a double-take at the sight of Scorio, then threw up his arms and shouted in joy. “My benefactor, my guardian in the night! Scorio!”

He could feel his friends studying him, seeing him a new light, rethinking the Great Soul they thought they knew in these iridescent blacklights.

“He’s celebrating!” shouted Helena, “pour him and his friends some drinks!”

Old Memek leaned over the bar to clasp Scorio’s shoulders, his wizened face beaming. “You! You!” He turned to Leonis. “This man! He came into my life like a thunderbolt! Dragged me here, and before I knew it, I was playing my oud, impressing Feiyan, and now? Now! Life is good! Drinks for my friends!” And he lined up four eggshell-thin cups and filled each to the brim with a luminous golden drink.

Helena laughed, grasped Scorio by both sides of his head, and pulled him into a kiss, planting a smack on his lips from sheer exuberance before letting him go. “Enjoy! Come find me later!”

And with that she was gone, her thick braid flashing behind her before she disappeared back into the crowd.

Scorio licked his lower lip and took up his cup, turning to his friends with a hesitant smile.

“Why did you ever join the Academy?” yelled Leonis, taking up his cup. “Why would you leave this?”

To which Scorio could only smile foolishly, overwhelmed by happiness and a sweet incredulity. His friends took up their drinks, raised them high.

“To Scorio!” shouted Leonis, clicking his cup against theirs. “A madman, a great heart, a good friend, and endless source of surprises!”

“To Scorio!” shouted Lianshi, then let out a whoop as they all raised their cups to their lips and drank.

The liquid was fiery, immediately intoxicating, rich with a redolent, smoky flavor that made Scorio feel as if he’d downed a cup of soft fire. He could sense the intense mana within it flooding into his system, and setting the cup down, he laughed and gazed out over the crowd, saw that most of those dancing were patterned with the crushed paste, so that they swirled in lavender and fuchsia and blue, losing their human forms and becoming animated patterns that beguiled the eye.

“Let’s dance!” shouted Lianshi, pulling everyone away from the bar, and when Naomi tried to resist Leonis got down on one knee, beseeching her to come with hands clasped before him, so that she acquiesced, mortified, as those around them laughed and cheered with approval.

Time ceased to have meaning. They danced, swayed to the tempestuous music, finding the rhythm, their little group endlessly breaking apart and then reforming. Occasionally they’d meet back at the bar for another round of drinks from Memek, who was delighted to pour them endless cups of burning gold, and sometimes they’d fade back to the walls and there catch their breath, watching the musicians as they plied their wild craft, their number fluid, some taking breaks while others taking their place, the music endless and driving the crowd to ever greater excesses.

The drink went to Scorio’s head, and he found his fears and concerns, the doubts and anger melting away. Dancing in the center of the crowd, he felt his sense of self melt into the music, into the sway of bodies around him, everyone united by the rhythm, the energy that filled the room.

The crowd parted and he saw Lianshi dancing with a young man, his robe barely hanging off his shoulders, chest bare, his face intent as he worked hard to impress her, and when she caught Scorio’s eyes she laughed, part-exhilarated, part-panicked.

Scorio laughed, the crowd closed, and he turned, eyes closed, allowing his thoughts to finally stop, to just be. He felt a hand trace a line across his back and turned, half-expecting to see Helena, but saw a different woman instead, tall and elegant, skin so black it hinted at blue in the magical light, hair assembled in an artful mess above her head, cheekbones glittering as if smeared with the very stuff of stars, her eyes glowing with interest. He bowed low, flattered, but fended her off.

This moment was his and his alone. He wanted to imprint it upon his memory, to crystallize this emotion, this feeling, so that no matter what happened next, he could return to it. This sensation of bliss, of rising euphoria, of success.

Because he’d done it. He’d done more than survived. More than just forced his way back into the Academy. Everything he’d done, every sacrifice, every death in the Gauntlet, every loss, all of it had culminated in House Chimera offering him their sponsorship. His future was bright with treasure, personalized training, endless resources, and the kind of guidance reserved for the most elite of the Academy.

Not that he didn’t still have his challenges before him—his impulsive bet with Jova, Praximar’s warnings. But he knew he could accomplish the impossible. He’d already done so once, hadn’t he?

He’d do it again.

Shouts arose from the side; he looked over and saw Leonis blinking in surprise as three young men stood defiantly before him.

One of them held a knife.

A woman screamed, and the spiraling, whirling music came to a dissonant end.

Scorio hurried over, wishing he’d not drunk so much, to reach Leonis’s side just as his friend raised his hands.

“I’m not sure what I did wrong,” rumbled the big man, “but I’m happy to apologize.”

The youth with the blade, his face encrusted with wild crimson swirls of paste, hocked and spat on the floor. “You’re not welcome here, Great Soul. Get back to your Academy and your luxuries. Is there nothing in this city we can have to ourselves?”

Leonis’s frown widened. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t!” The youth raised the blade. “You understand nothing! You take all, you tell us lies, then you go back to your fancy school and laugh at us! Enough! Your time is coming to an end—get out of here!”

Rumbles of assent came from the crowd that had gathered around them, though Scorio saw that the majority looked confused and frightened.

Feiyan shouldered her way to the fore, her mallet over her shoulder, to glare at the youth. “What’s your name?”

The young man straightened, taken aback by her fierce intensity and air of command. “I—my name’s Makiros.”

“Makiros. I don’t recall seeing that name on the list of The Flame’s owners. In fact, there are just two names there, and mine’s one of them.”

“But—these Great Souls, they don’t belong here, they should leave—”

“No, you should leave. You and your friends.” She lowered her mallet so that it fell into her open palm with a heavy smack. “Now.”

Makiros glanced around nervously, but something in Feiyan’s gaze did the deciding for him. He sneered. “Word’ll get out that this is a place for Great Soul lovers. Music won’t stop this place from burning when the time comes.” And then he turned and made his way toward the exit.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Feiyan, unimpressed. “Music! And everyone gets a free drink at the bar. Memek—line up the cups.”

Tentatively at first, and then with vigor, the music started back up, and slowly the crowd began to move, to stir, to dance once more. Many cheered as they crammed in for their free drink, and Feiyan crooked a finger to Scorio and Leonis, beckoning for them to move over to a wall.

“Did you provoke them?” she asked.

“No!” Leonis looked offended. “I mean, I was speaking with a lady, and then Makiros showed up and got upset. Perhaps he knew her? I don’t know.”

“Could be.” Feiyan rubbed at the side of her face. “You are welcome here. But be careful. The tension in the streets couldn’t be higher after the attack on the city. Your kind is being held responsible for the deaths. Given the failure of the Empyreal Prophecy, I would be surprised if there weren’t protests or an uprising soon.”

Scorio glanced at Leonis, who looked equally taken aback, then both nodded.

“Anyways. Enjoy yourselves.” Feiyan slipped her mallet into its loop at her hip. “And be smart.” And with that, she walked away.

“Uprising?” said Leonis. “We fought Imogen off. Why are they mad at us?”

“Don’t know,” said Scorio, and rubbed at his chin. “Just mind whom you talk to!”

Leonis laughed. “I can’t help myself! But fine! I’ll try to be discrete.” He clapped Scorio on the shoulder and strode back into the crowd.

Hours later, head spinning, body drenched in sweat, heart pounding with joy and exertion, he collapsed into an empty chair at a sparsely populated table, cup of water in hand. For a moment he sat alone, then Feiyan stepped out of the crowd, stocky frame clad in a beautiful black robe, her dark forelock curling across her forehead, and sat down next to him.

“Congratulations,” she said, voice raised so he could hear her over the music. “Helena told me what happened.”

“Thank you.” He smiled at her, feeling affectionate, deciding not to let even her curmudgeonly ways keep him from feeling blissed out. “Apologies for that earlier disturbance. And I wouldn’t have made it this far without your help.”

“I take it you’re not looking to get out to the Rascor Plains anymore?” Her expression was wry as she shook her head. “I worked hard at finding you passage.”

“No, thank you.” Scorio considered. “I’m happy to pay you for the time you spent.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she shouted, raising a callused palm. “Wasn’t the best choice. Tough outfit. Good people, but hard.”

“Yeah? Who?”

She leaned in so she didn’t have to shout so loudly. “Manticore. Decade ago looked like they were going to make their own house, then it all fell apart when their Crimson Earl got herself killed.”

“Understood,” said Scorio. “Thank you, anyway.”

“You’re welcome. And one more thing.” She crossed her arms, leaned in again. “Dola’s been asking after you.”

“Oh yeah?” He turned to stare at her. “Why?”

“Don’t know. I told her people we’d lost track of you. This was after the city got torn up. Everyone was talking about you. Word must have reached her.”

“Oh.” Scorio considered, but he was too elated to hold onto the thought. “That life’s behind me.”

“So it is.” She stood up, considered him, then shook her head with a rueful smile. “You surprised me, Scorio. You’ve come a long way. Respect.”

“Thank you,” he shouted. “Couldn’t have done it without you guys!”

“I know.” She grinned, then leaned in one more time. “And don’t you forget it.” At that, she smirked and strode off into the crowd.

Scorio sat back, feeling tired, feeling good, feeling at peace. Saw Naomi drifting by, looking lost and out of place, and raised his arm. “Naomi! Over here!”

For a second, he thought she’d not heard him, would be swallowed up the crowd again, but then she caught sight of his waving arm and came over. Taking Feiyan’s chair, she smoothed her robe over her knees.

“Having a good time?” he shouted.

“Fine!”

“Good! Want another drink?”

“No, thank you.” She seemed to resent having to shout but didn’t lean in much closer. “We should go. Leonis is getting drunk. We need him to get us home.”

“All right, sure.” Scorio considered her for a moment, then leaned in himself. “We’ve got to enjoy moments like these, you know?”

“Sure,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

“No, I’m serious! What’s the point of all the hard work if we don’t get to be happy?”

She said something, but he missed it.

“What?”

“I don’t trust happiness,” she shouted, then recoiled as if startled by her own volume.

“What do you mean? We’ve earned this!”

She leaned in at last, cupped her hand to her mouth to direct her voice into his ear. “I mean, don’t get complacent!”

“Come on!” Exasperation arose within him. “Life doesn’t always have to be terrible—good things can actually happen to us!”

“You trust too easily!” He could barely hear her. “They’re not your friends! They just want to use you. The moment you stop being useful, they’ll get rid of you!”

Scorio sat back, dismayed. He studied her and shook his head.

She met his gaze, looked away, looked back.

“Can’t you be happy for me? Even for just one night?”

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” she shouted, leaning in again. “You still don’t understand. House Chimera—”

“No.” He stood. “You just can’t stand to see anyone do well.” He knew his words were getting away from him, but the alcohol, the way she was crushing his good mood, it was too much. “We don’t have to be miserable all the time. Just because you don’t trust anyone or anything and don’t want to take advantage of the Academy’s opportunities doesn’t mean I shouldn’t—by the ten hells, Naomi, sometimes we’re allowed to just enjoy life for a damn second!”

Her eyes went wide, and she stood up. “You’re being naive! I’m trying to warn you, the danger is real—”

“Damn it, Naomi!” He raked his hands wildly through his hair. His rage came rushing to the fore, and he glared at her, incensed. “Stop pretending you’re still in your tower! Or is that it? Can you not stop? Are you going to be stuck inside that room forever, waiting for it to fall?”

She stared at him, startled, face pale, then stepped into the crowd and was gone.

“Naomi!” He went after her, but the crowd had swallowed her whole. “Naomi! Damn it!”

He fell back, sat down hard. Glowered at the crowd, then took a deep breath. The room swayed, music played on, the people danced, but something had been stolen from the night. Naomi had been right about one thing, at least.

It was time to start heading back.

Chapter 53

“Naomi’s still not here,” said Lianshi, emerging from her room with her hair wrapped up in a towel, looking slightly green in the face but refreshed from her dip in the grotto pool. “Her bed’s not been touched.”

Scorio sat at the dining table, propping his head on the base of one palm, trying to muster the will to plunge into the pool himself. Last night’s excesses plagued him, and he felt turgid, stale, a headache pounding behind his eyes and with a mouth that tasted like an ashtray.

“Great.” He stared bleakly at the tabletop.

Leonis emerged from his room, dressed in his training robes and looking half-dead. He withdrew a black pill from a small box and popped it into his mouth; a second later Scorio felt his Heart ignite, and the massive man’s face regained some color. “Ah. The perks of being a Great Soul. You ignited yet, Scorio?”

“No.” The last thing he wanted to do was exert his will on reluctant mana.

“Do so. Nothing cleans the system out like a burning Heart. Trust me.”

“Hello? Naomi didn’t come home last night.” Lianshi placed her hands on her hips and stared at them both. “Aren’t you worried?”

Scorio sat up, summoned his Heart, and though it caused his headache to redouble, he forced a modicum of Coal into his core, then willed it to light. It took far more effort than it should have, and he felt his brow prickle with sweat, but the moment the black flames lit up his Heart, he felt the pain and sickliness burn away before the strength that flooded into his system.

“Of course I’m worried,” said Leonis. “But Naomi is an Emberling and tougher than the three of us put together. Wherever she is, she wants to be there. And I respect that.” He paused, eyed Scorio. “Even if I don’t respect the words that offended her so.”

“I was angry,” said Scorio, standing up slowly. “And drunk. She was being negative—”

“So you told her that not everyone in this world is a miserable person,” said Lianshi, repeating what he’d told them last night. “Very smooth. Exactly the kind of thing someone like Naomi would relish hearing.”

“I know, I know, I’d apologize if I could find her. My temper got the better of me.” Scorio knuckled his eyes then sighed. “I bet she returned to the ruins. You guys up for heading down there and looking around?”

“Given the amount of celebrating we did last night? Sure.” Leonis’s jaw cracked as he yawned hugely behind his fist. “Not like I’ve much of an appetite for fine food and wine before lunch.”

“Yes,” said Lianshi. “And when we find her, you’d better let me do the talking. Who knows how upset she is? The mere sight of you might send her into her Nightmare Lady form.”

“Fair enough.” Scorio leaned back, causing his spine to pop, then rubbed at his head. “All right. A swim in the pool, fresh robes, and we can head out. Deal?”

“Deal,” said Leonis. “I’ll join you.”

A knock sounded at the door, stiff and official.

They all froze and glanced at each other.

“Don’t worry,” said Leonis. “Not only is it absolutely normal for tournament winners to head out and celebrate, but I promised to take the fall for last night, and I will. Leave it to me.” He padded over to the door and cracked it open. “Yes?”

A voice sounded from outside, officious and impersonal. “Chancellor Praximar has summoned Cinder Scorio to his office. Is he here?”

Leonis stiffened. “If this is about last night, I can explain.”

“I don’t know what it’s about,” said the man. “Is Cinder Scorio here?”

Leonis reluctantly opened the door wide, and Scorio saw a servant dressed in House Hydra colors standing stiffly in the hallway.

“Here,” said Scorio, stepping forward. “Is there a problem?”

“That is for the chancellor to discuss with you, and not for me to reveal in a public hallway. Please get dressed immediately and accompany me.”

Scorio tongued his cheek, then nodded slowly. “Fine. Give me a few minutes.”

“Very well.”

Leonis accompanied Scorio back to his room. “Listen. Praximar won’t push you on last night. The Academy would be in an uproar if a tournament winner were punished for celebrating. Even the instructors would be offended! But if he gives you trouble, tell him I told you I had permission from Instructor Rex to leave the Academy on a special permit. Put the blame squarely on my shoulders. Understood?”

“Sure.” Scorio shucked his sleeping robes and pulled on some clean ones. “Though something like that would be the Hell Whip’s responsibility, right?”

“Unless Praximar really has it out for you,” said Leonis. “But like I said. Put it on me. I’ve a sterling record. I’ll take the punishment, just like I promised.”

Scorio’s Heart guttered out and a pall of exhaustion fell over him. “We’ll see. Wait for me here? I’ll come right back when he’s done with me.”

“Sure. We’ll be here.”

Scorio stepped out into the common room, where Lianshi was waiting for him. “Listen,” she said quietly. “It’s not uncommon for new House proteges to celebrate like we did. Unofficially it’s almost expected. If he comes down on you hard, appeal to House Chimera. They’ll support you on this.”

“All right.” His stomach felt sharp and bubbly, and he felt each beat of his heart with painful force. “I’ll be back.”

“Luck,” she said, squeezing his arm, then he stepped out into the hallway to follow the messenger.

The way to Praximar’s office was long, but eventually, they found themselves striding down the same hallway he’d walked with Naomi only a week or two ago and up to a set of grand double doors.

Scorio glowered at the messenger’s back as he knocked. If Praximar thought he could expel him for a minor infraction, he was wrong. House Chimera wouldn’t let him go without a fight. He had allies now, an entire House with which to oppose House Hydra and Praximar’s biases.

The messenger stuck his head into the office beyond, spoke quietly, then stepped back out and opened the door for Scorio.

Who entered the massive office, pulse racing, expression neutral, spine stiff, chin raised. The light of First Rust sluiced in through the huge skylight to pool around the massive desk, behind which Praximar lazed, reclining on his armchair with a quill held idly between his fingers. He looked at ease, comfortable in his own skin, iron-gray beard freshly washed and combed, and wearing his authority as comfortably as a man might a new cloak.

“Good morning, Cinder Scorio. Please, have a seat.”

Not the tones of a superior about to hand out a lashing. Scorio’s anger softened as he approached and cautiously took a seat. “You asked to see me, Chancellor?”

“Yes. Congratulations are in order. Chimera’s Principal Recruiter informed me yesterday that you were selected for sponsorship following your splendid showing at the tournament. She has high hopes for you, despite your Heart’s weaknesses, and asked that I sign off on the official papers.”

“Thank you, Chancellor. It’s a great honor.”

“I sent for you yesterday evening, but you weren’t in your chambers, nor could you be found,” said Praximar, tone mild.

Scorio sat up. “Chancellor, about that—”

“Oh, don’t be alarmed, Scorio. You’re hardly the first Cinder to wish to celebrate such a momentous event. I myself remember slipping out of the Academy when House Hydra sponsored me. What a night that was! I’d probably dislocate my hips if I attempted those same excesses today. No, no, don’t worry about that at all.”

Scorio sat back, relief flooding him. “Thank you, Chancellor.”

“I’ve signed the official papers, and you will be receiving a summons to finalize the sponsorship tomorrow, seeing as that’s Firstday. Treasures, private training, the chance to team up with other House Chimera proteges—you’ll be entering a whole new world, Scorio. A realm that most Great Souls in your cohort can only dream about. You’re on the verge of becoming one of your class’s elite. But.”

Scorio froze. “But sir?”

Praximar leaned forward, grimacing as if reluctant to impart bad news. “Yes, there is, unfortunately, a proverbial fly in this ointment. You see, certain facts about your past have been brought to my attention. Facts which paint you in a less than flattering light.”

Scorio stared at the man, mind blank.

“As you know, I have dedicated my life to this Academy. It is the cradle from which all Great Souls spring forth, the genesis of legends, the home of our collective hope. I am a Pyre Lord, but shall never be a Blood Baron, no matter how many vials of rarefied mana I have shipped here from the depths of hell. The ambient mana of Bastion is simply too poor for me to continue advancing, but I have made this sacrifice willingly for the good of our kind.”

Scorio’s heart was lurching about within his chest like a beast seeking to break free of chains. He clutched at the arms of his chair, a rushing wind in his ears.

“So you can imagine how seriously I take the character of the Academy’s elites. They must exemplify the very best of who we are, and allow no stain to be cast upon our reputation. Maintaining our natural superiority over the common people is struggle enough without giving them easy targets, you see. Especially considering our… recent troubles, these past few years. It is my sacred responsibility to safeguard the Academy in every way.”

Was this about his being a Red Lister? But Sol himself had vouchsafed him. What facts about his past—

“So you can imagine how crushed I was when I learned that our most recent House protege has a criminal background.” Praximar steepled his fingers before his lips, expression grave, nearly sorrowful. “That, while in the throes of despair, cast out amongst the ruins and dregs of Bastion’s society, he engaged in organized criminal activities and stole a valuable shipment of Sapphire mana from the Chimera skycrane yards.”

Scorio sat back, his body humming, unable to breathe. Dola. She must have told Praximar. But why? How could he have learned? She worked for House Basilisk; he had no connection to her—

Praximar’s eyes gleamed. “And how terribly ironic that this Cinder should be recruited by the very House he stole from? How utterly disgusted they would be to learn of his crimes. How revolted. What do you think they would do if they discovered this truth? How badly would they react?”

Wait. Praximar wasn’t summarily expelling him. Unless he was being toyed with? “What are you saying?” he managed, voice little more than a rasp.

“What I am saying, dear boy, is that you have placed me in a very, very difficult situation. If I allow bygones to be bygones, your sordid past could rear its head at an inopportune time and sully the entire Academy’s reputation, not to mention that of House Chimera. But if I just cast you out, I’d have to give a reason for your expulsion, and explain how a criminal was allowed to reach such heights and even receive an offer of sponsorship. I would have to apologize personally to House Chimera, for allowing a criminal to receive their consideration. No. A mess all around. Far better for us to take a third option.”

Scorio mastered his confoundment and sat forward. “And what option is that?”

“You agree to lose your next bout in the tournament,” said Praximar, his thin lips curving into a smile. “And you also agree to get no farther than the sixth room in the Gauntlet—if you can even get that far. You don’t push to reach Emberling until you are flushed out of the Academy along with the rest of your cohort’s lower half, and then—well. You can do as you wish as a member of House Chimera.”

Scorio stared at Praximar. He was a hollow vessel. He was a furnace in which burned a colorless flame. He couldn’t think, despite knowing that this was the very moment in which to deploy his keenest wit.

“You’ve no proof,” he managed to croak.

“No proof?” Praximar looked genuinely taken aback. “My boy, do you think I would level such base accusations without evidence? I can summon witnesses, if need be. Guards who were on duty the day of the heist. Kin of the guards who were killed. Even your accomplices, no doubt, could be unearthed and convinced to speak. Oh, don’t you worry about that, my boy. Evidence I have in plenty.”

Memories flickered through Scorio’s mind. The attack on the skycrane yard, his reckless escape, his accomplices fighting off guards—had they killed some? He couldn’t remember.

And then another memory surfaced.

A gray-haired woman, passing through the hexagonal fountain chamber, taking the hallway that led to the instructor’s suites, the meeting rooms—and the executive offices.

Kayla.

“You knew,” he whispered. “You’ve known for weeks. Why now? Why wait?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Praximar with evident satisfaction. “But those are the terms I’m offering you. Lose in the tournament, do not pass the sixth chamber of the Gauntlet, and leave the Academy at the semester’s end. You’ll benefit from the continuous sponsorship of House Chimera, which will no doubt help heal your Heart and prepare you for a good career serving their goals. Or... Defy me, and I tell House Chimera. They’ll retract their offer, and you’ll be left with no hope of progressing, regardless.”

“You’ll not expel me if I refuse?”

“Why bother?” He seemed genuinely amused. “I’ve heard from Hera and can sense myself how weak your Heart has become. Like all hotheaded youths, you mortgaged your future for brief successes today. Without expensive help, you’ll only degenerate further. Your reputation will be ruined by my revelation, and you’ll never receive sponsorship again. You’ll not make Emberling with such a fractured Heart, you’ll crash and burn in the Gauntlet, then be kicked out of the Academy with no future whatsoever. That’s far worse than anything I could do to you, and what’s more, you’d serve as a salutary lesson to your classmates.” Praximar’s eyes glittered. “Who would get to watch you fail and fail again, and witness firsthand the cost of being a bastard of a Red Lister who thought he could play the Academy as he saw fit.”

Scorio clenched the wooden arms of his chair so tightly that the wood creaked. His vision reduced to a narrow tunnel, and all he could see was Praximar’s smug smirk.

“If I don’t receive your oath before the next tournament round, I’ll be forced to inform House Chimera,” said Praximar, sitting upright briskly and taking up his quill again. “Thus you have some time to deliberate if you wish, but we both know what the wise course of action is. I applaud your boldness, Scorio, but unfortunately, you never had a chance.” Praximar fixed him with a bloodless smile. “Nobody threatens the sanctity of my Academy and gets away with it. Nobody. Now go. You’re dismissed.”

And he pulled a blank sheet of parchment before him on which he began to write a letter, his calligraphy elegant and smooth, his expression serene.

Scorio stood very carefully. His breath was coming in shallow pants, and his body felt engorged, filled with a terrible desire to wreak ruin upon Praximar, upon his office. He wanted to scream at the older man, to take up his chair and dash it against Praximar’s brow. For a moment he just stood there, lips pulled back from his teeth, feeling flushed and on the very edge of self-control.

But Praximar was a Pyre Lord. To attack him would be to give the other man all the justification he needed to break every bone in Scorio’s body.

With great control and rigid dignity, Scorio turned away from Praximar. He wanted to leave with some final, biting comment, words that would sear their way into the chancellor’s pitiful conscience and leave the man gasping and wounded, but nothing came to mind.

The truth, Scorio realized as he allowed the double doors to close behind him, was that Praximar had him dead to rights.

He walked back to his suite in a daze. The few people that recognized him en route drew back, brows furrowing, something about his expression warning them off. It seemed to take forever to reach his hallway, to reach his door, an extended trial in not screaming and burying his fist into the closest object.

But he finally got back and stepped inside.

Leonis and Lianshi immediately stood up from where they’d been reading together at the dining table.

“Oh no,” said Lianshi immediately.

“You told him, right?” began Leonis. “You told him it was my idea, my lie, you told him—”

“No,” said Scorio, a shudder passing through him, his whole body trembling like a leaf in a wind of pure rage. “It wasn’t about last night.”

“Then?” Lianshi stepped away from the table, eyes wide. “Scorio? What happened?”

He closed his eyes, lowered his chin to his chest. His whole world reduced to a small, finite space, a quivering mass of white-hot misery and anger.

“Scorio?”

“He blackmailed me,” he heard himself say, voice eerily calm. “Used a crime I committed while out in the ruins. Either I throw my next tournament match and agree to not pass the Gauntlet’s sixth room, or he tells House Chimera.”

The room was still, and when he finally opened his eyes again, he saw both of his friends staring at him in shock.

“But…” Leonis gathered himself, tried again. “You did commit this crime?”

“Yeah,” said Scorio, and with that admission, the strength went out of him. His knees buckled and he lurched to the closest chair. “I did. Remember? What I told you about Dola? I was desperate. It was before I met Naomi. I had no money. No future. No way to support myself. Couldn’t let people know I was a Red Lister, a runaway Great Soul. I did one job. Decided I couldn’t do more, and returned to the ruins.”

“By the ten hells,” said Leonis, sitting across from him. “How did Praximar find out?”

“I don’t know.” Scorio’s anger had turned to ashes, bleak and cold. “I saw an associate of Dola’s here in the Academy in the days after Imogen’s attack. And… last night, Feiyan told me that Dola had been asking around for me after Imogen struck. Guess… guess I became pretty high profile there for a bit, and she went looking for me.”

“And told Praximar?” Lianshi sat lightly on the edge of her seat, brow furrowed. “What connection could she have with the Chancellor of the Academy and Autocrat of House Hydra?”

“He said intra-house criminal network,” said Leonis. “Maybe they’ve worked together in the past.”

Scorio stared blindly at the wall, then blinked. “Actually. Praximar said something that I missed, but which now…”

“What?” prompted Lianshi.

“That he sacrificed his future as a Great Soul for the good of the Academy. That even shipments of high-quality mana aren’t enough to help him advance.”

“And?”

“What I stole was a shipment of high-quality mana.”

The other two exchanged a glance.

“Wait.” Leonis frowned at him. “You think Dola was stealing that shipment for Praximar?”

“I don’t know. It was House Chimera goods, and I thought we were working for House Basilisk. Maybe Basilisk was going to sell it to Praximar, or… who knows? Not that it matters. He says he has evidence. Can prove it.”

“It might matter,” said Lianshi, growing animated. “If we can prove Praximar was involved, then we could get him removed from his post.”

“Prove it?” Scorio turned to stare at her. “How?”

“You said Dola ran the operation, right? We find Dola, force her to confess.”

Scorio blinked. “You think that would work?”

For a moment they sat in silence, then Leonis slowly shook his head. “No. I don’t think it would.”

Lianshi whirled on him. “Why not?”

“Because think of what you’re saying. If this really is an unofficial criminal network that the Houses use, you’re talking about forcing a key player to testify against the Autocrat of House Hydra.”

Lianshi scowled at him. “Right. And?”

Leonis looked almost regretful. “You think the other Houses would allow someone like Dola to testify? Against a fellow Autocrator? Can you imagine how much dirt she must have on them all? What kind of precedent that would set? Think of what we’ve learned of Bastion’s history. How many times has an Autocrator been brought down by a fair trial?”

Lianshi slumped in her seat. “Never that I’ve heard of.”

“Never,” agreed Leonis. “When they come down, it’s due to politics. Not courts.”

Scorio shook his head sharply. “Maybe we could be the first. We capture Dola, get her sworn testimony, present it to…”

“To whom, exactly?” Leonis raised an eyebrow. “The other Autocrators? The City Council? Which is composed of the House elites? They’d kill you a thousand times over for attempting to challenge their authority. It’d be a far greater crime in their eyes than the theft you committed.”

“Damn,” whispered Scorio, slumping back in his chair. “I hate this city.”

“There has to be something,” said Lianshi stubbornly. “We can’t just let Praximar do this.”

They sat in silence. The only sound was the occasional distant drop of water from the grotto, the muffled murmur of voices as groups of students passed outside their front door.

“I don’t see what I can do,” said Scorio at last. “I saw Kayla here. He said he could summon guards from the scene of the crime, accomplices. Hell, he could fabricate as many witnesses as he wanted, and who would gainsay him? I did the crime. Worse yet, I stole from Chimera. The second they hear, they’ll revoke my sponsorship. Without it, I won’t heal. I won’t progress. It’ll take me years to catch up. I’ll wash out of the Academy with the bottom half of the class.” Then he winced. “Not to mention I made a bet with Jova.”

Leonis raised both eyebrows. “A bet with Jova?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Lianshi.

“I… damn it.” Scorio folded his arms on the table and lowered his brow to rest it on them. “Remember when I told you guys to go ahead? I wanted her help in uncovering my past. Asked her to look in her journals. She refused. So I… provoked her into making a bet. Or maybe she provoked me into being… stupid. That if I got further than her in the Gauntlet, she’d help me figure out the riddle.”

Lianshi’s voice was stiff. “And if you lost?”

“I’d leave the Academy.”

Silence. Scorio winced into his folded arms.

“That was a dumb bet,” said Lianshi at last.

“Yeah,” agreed Leonis. “What were you thinking?”

Scorio sat up. “I was angry. She insulted me to my face. Said I was a Red Lister, which meant I’d never be any good. I was flying high off my sponsorship offer, was feeling… I don’t know. Like I could accomplish the impossible. And thought I’d have House Chimera there regardless if I lost, to help me with my training.”

Lianshi sat back in her chair. “So to stay in the Academy, you’d have to renounce the Chimera sponsorship, and then somehow still beat Jova Spike at the Gauntlet run.”

“Or,” said Leonis, perking up, “and this is a bit underhand, but hear me out—Scorio agrees to Praximar’s demands, and throws the tournament. Then he keeps the House Chimera sponsorship, uses their resources to get as strong as he can, and then crushes the Gauntlet run. Jova would be forced to help him with his past, and at that point, he’d not need Chimera that much anymore, so Praximar’s threat would lose its power.”

They all considered Leonis’s plan.

“I don’t like it,” said Lianshi at last. “What’s to stop Praximar from expelling him at that point?”

“He said he wouldn’t,” said Scorio. “That I would better serve as an example to the rest of the cohort by failing my way out and being a warning of what happened if you went against the Academy.”

“But by that point, you’d have won,” said Leonis, leaning forward. “You’d have proven that you were the best.”

“I don’t know,” said Lianshi. “You’d back him into a corner. If he then revealed to House Chimera that he’d known all along you were a criminal—sorry, Scorio—then House Chimera would be furious with him. He’d embroil House Hydra in a heap of trouble for staying quiet.”

“Which is a good thing,” said Leonis.

“Not necessarily. Do you think Praximar would settle for losing like that? Would accept defeat and allow Scorio to be the cohort’s reigning champion? No. If he’s the kind to work with people like Dola, he’d not reveal your background but simply find a more permanent way to remove Scorio.”

Both men stared at Lianshi.

“You’re saying he’d have me killed?” asked Scorio.

“Obviously,” said Lianshi firmly. “He had no qualms tossing you through the Final Door the first time. And if you tricked him and humiliated him? He’d have a Tomb Spark or Flame Vault make you disappear.”

Scorio thought of how Praximar’s eyes had gleamed with quiet joy as he’d blackmailed him, and knew in his heart Lianshi was right.

“So I swear the oath, throw the tournament, use Chimera’s resources to grow as strong as possible—what?”

Lianshi and Leonis had both startled.

“What oath?” asked Lianshi.

“What oath?” Scorio frowned. “He said I had to swear an oath that I’d follow his terms before the next round of the tournament.”

Leonis groaned and draped an arm over his face.

“There goes all our maneuvering,” said Lianshi. “He probably means a Heart Oath. You break that, you rupture your Heart.”

“Rupture my Heart,” croaked Scorio.

“We learned about it in Mana Manipulation,” said Lianshi. “If you think your fractures are bad, wait till you hear what it takes to heal a ruptured Heart.”

“Damn.” Scorio curled his hand into a fist and then slammed it down on the table. “Damn it!”

He leaped to his feet and paced to the far side of the room, where he stopped and glared right through the wall. “So I’ve got no wriggle room. Either I completely agree and flunk out of the Academy, or I defy him, lose the sponsorship, and flunk out anyway.”

No answer from his friends.

What could they say?

He clenched his jaw and fought hard not to smash his fist into the stone wall. Just stood there breathing deeply, powerfully, his chest a furnace, his body filled with the burning desire to break something.

“There has to be a way out,” he whispered. “There just has to be.”

Lianshi’s tone was reluctant. “Praximar will make sure that the oath covers all the angles. You know he’s the type to be careful with the wording.”

“I’m sorry, Scorio,” said Leonis. “I wish I could think of something.”

Scorio closed his eyes tightly and rested his brow against the wall. He felt like a caged wolf, raging against impenetrable bars that surrounded him on all sides.

“There has to be a way,” he whispered. “There just has to.”

Chapter 54

They searched the ruins to no avail. Traversed the shattered streets, visited Naomi’s old, slanted apartment, called her name out over the broken courtyards and dust-choked alleys.

As Amber gave way to Second Bronze, then Second Rust, Scorio asked Lianshi and Leonis to return without him.

“Without you?” Leonis wiped a streak of ash from his face. “What are you talking about?”

“I need a moment. Just some time. I’ll follow after. Please.”

“Come on, Leonis,” said Lianshi, taking his arm. “Let’s give him some space.”

Leonis frowned but allowed himself to be dragged away.

Scorio turned and retraced his steps. He thought at first he might return to his own crude chamber but found himself walking toward Naomi’s tower once more. Climbing the angled staircase all the way to the top, he stepped across the landing and entered her room once more.

Of course, she wasn’t there. The curtains blew in with the damp breeze that presaged the rain that was to fall at Second Clay. Her massive bed was covered in tangled sheets, but the disorder was old. Her most precious belongings were gone, hidden, no doubt, where no casual scavenger would find them.

A great and painful feeling arose within his chest, making it hard to breathe, and Scorio stepped out onto her balcony. Lowered into a crouch, back against the doorframe, and stared out over the ruins. At the great tendrils of cloud that were just starting to curve up toward the rust-hued sun-wire, that would eventually form great spirals about that glowing strand and coalesce into the evening’s rainstorms.

Scorio felt blank, hollow. He gazed out over the city. Here and there, nonsensical architectural follies reflected the warping Imogen had visited upon its corpus. Towers dissected, their innards revealed, a series of arches extending out to nothing, a street that ran up the side of a building and then along the underside of an inverted bridge.

How had it come to this? How had he gone from last night’s pinnacle of elation to this crushing place of doubt and despair? Praximar must have known of his theft for several weeks. Kayla must have conferred with him, told him the truth. But he’d bided his time. Waited, watched, then dropped his hammer the second he saw Scorio about to succeed.

His bleak despair constricted and became fury. What a rat bastard. To wait like that. To let Scorio taste sweet success before stealing it away from him. Was it rank sadism? Hatred? Did he loathe Scorio for being a Red Lister, or for surviving his punishment? Perhaps it was the indignity of being forced to take Scorio back, unable to argue with Imperator Sol’s decree?

Scorio pursed his lips. And if he found Sol? Explained the situation? Would Sol intervene?

No.

Because at the heart of it all, the most bitter element was that he’d actually done the crime. He’d tried to put it behind him, thought it forgotten, but the deed was his.

Scorio had stolen, had fought innocent guards, had been part of the team that had even apparently killed some of their numbers.

As much as he hated Praximar, he couldn’t escape that fact.

He’d broken the law. He’d been willing to take part in a criminal enterprise, and the consequences were his to bear.

Scorio sighed and stared out over the city once more, past the ruins to the vibrant, living part of Bastion. He watched as dots moved about the streets, carts rolled along the axial avenues that curved overhead to disappear behind the glow of the sun-wire. Ten thousand souls going about their business, each a universe unto themselves.

And him, here, alone, having to grapple with consequences.

Should he take Praximar’s oath? His immediate reaction was to say no; he wanted in no way to agree to any plan of Praximar’s, to become his accomplice, to put himself further under the man’s heel.

But that was pride talking.

The longer Scorio sat there, watching the great curves of steam rise from the canals, the longer Scorio realized there was a deeper truth at stake.

He’d committed the crime. It was his burden to bear. If he lied further, if he engaged in even greater duplicity, he’d only make things worse.

He’d broken the law, sure. But to continue to deceive would bury him forever in a web of lies and obligations.

No. He’d refuse Praximar’s oath. Which meant House Chimera would withdraw their sponsorship, tarnishing his reputation permanently.

Which meant no regimen of rare treasures and healing pills.

Which meant he’d have to find a way to win the next round of the tournament without House Chimera’s help.

And, in turn, that he’d have to run the Gauntlet on his own strengths alone. With a fractured Heart that was venting forty percent of its mana. A venting that would make it nearly impossible to reach Emberling.

Scorio buried his face in his hands and groaned. He had no chance at beating Jova without reaching Emberling. But he couldn’t force his Heart to expand to its maximum if it vented almost half of all the mana he poured into it.

To counterbalance that loss, he’d need a monumental amount of mana. The Academy’s allotment of one Black Star pill would never suffice.

His heart was pounding, pounding, and his pulse roared in his ears like some forest fire. He couldn’t sit still, so leaped to his feet and gripped at the stone balustrade of the balcony. All the power he’d developed, the successes, the improbable victories. All of it for nothing.

Praximar was going to take it all from him with a sneer.

Scorio’s shoulders rose and fell as he breathed deep. There was no way out. The trap was perfect. Without Chimera, he couldn’t win. Couldn’t make Emberling. Without Emberling, he couldn’t beat Jova. Without beating Jova, he had to leave the Academy, and would never learn the truth of his past.

He’d be back on the streets, his reputation ruined, his Heart broken, destined to labor in obscurity for years just to undo the damage he’d done to himself to achieve this chance.

And all because Praximar loathed him for being a Red Lister.

Which he’d been born into, a heritage completely outside his control.

With a snarl, Scorio slammed his fist down on the stone railing. Staring out over the city, he seethed with impotent fury. What could he do? The question beat at him like the hammer upon an anvil, over and over again, but no answer was forthcoming.

He was beat.

But he’d not go meekly. He’d not fade graciously into the ruins. If Praximar thought he’d won, that he’d destroyed this Red Lister’s hopes, then Scorio would simply have to live up to the title.

Red Lister.

He’d kill Praximar. If it was the last thing he did. He’d find a way. And in that moment, just before he plunged the dagger home, he’d stare into Praximar’s eyes and see none of that contempt, that self-righteous disgust. He’d grip him by the throat and force him to admit he’d made a mistake, to apologize…

Scorio let out a cry of chagrin and wheeled away from the balcony, staggering back into the apartment. What madness was this? How could he, a broken Cinder, hope to kill a Pyre Lord?

Scorio stared sightlessly at the room. But what else was there? Ask Helena and Feiyan for employment? Return to his mean room in the ruins to train quietly, slowly, to mend and grow strong over the next five, ten years?

His eyes burned and he clenched his hands into fists. He fought the urge to destroy Naomi’s apartment, to shatter the furniture, to hurl the table, dash the bottles and books to the floor.

He wanted to lash out, to break, to destroy. For a wild moment, he toyed with the idea of simply racing deeper into the ruins, to hunt down the greatest predators, to fight them one by one till he died, venting his rage in blood and shattered carapaces till he was no more.

The idea had a terrible allure. To let go. To allow his fury to own him. His lungs were a bellows, his breath as hot as fire.

But it all felt futile.

He’d bet it all on each escalating wager, never knowing that Praximar had been toying with him all along.

With a moan, Scorio dropped to his knees. He didn’t want to kill Praximar. He didn’t want to destroy random monsters in the ruins. He just wanted to grow, to dominate, to wrest the truth from Jova, to… to become himself, whoever that was.

“You look terrible,” said Naomi, and he jerked upright to see her standing in the doorway. “And also like you’re not planning to leave anytime soon.”

“Naomi,” he breathed, struggling to his feet.

“No,” she said, raising a hand and cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear it. I just want you out.”

Scorio hesitated, mouth open, wanting to protest, to argue with her, but in her eyes, he saw flat animosity. His own words from the night before rang in his ears, mocking him, and he hung his head.

“All right.” His voice sounded dead even to his own ears. “My apologies for trespassing here.”

And with that he crossed the room as she stepped aside, making his way to her door. His rage was gone, having sluiced away at the sight of her face. Now he was an effigy made of regret and bitterness, self-recrimination and loathing. Had he expected sympathy from her? A second chance? He thought he’d been ready to argue for it, to plead his case, but now that just made him feel all the pettier.

So he’d just go.

Scorio passed through the doorway, out onto the landing, when she called after him.

“They screwed you, didn’t they?”

He stopped, jaw clenched, staring down the steep stairwell.

“I warned you.” He heard his own rage in her words. Scalding and raw. “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Scorio inhaled deeply. Her words were lashes across his shoulders, but he welcomed them. Deserved them. Still, he made no move to turn, to speak.

“You were such a fool,” she hissed, moving closer, no doubt standing in the doorway now. “The moment they allowed you back into the light, oh, how you ran up to them, like a scorned pup, tongue wagging, eyes bright with adoration. Pills and elixirs, a hot pool, a chance to sit in on some classes, and everything they’d done to you was forgotten.”

Scorio gritted his teeth, wanted to protest, but the words were ashes in his mouth.

“You’re just like every other reborn Great Soul,” she said, voice growing low and venomous. “Convinced of your own divinity. I thought your experiences here in the ruins would have changed that. Given you some insight into the nature of this world. But no. All it took was one crooked finger and you forgot it all in exchange for—what? A chance to be a House’s latest pet?”

Scorio frowned, looked back at her over his shoulder. “You went running, too.”

Naomi shifted up into her Nightmare Lady form, faster than thought, and her tail lashed out, blurring through the air to wrap around his neck, the segmented joints pressing cruelly into his throat and lifting him right off the ground.

“I went because of you,” she seethed, drawing closer, talons clicking on stone, eyes burning in the gloom. “Which only makes me the greater idiot.”

Scorio wheezed, clutched at her tail, his head pounding, legs kicking a good foot off the ground. “No,” he hissed. “Not… true.”

The Nightmare Lady cocked her head to one side, the manner akin to that of a bird of prey. “What would you know, pup?”

Motes of black were dancing in his eyes, and his head felt as if it were swelling. “Like me… you… dream… of power.”

Without lips, she couldn’t frown, but her eyes narrowed to slits. For a moment he thought she’d disembowel him, her claws flickering, but then her tail loosened, and he fell through its coils to crash into a crouch upon the landing.

Breathing deeply, Scorio massaged his throat and stared up at her. “You want power.” His voice was hoarse, and it pained him to speak, but he pressed on. “Like me. Power to determine your future. To defend yourself. And you thought there was a chance to wrest some from the Academy. To use it. Just like I did.”

“Then we were both fools,” she whispered, stepping back toward her doorway. “Both fools. There is nothing for us at the Academy but abuse and control. It’s a slaughterhouse, and every student a heifer they’re fattening for the cull.”

“Maybe.” Scorio sat, back against the wall, one arm propped on a knee, hand still to his raw throat. “But you know as well as I do that’s where the power is. Out here? Scraps.”

She withdrew into the doorway altogether. “Then if you like it so much, what brings you here? Sniveling and looking ready to punch the floor?”

Scorio felt the flicker of anger return, the reminder as to his fate, and smirked bitterly. “Because you were right. Praximar screwed me.”

She snorted. “I’m surprised it took him this long.”

“He was just biding his time. But he’s got me tied over a barrel.”

“So you came to apologize.” Her tone grew derisive. “Now that you’re being cast out, you came running to your old friend Naomi to ask her forgiveness.”

Scorio considered. “Yeah. But forget it. I don’t ask for your forgiveness. I don’t think I deserve it. But I’ll still apologize.”

The Nightmare Lady snorted, the sound strange coming from her nasal slits. “Don’t play with me.”

“I’m not. My mistakes have come to roost. Given how many I’ve made, it’s shocking I’ve made it this far.”

“Which mistake?” she asked reluctantly.

“Stealing from House Chimera. The vials. Praximar found out. He’s going to tell them if I don’t swear a Heart Oath to throw the tournament and then flush out of the Academy at the year’s end.”

The Nightmare Lady considered, and then chuckled. “Nicely done, Praximar.”

Scorio frowned but fought down the surge of anger. “Very nicely done. Now either I agree to his plan and become further enmeshed in his plans, or I reject them, lose Chimera’s patronage, and flunk out of the Academy at year’s end with a ruined reputation.”

The Nightmare Lady settled down into a crouch, her carapace gleaming darkly, her spindly arms propped on her knees. “Welcome to the real world, Scorio the Abhorred.”

“Yeah.” He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me.”

“What are you going to do?”

He didn’t know how he could tell, given that her voice remained the same, but he sensed that she’d returned to her human form. Scorio pursed his lips, then sighed. “I’d gotten as far as trying to figure out how to kill him.”

This drew a surprised laugh from her. “Kill Praximar? I knew there was a reason I didn’t find you totally repellant.”

Scorio cracked open an eye and grinned at her. “Careful. You’re going to make me think I’ve a chance of earning your forgiveness.”

“None,” she snapped, curling her black hair back over an ear. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t admire your seemingly endless capacity for stupidity.”

“So you don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a great idea. I just don’t think you have a chance in hell.”

“That’s the conclusion I was reaching myself. I could just take his offer and go Chimera all the way, though I doubt they’d reward me highly for losing. It might be better than nothing, though.”

Naomi made no comment but just watched him carefully.

“But… that would make me feel utterly disgusting, so that’s out, too.” He frowned. “Which means refusing his offer and washing out. With my Heart so badly fractured, there’s no way I can beat Jova in the final Gauntlet run without Chimera’s help. I’m done.”

“For one who fought all the odds to get into the Academy a second time, you give up surprisingly quickly.”

Scorio’s frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Naomi shrugged a shoulder. “Just that I’ve never heard you give up before.”

Scorio leaned forward. “My heart vents forty percent of all mana I take in. And with just base-level Black Star pills, I’ll never be able to consume enough to expand to my greatest capacity. You telling me there’s another way to make Emberling?”

“No,” she said quietly. “Not that I know of. But I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Scorio paused. He knew her well enough to hear the tone of finality in her voice, to sense the distance that had been lurking in the wings and only now stepped fully into view.

“Yeah, I guess I will.” Slowly, laboriously, he pulled himself up to standing. Naomi rose smoothly to her feet as well, her expression composed, neutral, guarded. “You mind if I stop by on occasion, just to say hello?”

She inhaled slowly, considering him, then shook her head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’ve known since we met that you were trouble, Scorio. That with your confidence and recklessness you’d take me places I didn’t want to go. Even back to the Academy. So in a way, I guess I should thank you for last night. For reminding me who you are, and why I should have listened to my first instincts and stayed away from you.”

Scorio felt her words like a punch to the chest, but still, he forced himself to smile. “Harsh. Coming from the Nightmare Lady.”

She didn’t smile in return.

“Well, at least I got to apologize. Thank you for… everything, I suppose. Take care of yourself, Naomi.”

“You too, Scorio.” She hesitated, as if she wished to say something more, and then shook her head, stepped back into her apartment, and closed the door.

Scorio remained still for a long, long time. Despite his words, he’d believed that she’d have come round to his side once more. That he’d have somehow charmed her, or that she’d have taken pity on him, or that she’d have felt his outrage over what had happened, and that she’d have agreed to help. To train him, or provide him with a solution, offer him, perhaps, her Sapphire vials.

But no.

He stared at the closed door and felt another sliver of hope within his breast die.

Naomi had done far more for him than he could ever have hoped for. She’d trained him, given him the means to advance, stood by his side, even followed him into the Academy.

But she’d help him no more.

Slowly, reluctantly, he tore himself away and descended her steps. Didn’t see the floors as he passed them by, and found himself outside, blinking in the ruddy light of Second Clay.

Without options, without a plan, without hope of progressing.

Scorio inhaled deeply and stared up at the dimming sun-wire and the spirals of mist that were already curling up to encircle it.

“I won’t give up,” he swore to himself. “I won’t.”

Turning, he began the long walk back to the Academy. But despite his vow, his heart felt leaden, his mouth felt full of ashes, and he couldn’t see anything before him but all the doors that had been slammed in his face.

Chapter 55

Before Scorio knew it, the next tournament round was upon their cohort. This time the winner’s bracket was fighting, which meant one thing: he’d finally get to watch Jova Spike in action.

The excitement was palpable as the students funneled their way into the huge basilica. Each of the sixty-four contestants formed their own special nucleus; Scorio studied them as he and his friends made their way to their biers, trying not to frown and quelling the pangs of envy as they went.

“Should be good,” said Leonis, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he stared to where Ravenna Accardi sat cross-legged atop her bier. “Only the very best are left in the bracket now, which means no one-sided fights.”

Lianshi tssked in annoyance. “You mean only the elite as artificially created by the House sponsorship system.”

“Sure,” said Leonis with a one-shouldered shrug. “However you want to phrase it. Though only some thirty-five of those competing have patronage. Means the other half made it this far relatively speaking through talent and grit.”

“It just rankles, is all,” said Lianshi, crossing her arms and leaning back against her own bier to form a mirror image of Leonis. “Who’s to say we’d not have made it if we’d been fed a steady diet of Fat Crickets as well?”

Leonis’s grin failed to touch his eyes. “Who told you to turn down Kraken’s offer? But yeah, that’s part of it. Apparently. It’s not enough to be talented and determined. You need political connections, and know-how to work the system to get ahead.”

“Unless you’re Jova Spike,” said Scorio quietly, searching her out amidst the crowd.

“Unless you’re Jova Spike,” Leonis agreed grudgingly.

“There’s Juniper,” said Lianshi, raising a hand to wave at a beautiful woman who was walking by. The willowy blonde smiled broadly and waved back, then she was past, half-listening to a couple of other students who were chattering around her.

“She competing?” asked Scorio, trying not to stare after her. Juniper’s dark blue eyes had contrasted sharply with her pale hair, and betrayed a steely determination that brutally undercut the genial impression she otherwise made.

“She is.” Lianshi sighed. “She was the fifth to make Emberling. Manifested this strange but awesome power—each time she throws a punch, she leaves a hovering impression of burning light that shines only in her foe’s eyes. After a few punches, her enemies are faced with a blinding wall that moves with Juniper like a shield.”

“Huh,” said Scorio, and a brutal twist of emotion caught his breath: what would his own power be? How well would it even the odds?

“There’s Nuru,” said Leonis, motioning with his chin. Scorio saw a lanky youth with skin the color of night, so dark that it almost had bluish tints. He frowned at nothing as he made his way toward his bier, three friends clearly trying to encourage him as he went.

“Another Emberling?” asked Scorio.

“Protective power,” answered Leonis. “He can tear chunks out of the environment and cause them to circle around him like mobile shields.”

“And if you break them,” continued Lianshi, “they explode with white fire. Which, conveniently enough, Nuru is immune to.”

“I want floating explosive shields,” muttered Leonis.

“Maybe you’ll get better,” said Lianshi with a sympathetic smirk.

“We’ve ten weeks till the Gauntlet run.” Leonis sighed and stared down at the floor. “Whatever I’m going to develop, it better happen fast.”

Scorio hopped up onto his bier and drummed his heels against the side. “Making Emberling won’t be enough. How many of our cohort will have reached it by then?”

Lianshi bit her lower lip in thought, then gave a slight shake of her head. “Impossible to tell. Some forty have reached it already. In ten weeks’ time? Maybe double that number? Maybe a hundred?”

“We need to do better,” said Scorio, his words heavy and quiet. “It won’t be enough to hit the Gauntlet as Emberlings.”

“What, you mean to make Tomb Spark as well?” Leonis raised an eyebrow and then grinned. “I applaud your ambition, friend, but one step at a time.”

Scorio scowled and looked away. Only to see Jova Spike. She moved as if alone, the crowd parting before her without her having to ask or even focus her gaze on those who stood in her way. Even her walk looked more like a prowl, her whole body limber, controlled, powerful. She’d recently reshaved one side of her head down to a dark fuzz, and somehow the long tresses that she combed over to fall past her other shoulder looked impossibly fierce. Especially when combined with her kohl-rimmed eyes and black lipstick. What might have looked laughable on anyone else looked predatory and imposing on her own striking features.

Zala walked by her side, hair falling in slender braids, talking animatedly to her friend and gesturing with her hands. She was short, slender, almost insubstantial, but was rumored to be one of the deadliest fighters in their entire cohort.

It didn’t hurt that she was one of Jova’s roommates, and along with Juniper one of the few Great Souls Jova trained with.

The pair of them were trailed by a column of hangers-on, some of their faces familiar from the morning runs, but both women ignored them all.

Lianshi and Leonis followed the direction of his gaze, and they all watched in silence as Jova strode past them without glancing their way.

“It’s not fair,” said Lianshi once she was past. “To be that talented, stylish, and beautiful?”

“Not to mention she got the king’s share of the Archspire’s power for making it the furthest in the Gauntlet,” said Leonis. “And that she’s somehow remained ahead of the pack despite turning down sponsorship offers from all four Houses.”

“I’ve written about her in my diaries,” said Lianshi. “She’s always been aggressively independent, it seems. It’s just her nature.”

“And prejudiced,” muttered Scorio.

“What did you read in your journals?” asked Leonis.

“It was three reincarnations ago. I met her when I was a Dread Blaze. She was a rising Tomb Spark and impressed the hell out of me. I apparently knew of her by reputation, though I’ve not read far back enough to know why.”

“Wait,” said Scorio. “If you’ve read through your diaries, you have to know about the Trials, and what your powers are, right?”

Lianshi pouted. “Each entry I’ve scanned refuses to go into detail. Apparently, I end up agreeing with the policy of not revealing information about the trials, infuriating as it is. Nor do I write down what my abilities are. Which has driven me crazy. And which past mes have apologized for, and told me to be patient about.”

“Past yous sound asinine,” said Leonis.

“So I think each time. But every reincarnation I seem to swear that I’ll reveal the goods, only to change my mind when I do so. There are even entire pages I’ve torn out. Not this time, though. I’m going to write everything down.”

“Seems you’ve vowed that before,” said Scorio wryly.

She blew a lock of black hair out of her face. “A girl can change.”

Leonis’s grin grew wide. “The ninety-eighth time is the charm.”

“Greetings, Class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three!” Chancellor Praximar’s voice rolled across the room, silencing all conversation and drawing attention to the far stage as before. Once more, he was clad in his official robe of bejeweled beige, and he stood, beaming, as the students quieted down and turned to give him their complete attention.

“We have reached the midpoint of our tournament, and from henceforth the competition shall only grow even more intense. Those who have fallen in battle were worthy, assuredly, but either due to fate, bad luck, or poor decisions, are no longer in the running. Those who yet remain in both brackets now have a real chance at winning the tournament, and joining one of the two elite teams that shall enter the final Gauntlet run. I can barely restrain my excitement and wish in my heart of hearts that you could all benefit equally from this process!”

Scorio stared coldly at the distant figure. Never before had Praximar’s words rang hollower, had his cheer and benign words grated so much. Scorio imagined himself stepping out of the shadows by the chancellor’s side and dislocating his jaw with a perfectly placed punch.

“But alas. Today we witness a further evolution in the winner’s bracket, a winnowing that shall reduce the number from sixty-four to thirty-two. Each combat shall be a spectacle, but unfortunately, we cannot watch them one at a time. Thus I enjoin our guests, instructors, and fellow students to watch carefully and with avid attention; there is much to be learned from the exploits of the men and women who are about to fight before us today.”

A murmur passed over the crowd like a breeze rifling through a field of wheat, but Praximar raised his hand. “Today there are no extenuating situations in need of special attention. We shall proceed to the main fight. Instructor Helminth?”

The Hell Whip stepped forward, hands linked behind her back. “Students, honored guests, spectators, infuse your crystals and lie upon your biers! The Archspire shall convey you to the Arena, where we shall see who shall progress and who will be left behind.”

Despite himself, Scorio felt a twinge of excitement as he moved to the base of his bier and placed his palm over the crystal. He’d never seen Emberlings fight before, and the prospect of witnessing thirty-two such battles all at once got his pulse racing.

When his crystal gleamed, he leaped up lightly atop his bier and lay down, hands crossed over his chest.

A moment later the world about him changed; he stood upon the stands of the vast arena, surrounded by other students who grinned and moved to stand together in small groups.

Below them were the sparring circles, each surrounded by darkness, none within ten yards of the other. Their contestants stood at the ready, facing each other across the circle’s breadth, and Scorio remembered with vivid clarity how it felt to stand there below, to feel the whole arena watching him, the excitement, the tension, the fear, the exhilaration.

“Should we move down to the lower levels?” asked Scorio, turning to see Lianshi and Leonis close by. Apparently, they manifested in the same pattern that one lay upon the biers.

“No need,” said Leonis, hands on hips. “Just focus on whichever sparring circle you’re interested in, like quickening your darkvision, and you’ll find that the arena does the rest.”

Scorio frowned and looked back down. Picking a sparring circle at random, he narrowed his eyes, focusing intently on the distant figures. The circle suddenly swam into view, growing large and obfuscating the others, so that Scorio felt as if he were observing from only a dozen yards above the contestants.

“The rules are simple.” Helminth’s voice rang out from an invisible source up on high. “Anything is allowed. Victory takes place when your opponent yields, touches the ground outside the ring, or is rendered unable to fight. This being a mystical space, you have no need to fear unleashing your full abilities upon each other; no injuries will remain when you awaken. The fight will begin on the third chime, interfering in another combat will immediately disqualify you from the tournament, and there will be one bout. Good luck, contestants.”

Blinking, he let the magnified view fade away, and the circle was replaced by the full thirty-two. The first chime sounded, and he scoured the contestants below for the one figure he wished to watch.

“There,” said Lianshi, touching his shoulder and pointing to the far-left side of the fights.

How did she know? But there was no time to ask—the second chime sounded, and Scorio focused on the circle Lianshi had pointed out.

Immediately it swelled in size, and he saw Jova Spike standing calmly, gaze fixed on the massive Massamach who glowered at her from the far side. His robes were stretched taut over his prodigious frame, his huge shoulders rounded like boulders, his square jaw and closely trimmed beard making him look older than Scorio knew him to be.

Massamach was doing a good job of hiding it, but Scorio could tell he was nervous; the huge man opened and closed his fists, and shifted his weight subtly, as if trying to find the optimum stance.

Jova, however, stood poised and alert yet almost gave off an air of disinterest. She awaited the third chime with her hands upon her hips, lips pursed, gaze locked on her foe.

“Massamach’s no longer ranked third,” said Leonis by his side, though his friend wasn’t visible. “But he’s still a force to be reckoned with. Jova’s got her work cut out for her.”

“No, she doesn’t,” said Lianshi, then the third chime rang out.

Scorio leaned forward, heart hammering, and watched as Massamach threw himself forward into a sprint, powering his way toward where Jova stood still, waiting for him. When he was halfway across the circle, the huge man leaped into the air. Scorio thought he’d soar right toward Jova, but instead, he came down only a yard away, still far from his foe—but his impact upon the ground was devastating.

The stone shattered in a small crater around him, massive spikes of rock rearing up, but a furrow a yard wide raced from his feet to where Jova stood, a deep gouge in the ground that threw up similar spikes as it flew toward her.

Scorio could immediately tell that Massamach’s aim was off by a good couple of yards to the side—was his control so poor?

Then he understood.

The moment Massamach had crashed down upon the ground, Jova had leaped away, clearly anticipating his attack. But it hadn’t come directly for her, rather skewing out wide to her left.

Except she’d jumped right, and landed neatly on smooth stone as the furrow devoured the rock where she might have landed otherwise.

“Damn it,” hissed Leonis. “That was close.”

Jova rose from her crouch, and now it was her turn to race toward Massamach in a wide curve.

But her foe leaped back, springing out of the hole he’d made with surprising athleticism, and created a second crater where he landed, the ground shattering anew.

A second furrow flew out, tearing a wide ditch through the sparring circle towards where Jova ran, and this time she angled her approach so that she could leap clear across it.

Again Massamach leaped, and again, and each time new furrows, a yard or so wide and several feet deep flew out across the ever more ruined sparring circle to where Jova approached. The shards of rock speared up, making their edges perilous, forcing Jova to dive between them with impossible agility as she negotiated the badlands that Massamach was turning the sparring circle into.

A fourth, a fifth, and Scorio thought Jova would actually close with Massamach when her luck ran out. The terrain immediately before him had become so wracked and ruined it was nearly impassable, fissured and splintered into a mass of sharp stone shards and cracks. Jova leaped over the fifth furrow as it roared out toward her, but lost her footing and fell into the belly of one of the trenches, going down onto one knee.

Massamach wasted no time. Again he leaped back, and this time he sent a furrow surging toward her along the same path as the one in which she knelt.

It hit her full-on, an invisible force impacting with enough force to pick her up and hurl her a dozen yards down the furrow’s length, to crash and roll over the sharp rocks and lie still.

Scorio felt the blow as if it had been directed at him; he gaped, shocked, to see Jova lain low.

Massamach stood still, shoulders heaving, and then leaped again.

A deeper furrow raced toward where Jova was stirring, hurling spears of rock to each side as it went, and slammed into her, picking her up once more and throwing her closer to the sparring circle’s edge.

She came to a stop, her robes torn, her flesh lacerated, and again lay still, face down amidst the chunks of rock.

“He’s going to do it,” said Leonis breathlessly. “If he hits her one more time and knocks her out of the ring before she gets up…”

“You think she’s getting up?” asked Scorio doubtfully.

“Oh, honey,” said Lianshi, and he felt her hand on his shoulder. “She hasn’t even started yet.”

Massamach took a deep breath and once more leaped into the air. Each assault was taking a toll on him; he was drenched in sweat, and his jumps seemed to take ever more effort. But once more he landed into a new crater, digging himself even deeper into the rock, and sent a fresh furrow roaring toward Jova.

About whose form, Scorio now saw, jagged arcs of black lightning were beginning to play. She stirred, raised her head, and Scorio recoiled from the flat fury in her eyes. With effort, she popped up, drawing her legs under her into a crouch, and then leaped clear of the furrow just as it roared past her and sent fragments of rock flying into the darkness beyond the circle.

“That’s it,” said Lianshi. “He missed his chance.”

Jova landed on a section of unbroken ground and rose to her full height. She was in rough shape, torn and lacerated by the rocks, blood causing her left cheek to gleam red, one shoulder slumped as if something critical had broken. But the black lightning continued to play about her, and now she began to walk purposefully toward Massamach.

He stood, heaving for breath, chest working like a bellows, staring dull-eyed at his foe. He took a moment to gather himself, and Scorio could feel the effort it took him to bend his knees and leap again. Tendons stood out in Massamach’s neck, his whole body strained, and again he cratered and hurled a furrow toward Jova.

She stepped aside, but without any real concern. The furrow clipped her, huge jags of rock spearing up into her side, but they simply knocked her aside and caused her to stumble.

Catching her balance, Jova straightened once more and resumed her approach.

“Gives me chills,” whispered Leonis. “Watch. I bet she doesn’t even bother to dodge the next one.”

Scorio stared intently at Jova, studying her closely for signs of new wounds. Two huge spikes of stone had slammed into her side with enough force to break bone, but her arm, while sporting a new gash, seemed otherwise unharmed.

Again Massamach leaped, and a smaller furrow roared forth, shallower and with less power behind it.

And this time, Jova simply walked straight into it. Stone spikes rose about her, but she didn’t even look down. Instead, she simply paused, lowering her head as she was buffeted by the invisible force that Massamach had unleashed, and then resumed striding forth.

Massamach backed away, climbing out of the layered craters he’d created, and retreated into his half of the circle.

Scorio blinked. Jova’s side was a wasteland of trenches and chasms, while Massamach’s remained pristine. The sight when taken in as a whole was surreal.

Gasping for air, the huge man drew himself up and waited.

Jova reached the midway point and grimly climbed up out of the last crater to face him.

For a moment, nothing happened, both contestants staring at each other, then Jova resumed striding forward.

Massamach let out a roar of defiance, leaped forward, and followed his surging furrow, racing after it right at Jova. The furrow carved out the ground beneath her feet, its buffet barely swaying her, then Massamach drove his huge fist across her jaw.

The force behind the blow was palpable, and Scorio winced, closing one eye. It would have caved in the side of anyone else’s face.

Before Jova could react, Massamach buried an uppercut into her stomach, grabbed her head and wrenched it down into his knee, then laid into her with a flurry of furious blows, pounding her as he shouted in desperation.

Jova took the blows, making no effort to ward them off.

Only to straighten up when Massamach backed away, looking so winded he might vomit, and resume walking toward him.

Her face was unchanged. No—he’d split her lip, Scorio saw, and blood was trickling from one nostril, but that was it.

Massamach was weaving with exhaustion now, fists still raised, and when Jova came close enough he threw more punches which she batted away. There was no strength behind them, and suddenly she was inside his guard. Faster than Scorio could follow, she slammed her brow into the bridge of his broad nose.

Massamach reeled back, arms going wide.

And Jova leaped, rising high enough to bring both interlaced fists across his jaw with such strength that Massamach’s head spun around, neck breaking, and promptly fell in a heap at her feet.

Jova stared down at him. She wasn’t even winded. Her wounds and cuts had to pain her, but her expression was hard, controlled. Then, without looking up, she raised a fist into the air, a simple gesture of conquest.

“Damn,” whispered Leonis.

Scorio blinked, released the magnified view, and looked out over the other sparring circles. Most of the fights were already over, with perhaps five or six only left in their final phases. He gazed numbly at the fights but didn’t really register what he saw.

He was just starting to come out of his reverie when the last of the fights ended; a man whose flesh glowed with a hellish crimson light slammed his way through a barrier of rock and drove his burning fist through his opponent’s head, ending the bout, and the crowd that filled the stands let out a raucous cheer.

Scorio blinked and turned to his friends. “How can anyone defeat her?”

“She’s not invincible,” said Lianshi firmly. “She’s just an Emberling, with Emberling-grade power.”

“Supposedly,” said Leonis, pitching his voice to carry over the cheers. “I bet she’d give a Tomb Spark a run for their money, though.”

“But how do you beat her? If she takes less damage the more damage she takes, doesn’t that make her… invulnerable?”

Leonis frowned, and Lianshi just shook her head.

“Congratulations, winners of the eighth round!” Helminth’s voice boomed out over the arena. “Thirty-two champions stand tall, while thirty-two defeated Great Souls shall now move into the Loser’s Bracket. We honor your valiant efforts and recognize the greatness of the martial displays!”

“She’s not invulnerable,” Scorio heard Leonis say. “She almost lost to Massamach.”

“No,” said Lianshi, hugging herself tight. “I think she let him hurt her just to hurry things up.”

Scorio turned to regard the distant sparring circle. Jova Spike stood alone, hands on her hips, head bowed as if in thought.

Did she even hear the cheers that were washing over her? Scorio crossed his arms and frowned. Didn’t look like it. He saw no relief, no celebration, no joy, no post-battle nerves. She looked as calm and serious and composed as ever, despite the cuts and blood and torn robes.

Looked like she was just waiting, now. Waiting for the arena to disappear so that she could get back to work.

Scorio felt a chill pass through him.

Was this the woman he’d promised to beat in the Gauntlet? One who only grew stronger the more wounded she became?

A sinking sensation of doom flowed into him, and he was only too glad when the world went dark, and the sight of the arena fell away.

Scorio sat up, blinking, as the basilica appeared around him. He felt conflicted. Sobered, withdrawn. Immediately voices arose in conversation all around him, tones both eager and chagrined, and everywhere knots of students formed to discuss the fighting.

But Scorio simply wrapped his arms around his shins and sat staring at nothing, his heart pounding slowly in his chest like a hammer knocking nails into a coffin.

“It’s worse than I thought,” he said, as Leonis and Lianshi drew close.

“What, exactly?” Leonis leaned his hip against the side of Scorio’s bier and frowned at him. “You’re coming to terms with my natural superiority?”

“Jova Spike.” He said the name carefully, as if its edges could cut his lips. “Her power as an Emberling is almost tailor-made for the Gauntlet. After a certain point, she’ll become almost immune to the damage each room will deal her. Barring chambers she can’t physically pass, she’ll be able to just slog her way through, unstoppable, able to shrug off damage that will slow the rest of us down, then kill us.”

“Yeah,” said Lianshi, voice quiet. “I’ve thought about that. A lot of the Emberlings have developed different ways to attack their foes, or even defend themselves from attacks. But Jova’s one of the few whose defense actually changes.”

“Which makes besting her all the more impossible.” Scorio sank his head into his hands and fought back the urge to groan. “Why’d I make that ridiculous wager with her?”

“To be fair, I’ve been asking myself that same question since you told us,” said Leonis. “And I think I’ve come up with an answer.”

Scorio looked up, skeptical.

“Because you thrive off impossible odds. I think there’s an element to being told you can’t do something that just sets you afire. In a sense, you have a version of Jova’s power.”

“How so?” asked Scorio, still wary, wondering if his friend was teasing him.

“Think of it this way: the more you’re oppressed, the harder you fight back. Jova grows inured to physical damage, right? And at a certain point, it becomes exponentially harder to hurt her. You’re the same, but instead of damage, it's your will.” Leonis smiled sadly down at Scorio. “I think you’ll always thrive the most when someone’s got their boot on your neck.”

Scorio went to protest, then shut his mouth.

Fortunately, Praximar chose that moment to speak. “Students! What mighty feats of heroism and bravery we just witnessed! To those who lost the day, know that I am impressed that you made it this far, and you have much to be proud of. To our victors: congratulations! You shall pass into the next round and have two weeks in which to prepare for your next bout. Train, focus, and develop your strength—time is ever your most precious resource, so use it wisely.”

“Problem is,” said Leonis, turning back to them as Praximar lowered his arms, “I don’t quite see how you’re going to pull this one off.”

“Leonis,” hissed Lianshi.

“What? He knows it as well as I do. Lying won’t change the situation.” Students were beginning to drift away toward the exits, talking animatedly amongst themselves. “The equation simply does not add up. It’s not enough to make Emberling or overcome all his other troubles. He has to defeat Jova at the Gauntlet, and that’s…” He paused, clearly seeking a kind way to frame the situation.

“Impossible,” whispered Scorio, staring at his linked hands. “I know it. But this is what I must deal with. I’ll find a way.”

“And we’ll help you,” said Lianshi, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “You can count on us.”

“Sure,” said Leonis, giving a curt nod. “We’ll do whatever we can. You know that.”

“I know.” Scorio felt his eyes burn as he considered his friends. “You two were the best thing that happened to me.”

Lianshi’s eyes gleamed with tears as her cheeks colored. “I feel the same way.”

“Oh calm down,” said Leonis, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like we haven’t expressed this to each other before.”

“No, wait, I read something in one of my journals last night that really resonated with me,” said Lianshi, wiping at the corner of her eye with the base of her palm. “It was about a different group of Great Souls, but I wrote something like, ‘We are reborn without family, without past, without a sense of identity or knowledge of our former hopes and dreams. But our sole blessing is that we are not reborn alone, and each and every time can choose our friends, can choose our families.’”

Her words seemed to hang in the air between the three of them as she continued blushing. She ducked her chin, then visibly gathered herself and stood straight, squaring her shoulders. “And that’s how I feel. I don’t remember anything of my past. My parents. My home. My country. It’s all gone. It’s an aching void within me, just like it must be for you. A void that was once filled with… I don’t know, certainty and purpose. I lived my life in such a way that I became a hero, the Nun of the Red, Guardian of the Second Death, and Bestower of the Final Grace. I couldn’t have done that without drive, without an overriding purpose. And that purpose is now gone.”

She looked from Leonis to Scorio, face intent, words hurried, as if she feared being cut off, or unable to express herself fully.

“But instead, we can choose whom to love, whom to trust, whom to be family with. I don’t know why Asha spurns us so, but you two—you were the first faces I saw in this life, and in the Gauntlet, I saw your true worth. And I—I don’t take that lightly. I don’t know if it was fate, or destiny, or blind luck, but whatever it was, I mean to make the most of it. You two are all I have in this hell.” She shrugged a shoulder in an almost apologetic manner. “You’re my family. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you both.”

Scorio felt his heart jerk within his chest, a spasm that was just shy of painful, and his breath caught in his throat. Reaching out, he placed a hand on Lianshi’s shoulder and returned her smile.

Leonis’s own face had flushed, and he reached out as well, placing his hands on each of their shoulders so that they formed a triangle. “We are bound together, we three, and I hear and honor your words, Lianshi, once known as the Nun of the Red and Guardian of the Second Death. I, too, pledge to always hold you both in my heart and to do whatever I can to aid your causes. You have my word on it.”

Scorio again felt his heart tug, and inhaled shakily, his eyes prickling once more.

“I’m not one for words,” he said softly, “but thank you. Both of you. I promise the same to you both.” He paused, then smiled bitterly. “Though right now I seem to be the one in need. My help’s of little worth.”

“Nonsense,” said Leonis, squeezing Scorio’s shoulder with punishing strength before dropping his hand. “A hiccup on our journey. One day, years down the road, we’ll look back at these misfortunes and laugh.”

“Yes,” said Lianshi, nodding firmly. “We will.”

“Yeah,” said Scorio softly, unconvinced.

Leonis glanced around the basilica. “Well, it’s time we got moving. How about some training? We could claim a sparring circle in one of the basement levels and raise a sweat.”

“I think we’d be better off focusing on our meditation techniques,” said Lianshi. “We need to hit Emberling as quickly as possible, and I’ve yet to reach the limits of my ability to drink deep of mana.”

“You guys go ahead,” said Scorio, swinging his legs over the side of the bier to slide off. “I need to think.”

“Think?” Leonis frowned. “Perilous activity, coming from you. We shouldn’t let you out of our sight.”

Scorio laughed softly. “Right. But no, seriously. I need to figure this out. Just training, just meditating, that won’t set me on the path to beating Jova Spike. I need to come up with something completely new.”

“All right.” Lianshi considered him worriedly. “At least promise not to do anything stupid without checking in with us first?”

“Can’t promise that,” he said ruefully.

“And you should know better than to ask,” said Leonis. “Scorio is delightfully pig-headed when it comes to reckless courses of action. Haven’t you realized that yet?”

Lianshi scowled. “I won’t have him killing himself right after what I said. That would be cruel and unfair.”

Scorio raised both hands and laughed. “I’ve no intention of killing myself! Easy, relax. I’m just… going to go for a walk. To think things through. With a little luck, I’ll have a plan in place for tomorrow’s Eighthday, and I’ll tell it to you both over a delicious meal at some restaurant.”

“Fine,” said Lianshi, not sounding pleased at all. “At least promise to keep your suicidal behavior to a minimum.”

“Lianshi,” groaned Leonis. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

“I will.” He leaned in to give her a hug, then punched Leonis in the shoulder. “You guys go train. At the speed I’ll be progressing, you’ll be hard-pressed to keep up.”

“Right,” said Leonis, falling in with him and Lianshi as they began to make their way out from between the biers. “Because you’re a model of power and progress thus far.”

“You’ll see,” said Scorio. “I aim to hit Emberling before my next fight.”

“Means you’ve got a week,” said Leonis.

“You can do it,” said Lianshi.

“One way to find out,” said Scorio, and he turned left as they passed through the archway, just as his friends turned right, and left them behind.

Chapter 56

The following week passed in a daze. Scorio went through the motions. Ran at a slow jog, letting everyone lap him. Ate mechanically. Sparred with just enough proficiency to keep Feng from calling him out. During his classes he sat at the back, sunk deep in his seat, staring at the instructors but not hearing a thing.

Leonis and Lianshi were dogged in staying by his side. They tried different tactics: respecting his silence and trying to cheer him up indirectly; engaging in serious conversation about his predicament, brainstorming his best options; or just being silent and letting him know they were there. Eventually, they started giving him space, keeping close enough that he knew they were there, but no longer trying to jolt him out of his deep reverie.

And he was grateful. He just had trouble expressing it. He had trouble doing much of anything beyond drifting from one obligation to the next. House Chimera sent him a summons to come and sign his official paperwork, and he begged off, sending one excuse after another till he knew he was coming dangerously close to upsetting them. The other students eyed him warily, unable to understand why he was so morose when to all appearances he’d scored an incredible victory.

He lay awake late at night in his small room, fingers interlaced under his head, staring up into the darkness. Replayed his choices since he’d awoken in the Gauntlet, tried to tease out the moments where he could have shifted his fate with a different decision.

But each time it came down to his willingness to work for Dola. He spun up a hundred different excuses. He’d been hungry, alone, desperate, and broke. He’d had no friends, no means of providing for himself, and any misstep would have seen him brought to Praximar’s attention and consequent death.

But did desperation justify his theft? Had he truly been without options? Or had he been all too glad to strike back at the world that had treated him unfairly, been all too willing to give vent to his fury and bitterness?

In those long, dark hours of the night, he wrestled with his conscience. What should he do? At times he felt like simply giving up. Letting go of his determination to accumulate power, to discover the truth, to fight the injustices that had plagued him so. To fade away, drift into the shadows, and cease to be a player in the great game. But then he’d envision Praximar’s gloating face, his slight, smug smile, and sparks of fury would light up once more in his core.

Naomi didn’t show. Scorio kept watching for her, keeping an eye on the shadows, waiting, half-hoping, that she’d emerge at any moment with a caustic scowl on her face, ready to return and be part of their team, having changed her mind about the Academy and the ruins. But she never did.

It was Fifthday when he found himself standing outside the Chimera suite. He blinked, looked around. He’d walked there in a fugue, not knowing what he was doing till he’d seen the crest emblazoned upon the double doors.

What was he doing there? He’d miss lunch. He was wasting his time. He couldn’t sign the documents, for what was the point? To score a couple of pills before Praximar wrought his revenge?

Footsteps behind him. Scorio startled, turned, and saw Recruiter Gelegos walking up to him, a partially unrolled scroll in his hands, lips turned into a severe frown as he studied its contents.

Scorio froze, wishing he could step away, wondering if the recruiter were sufficiently distracted for him to do so, but then the man glanced up, the light flashing across his spectacles, and saw him.

“Ah! Our missing recruit! Your odd reluctance has been driving Selena mad.” He stopped before Scorio, smiling affably. “She’s convinced you’re being recruited by House Kraken behind our back. It’s taken all my efforts to keep her from hunting you down and confronting you.”

“I—thank you.” Scorio felt dull and stupid before Gelegos’s probing stare. Why had he come? “I’m, ah, not being recruited by anyone else.”

“So I thought. Come, no need to talk outside in the hallway.” And Gelegos stepped past him to open the door and disappear inside.

Scorio stared down the hallway, longing to just run, but then sighed and followed the man inside.

Gelegos led him across the expansive room, and for a moment Scorio thought they were heading back to the same conference chamber. Instead, the recruiter turned to the left at the last moment and entered a secluded spot, ringed on all sides by towering ferns and artfully arranged partitions of painted silk.

“Here we are,” said Gelegos, falling back gratefully onto a cushioned chair and propping his feet up on the round, central table. “Take a seat, Scorio. You look exhausted. A drink?”

“No, thank you.” Scorio sat on the edge of a stool and interlaced his fingers tightly.

Gelegos tilted his head to one side as he considered him. “Problems, hmm? Second thoughts? A fear, perhaps, that House Chimera will use you poorly, harness you to its needs, and then discard you if you object?”

“I—no. That’s not it at all.” Scorio stared down at his hands. “I’m still greatly honored by the offer. You know best of all what a wreck my Heart is. House Chimera’s offer was the lifeline I was praying for.”

“Then I grow all the more curious. I have before me a talented, improbably successful Cinder who clearly yearns for greatness. Yet you hesitate to the point of placing your sponsorship in jeopardy.” Gelegos paused, considering him. “Something has happened since last we spoke. A previous obligation? A debt that you must repay?”

“Something like that,” said Scorio, and the tangled knot in his heart undid itself, and he looked up at last to meet the recruiter’s eyes. “But I can’t accept the sponsorship. I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.”

“Yes, I thought you might.” Gelegos’s bemused smile didn’t quite touch his pale eyes, which studied Scorio thoughtfully. “May I ask why? Selena will tear my head off if I don’t.”

“I… you know that I spent some time in the ruins before being accepted back into the Academy,” began Scorio. Gelegos nodded, so he continued. “During that time, I briefly joined a criminal organization that targeted shipments coming into Bastion. I helped them with one job. I helped them steal a small crate containing Sapphire mana from House Chimera. House guards were injured in our escape, and I’ve since learned that some of them may have died.”

Scorio stared with bleak fear at the affable recruiter, who had gone perfectly still.

“I can only apologize,” he continued, dropping his gaze. “I won’t make excuses for my deed, but I also cannot accept House Chimera’s sponsorship. I’m sorry.”

“I… see.” Gelegos’s tone had become pensive. “I remember that raid. It was audacious as it was sloppy. Notable for being led by a rogue Great Soul who used various treasures to avoid pursuit.”

Scorio gripped his hands together even tighter. “I of course understand if you wish to press charges, and won’t lie to protect myself.”

The silence between them drew out, long and aching, and Scorio felt his brow prickle with sweat. He couldn’t look up, however. Just sat there, feeling miserable yet also lighter, as if a huge burden had at last fallen from his shoulders.

“I admire your honesty, Scorio, even if it clashes rather violently with your past behaviors. And in truth, I suspected the Great Soul in question was you. The time frame was just right, and the criminal’s description roughly matched your own.”

“You did?” Scorio’s gaze flicked up. “And you still made the offer?”

Gelegos’s smile grew pained. “We suspected, but deliberately did not make concrete inquiries, because as long as we had no proof, we could proceed with recruiting you. Now, however, with this confession, we have no choice but to withdraw our offer.”

“Wait,” said Scorio. “You thought it was me, but were still willing to offer your patronage?”

“Life is complicated,” said Gelegos. “But here is how I saw it: you were alone, confused, and ignorant. A man’s greatest instinct is survival, and with your being thrust through the Final Door within minutes of reincarnating, who is to fault you for doing what you could to survive? Now, if you had remained part of that criminal organization, had found it to your liking, that would be a different matter, but I found it particularly noteworthy that you only took part in one raid. After that, you went to ground. Had you died? Escaped to the Plains? I didn’t know. But the next we heard of you was when you helped save all of Bastion from Imogen the Woe. Quite the about-face, wouldn’t you say? You then proceeded to prove yourself competitive against your cohort, all of whom had benefited from elite training and resources from which you’d been deprived. I found it very impressive.”

Scorio gaped at the man. “Is that how Selena sees it? Wrack?”

“No. That is my own view, and why I held my tongue. They will be far less charitable than I. So, alas, we are done.”

“Yeah,” said Scorio, and realized that they were. Just like that, House Chimera’s invitation had evaporated in his hands. It was gone. He’d never get the Apotheosis pills, the Peaceful Wheel, and Thousand Step pills. All that healing, all those resources, the private classes, the confidential instruction, all… gone.

“Look, for what it’s worth, I think even better of you than I did before,” said Gelegos. “Which, unfortunately, is worth next to nothing. But you have a tremendous Heart, Scorio. If you don’t destroy it in your quest for power, it will take you far. It’s incredibly reactive, naturally deep, and has withstood the punishment you’ve given it thus far. I can’t guess what your plans are, but I will tell you this: whatever your gamble, make sure part of the payoff includes the ability to heal back the damage you’re about to do to yourself.”

Scorio blinked. “You’re not going to tell me to be careful?”

“You?” Gelegos chuckled and sat back. “Knowing your past, and having made discrete inquiries into your deeper history? Not at all. Would be a waste of my breath. But just as you wagered everything on impressing House Chimera so that we would heal your damage, make sure your next bet is as savvy.”

“Understood,” said Scorio, rising to his feet. “Will you please give the others my apologies and regrets?”

“Sure,” said Gelegos, standing as well. “Good luck, Scorio.”

“Thank you.” He hesitated, then turned and strode out of the large room, past the fountains and altars, the secluded meditation spots, and the communal table at whose length he would never now sit.

Out the double doors, and there to lean against the hallway corridor as the strength momentarily left him.

Scorio closed his eyes and breathed deeply. It felt as if he couldn’t get enough air. But, after a few moments, he mastered himself and pushed back to standing.

Praximar no longer had any leverage on him. He’d lost House Chimera, true, but the playing field was now even.

It was on him to figure out his next step, and a way to defeat Jova Spike in the final Gauntlet run.

Too bad he couldn’t think of a single thing.

Interlude - Naomi

Naomi sat in the corner, her brow pressed tightly against her forearms, her eyes screwed shut, her whole body shuddering.

She didn’t want to think. Didn’t want the thoughts, the memories, the emotions that refused to leave her alone. Running didn’t help. Fighting and killing fiends only gave her a moment’s fierce release. No matter what she did, the emotions came back, the images, the words, hunting her down like hell’s most consummate predator.

She gritted her teeth and ground her face into her knees. Only in sleep did she find oblivion, and then all too often she’d awaken from dreams she could barely remember, body drenched in sweat, gasping and crying out for someone, anyone, to help her.

But she was all alone.

All alone but for the Nightmare Lady, hidden deep within her soul.

With a cry of helpless rage, she slammed the base of her fist against the wall, and the flare of pain was welcome, a fierce jolt against the smothering despair. She paused, and the old temptation arose, that rapid and simple form of release.

No. She’d stopped doing that. Had sworn she’d never do it again.

But the Nightmare Lady stirred, ignoring her empty words, and against her will, she shifted, allowed the darkness within her to break free. Her body stretched, grew strong, her senses sharper, and her tail extruded itself from the base of her spine to waft out into the air.

She stared at her black talons and hissed. How she loathed this body. This horrific form. But how perfect it was, how perfect a reflection of both the cruelties of the world and her own twisted sense of self.

The Nightmare Lady.

Her truest self.

The great triangular blade of her tail curved around, gentle, questing, until its wicked tip was poised above her arm.

She could feel it questioning her, seeking but the slightest hint of acquiescence. How good it would feel, she heard the Nightmare Lady whisper, a delicate touch, then the spasm, a surge of emotion, a splash of color in the dark.

Just one. Quick. Cut.

No.

She leaped to her feet and bolted out of the dark chamber, clambering out of the window to scale the building’s wall to the roof, moving rapidly, blindly, trying to escape her own well of despair.

But wherever she went, she brought it with her.

Up to the roof, to scuttle across the broken stone and into another corner, to coil in on herself, tail now wrapped tightly about her body, sinking into the deepest shadows.

Her heart pounded. She couldn’t catch her breath. Resting her head back against the wall, she tried not to cry.

Stupid. So stupid. To think she could ease back into the normal world. With all the darkness within her, that hate, that bitter jealousy that marked her as the weak one.

To have believed him. Trusted him. Thought that things would be different if she stood by his side.

Again she grimaced, and this time when she slammed her fist against the wall, the stone cracked.

And heard the Nightmare Lady hiss: You belong out here. Alone with me.

She ran her hands down her gaunt visage, talons tracing thin lines of fire across her brow, her alien cheekbones, her jawline, and finally wrenched free the question she’d been avoiding for weeks: what was she going to do?

She couldn’t return to the way things were before him. Those long, still days where she did little to nothing, but sat in a stupor, drinking flaywine and experimenting on her body, or would drag herself to her alchemical experiments, or worst yet, wander the streets of the living city, deep inside her hooded cloak, to watch with sick envy how everyone else moved so easily about their lives, laughing and talking and enjoying themselves as if it took so little effort.

She couldn’t go back to that stasis.

But then what? Sign up with a mercenary outfit? They’d take her. Take her and use her till she broke.

Return to the Academy?

She banished the thought as soon as it came and snarled into the night. Her tail whipped out and slashed at the wall, causing an explosion of plaster and stone chips to fall to the ruined rooftop.

Scorio.

He’d ruined everything. With his easy smile, his impossible confidence, his—his.

Naomi shrank back down to her human form and covered her face. Sat utterly still, trying to become nothing, to not think, to not feel.

And again, as she’d done so many times before, she failed.

“Damn it,” she whispered, voice broken. “Damn it all to the ten hells.”

She couldn’t go on like this. But nor could she return. To those brightly lit hallways, those smirks and disgusted stares. She’d not bind herself to Scorio’s delusions again. Never.

But then…?

She thought of Scorio laughing at one of Leonis’s jokes. Lianshi tagging along, her own grin half-exasperated, half-despairing.

Her heart spasmed, like a muscle contracting when hit.

Wrapping her arms around her legs again, she pressed her brow to her knees and heard the Nightmare Lady hiss: Damn them. Damn Scorio and his all-consuming quest. His nonsensical, selfish, suicidally reckless, and impossibly stupid dreams.

Her shoulders slumped.

He was going to die. There was no doubt. Today, tomorrow, someday soon.

And when he was gone?

Naomi raised her face and stared out at nothing. When he was gone? Something infuriating, nauseating in its confidence, something vital and mesmerizing would leave the world forever.

She blinked. She hated him, wished she’d never met him… but she didn’t want him to die.

That would be even worse, somehow.

But she’d never return to his side. Not after what he’d said, the cruelty he’d shown, how he’d—

Naomi sighed, too tired to work up the rage in which she’d boiled and simmered herself ever since the night of The Flame.

His last words came back to her, his voice hollow, his manner near defeated. “Well, at least I got to apologize. Thank you for… everything, I suppose. Take care of yourself, Naomi.”

What a reckless idiot. What a naive fool. Of course Praximar had betrayed him. He’d never had a chance.

And yet.

The last of the anger slipped out of her. She didn’t want him to die. For that infuriating light in his eyes to be snuffed out. To see him shuffling along in the streets, another soul broken under the wheels of the city.

So then…?

Naomi wiped at her cheeks, sniffed loudly, and sat up. So then? Well… perhaps she could…

She wrestled with the very thought. Her own reluctance to voice it.

Perhaps she could help him.

In some small way. Without ever announcing herself, of course. If he ever returned, the way he blundered about the ruins would get him killed. She could… well, maybe she could watch for him in case he came after her again, shadow him whenever he visited. He always entered by the same street. Follow him, and keep the greatest threats at bay.

A small voice dared to speak from the depths of her misery: And she could see her friends again.

She waited, hesitant, for an upsurge of fury, loathing, disgust. For the Nightmare Lady within her to reject the words and cast them aside.

But nothing happened.

Naomi blinked. Maybe she could, then.

Just for a while. It… it would give her something to do.

She could be useful, at least.

A violent spasm of self-loathing washed over her, unleashed from the depths of her core.

Useful. How pathetic, snarled the Nightmare Lady.

But she screwed up her features and swallowed the sour taste in her mouth.

Yes. She could… help.

And with that resolve, she took a sudden and deep breath, and the dark nullity that had been her future resolved itself into a purpose of sorts. Took on a sense of structure, of meaning, no matter how futile, no matter how pathetic.

A road leading out of this well of despair.

She’d begin tomorrow.

Rising to her feet, she turned to stare at the distant living city. Its lights and complexity, its tapestry of lives and hopes and dreams.

She’d never be part of that. But perhaps she could help those who were.

The thought cheered her, lit a small candle flame in her soul.

She heard the Nightmare Lady’s hiss, but then the sound grew fainter as if she were drawing back, retreating deeper into her chasm.

Naomi’s lips quivered, then turned into the smallest of smiles.

Tomorrow, then.

Chapter 57

Scorio strode through Bastion, shoulders squared, feeling light, feeling… if not good, then cleansed. He’d not appreciated how much his past had weighed on him. And not just his past; the way he’d come so close to accepting any cost in order to advance.

To know that there were limits to what he was willing to do felt strangely good. If someone had asked him before, he’d have sworn with a savage intensity that there was nothing he’d balk at to advance.

But now he knew there was.

He’d not sacrifice his integrity. He’d not sacrifice his friends. He’d not bend the knee to the likes of Praximar.

And it felt… liberating. Which amused him. How could limitations liberate him? He pondered the question as he made his way through the wards. Wasn’t the ultimate liberation to have no limitations at all?

But no. That wasn’t who he was. And now he saw that he’d been warping his innate sense of self in his pursuit of power. He’d been telling himself he’d do anything, even as the stress of that belief weighed upon his soul. It’s what he’d told himself when he’d undertaken Dola’s mission, and look what bitter fruits that had sewn.

Now he could simply be himself, succeed on his own terms, and fail by them as well. If he died or was crippled or merely washed out of the Academy because he was unwilling to compromise on his integrity, then so be it. Power alone no longer tempted him, made him question how far he’d be willing to go.

And there was freedom in that self-awareness.

Breathing deeply, feeling expansive, Scorio purchased a dawn apple and bit deep into its gold-flecked flesh. He sucked in the juice and allowed the flow of the crowd to bring him ever further south.

It was impossible to ignore the tension in the streets. Gone was the chatter of people going about their business, the antics of children racing between carts and chasing hoops of wood along the sidewalks. While he still heard the varied cries of the costermongers and admired the artful displays in the shop windows, he no longer saw old ladies chopping vegetables on their miniature balconies. Windows were shuttered, doors were closed.

Instead, the main streets felt almost empty. Those who were out hurried on their business, casting worried glances about them as if afraid of being accosted. There was more trash in the streets than he was used to seeing, and no music playing from hidden sources. Just an aching silence that rang ominously loud once he attuned himself to it.

Frowning, Scorio stopped at a large plaza in whose center a water-fountain burbled. A line was formed before it as always, but the people were wary, constantly gazing about themselves, pails in hand.

What had been happening in the city since the week he’d spent helping deal with the chaos Imogen had caused? He’d been so hermetically sealed within the Academy that he’d not kept abreast of events. Feiyan had warned him that the streets were turning ugly, but he’d not paid any attention.

He was noticed, and people began to elbow each other, nod in his direction. The stares were ugly, confrontational.

What had he done?

He glanced down at himself and saw the Academy’s white robes, the golden sash.

Ah.

Inclining his head politely, he hurried on, trailed by angry whispers.

Best to get back into the ruins. Sticking to narrower streets and alleys, he once again delved into his own thoughts. How would Praximar react to Scorio’s preempting? Would he find another way to turn the screws? Or would he just sit back, fully expecting Scorio to fail, his ruined Heart undercut, unable to compete with the elites?

Scorio tossed the apple core to a fire salamander that was sunning itself along the length of a gutter, and chuckled as it snapped the core out of the air, gulping it down.

The nature of the wards changed, grew meaner, grimier, and eventually gave way to the first of the ruins.

It felt like coming home.

Unsure as to his destination, Scorio allowed his feet to take him where they willed, walking the familiar streets and avenues, climbing over the buildings that had collapsed into the street and leaping over the chasms that fractured the way.

He walked, old instincts returning to him, his feet guiding him around the cylinder and then deeper in, till at last he saw the monolithic bridge lying across the chasm, felt the dense power of the Coal mana flowing below him, and reached the edge to look down at the huge, pale spider-crabs and the massive barnacles.

And just beyond them lay his garden of Black Star plants.

Scorio’s lips quirked into a wry smile. A sense of nostalgia and fondness washed over him, the sight seeming a glimpse into his past.

Something had had a go at them; half of them had been torn up, the black soil roiled by heavy talons. But the rest still grew in precise rows, full and healthy, their velvet petals drinking in the Coal mana that swept by.

Scorio dropped into a crouch.

He couldn’t win by playing along with the Academy’s rules, by limiting himself to the resources it would grudgingly give a weak Great Soul like himself. The spoils went to the powerful, who only became more powerful. The rest? They had to find other means to survive.

Scorio rubbed at his chin. He could come every Eighthday to collect the mana. Use the Academy’s laboratories to filter and refine the syrup. Build up enough of a supply so that even his fractured Heart would be strained to its limits.

Sure, he’d suffer for it. This solution was the exact cause of the fracturing in the first place. But what if he could brute force his way to Emberling?

Scorio frowned. Even if he did, how much of his Heart would be left? How bad would the fractures become?

Did it matter, if it gave him a chance at winning the Gauntlet run?

You mortgaged your future for brief successes today, he heard Praximar sneer. Hera’s concerned visage appeared in his mind’s eye: You’ve been driven like all Great Souls to acquire power, and it’s cost you.

Scorio scowled, took up a sharp shard of stone, and hurled it into the chasm below. If he won the Gauntlet, came first out of the entire cohort, then wouldn’t that convince another House to take him on? House Basilisk, perhaps, who didn’t seem so punctilious with issues of morality? And he’d be allowed to stay on for the second semester at the Academy, with all the resources and healing that would come of it.

He sighed and sat back on his heels. All of this was predicated on the belief that he could actually beat Jova Spike and Ravenna Accardi and all the others. That he could overcome his limitations, make Emberling, and defeat the other thirty or so House-sponsored Great Souls in his cohort who’d been getting the extreme benefits of endless treasures from the start of the semester.

Scorio scowled. Did he really think he had a chance of coming in first? That a toxic Black Star syrup would make the difference compared to all the Fat Crickets and Apotheosis pills that the others were taking?

A dour voice from deep within him spoke the truth: He had no chance.

With a grimace, he leaped to his feet. So—what? He’d allow Praximar to crush him? Accept defeat after so many sacrifices, and just slink out of the Academy?

There had to be a different solution. A way to relinquish House Chimera’s patronage and still excel at the Gauntlet run.

Problem was, a large dose of toxic Black Star wasn’t going to be nearly enough.

What if he began hunting for Heartstones again? Earned enough octs to begin buying healing pills and medicine? Instructor Hera had thought those too expensive for him to even bother trying to acquire, but she hadn’t counted on his generating income on the side outside of the student’s allowance.

Excitement seized him. He could weaponize his days spent in the ruins. Hunt large, valuable fiends. Perhaps even go underground—what if he found a sunphire? Surely he could exchange one of those for some healing. Then he could offset the damage the black syrup did to his Heart, and grow more powerful…

Restless, he began walking, but wasn’t ready yet to return to the Academy. He couldn’t face his friends and the luxury of their suite with his mind so fixated on the grim realities of the ruins and the chances they afforded him. Didn’t even want to walk the tension-filled streets of Bastion.

But he forced himself to return to Ward 1. Asked around till he was pointed in the direction of a specialty shop which sold him a workman-like blade of dull steel and a functional scabbard. Cost him six iron octs, which was a good chunk of his allowance that he’d saved up, but he didn’t fancy punching pony-sized crabs to death for a living.

So armed, he returned to his old running trail, and set to ghosting from shattered building to pile of shale and detritus. Watching, listening, trying to sense what lay ahead before it noticed him.

Hunting.

His first target was a small hunting crab; it scuttled after him, pincers raised. Instead of climbing to safety, he faced it, ignited his Heart, and then deftly impaled the tip of his blade through its head area, leaping aside just before its pincers could snag him.

That netted him a small, jet-black Heartstone that fit comfortably in his palm, though the tip of the sword already looked blunted.

The hours passed, and the sun-wire brightened and then began to dim. Scorio worked his way around the circumference of the ruins once, twice, three times. Avoided the dangerous spots, followed the flows of Coal mana, and hunted methodically.

By the time the sun-wire darkened altogether, he’d harvested a dozen small Heartstones, all of them from predators that had thought him easy prey. The fiends wrecked his blade, however; apparently, beings infused with mana were incredibly tough to kill with regular weapons. With a sigh of regret, he resigned himself to either buying a better sword or using his own fists; the sword itself was notched and dull from just one day’s hunting.

He was walking deeper into the ruins when the darkness fell, and the sudden drop in temperature caused the funnel clouds to darken and unleash their rain, which fell in driving curtains across the street, cool and soothing. Scorio welcomed the wetness and didn’t change his pace, but kept walking.

He saw but didn’t register the native wildlife around him—the floating jellies that drifted along one wall, the shells encrusted along the floor of an avenue, a side street so filled with barnacles that he could barely see a path down its length.

None of them would render Heartstones of sufficient value.

He’d missed a whole day of classes. How many could he skip before he got in trouble? One at least wouldn’t be enough.

He climbed and crossed broken rooftops, dropped down into narrow courtyards, and passed through dark, empty houses. Skirted around the circumference of large plazas, and balanced his way across spindly bridges that arced out over glowing cracks in the ground.

At last, drew up short and blinked. He’d traversed nearly the entire length of the ruins, right down to the end, and before him lay the Portal, the hub that held the sun-wire’s end, and the great buildings that encircled the cylinder’s bottom, massive and dark and dour.

Amongst them, the Old Academy.

Scorio considered. Praximar had released an official statement declaring that the ancient building had been sealed off, protecting the old Archspire from further tampering. But he felt drawn to the building, to its ancient secrets, to the hope it had once represented.

Turning, he looked back at the distant, living portion of the city. Already the night lights were coming on, dappling its expanse in cool pools of copper and soothing gray. If he turned back now, he’d still be only horrendously late.

But something told him Praximar wouldn’t expel him for being tardy. Not when he was poised to shatter Scorio’s spirit on a far greater altar.

Scorio lowered himself into a crouch, the rain sweeping over him, and waited. At first, he didn’t know what for, but slowly it came to him: a sense of expectation, that something was imminent, and should happen soon.

But it didn’t.

Naomi didn’t step out of the darkness in her Nightmare Lady form.

His expression soured as he realized that he’d been waiting all this time for her to do so, to have changed her mind and decided to help him. He wanted her to emerge so he could apologize again, smooth over her hurt, tell her she’d been right all along, earn her forgiveness, and then rail against the Academy together in righteous indignation.

But if she was watching him, she never emerged from the darkness.

Scorio crouched down upon the rooftop and gathered up a fistful of damp cindered stone. Scowling, he crushed the flakes to dust, which he allowed to slowly trickle into the air and be caught by a breeze that plumed the grit away.

Fine. He’d continue with his plan. Would find a way to brute force his way to victory. Because Naomi was right about one thing: he might be beat down, but he wasn’t beat.

“Not dead yet,” he whispered, rising to his feet and discarding the rest of the dust. He moved to the edge of the roof, swept Coal into his Heart, and sparked it afire with a flex of his will. Power flooded into him, traitorous, truant power, and he stepped over the shallow retaining wall to fall into the void beyond.

Down two stories to land on the street that arrowed its way toward the huge bridge. The impact sent a shock of pain through his legs, but that quickly faded. Praximar had said the Old Academy was sealed off, but damn Praximar and his lies. He’d investigate for himself. For within lay that ancient Gauntlet, and who knew what other treasures? They’d been so enamored of the sole find that they’d ceased to explore.

Time to find out what else the old Academy was hoarding.

His every footstep crunched into the silence. Purposeful, focused, unhurried, he reached the broad bridge. Was it only a few weeks ago that he and the others had fought their way across, defeating the toad to gain entry into the Academy?

Could have been a lifetime ago.

Scorio crossed the bridge, the wind tugging at his robes, and saw movement at the far end, within the hollow morass of collapsed columns and roof. A stirring within the ink-dark depths.

Scorio didn’t slow but reached into his robes to draw forth his nubbin of chalk. It felt like an old friend, one he’d set aside, thinking it no longer necessary within the civilized climes of the new Academy, but now, palming it once more, a welcome return.

On he walked, down the center of the bridge, watching the shattered building. More movement, and then the huge toad bestirred itself and emerged into the sullen light of Second Clay to perch atop a rough boulder.

As big as a cart, its empty ocular ridges extending out into horns, its whole body gleaming with slowly coagulating Coal mana, it oriented on him, settling in, its broad slit of a mouth conveying emotion that Scorio couldn’t read. Dark amusement? Wariness? Attentiveness?

“We going to have a problem?” called Scorio as he drew closer.

The toad adjusted its weight once more, sticky digits rippling on the rock, the seam of its lips undulating subtly.

The toad’s voice was a reverberating croak. “Favorite friend alone?”

Scorio frowned. Would he be admitting weakness? Inviting an attack? Just how valuable might the toad’s Heartstone be? For some reason, the thought disgusted him. “For now, sure.” He felt an impulse to throw in a threat, a promise of pain if the toad tried him, but refrained.

Again the toad resettled itself upon the boulder, its soft, pale gray throat working. “No problem.”

“Good,” said Scorio, moving forward once more but angling out wide to create as much distance between the toad and himself as possible. “Appreciate it.”

The toad swiveled as Scorio strode past it, keeping him in sight, and it was when Scorio was past that he felt in the most danger; how easy would it be for the toad to send its huge tongue flying at his back when he thought himself safe?

But it made no move, and soon was lost from sight. Unsettled, unsure as to how to feel about that interaction, Scorio broke into a jog, eager now to get into the Old Academy. Ran lightly up the great staircase to the colonnaded front, and there stopped.

Praximar hadn’t been lying. The huge front doors were sealed with dense gray stone, the surface of the doors emerging from the sealant like a shipwreck from the surface of a lagoon.

Frowning, Scorio circled wide to their customary entrance and found that similarly blocked. He stepped up and touched the new rock—it was cool and unnaturally smooth. Frown deepening, Scorio stepped back and looked up. The windows were sealed as were errant cracks.

Stubborn, he circled the Academy, taking his time as he walked all the way around its wings and into its accessible inner courtyards. Pried and poked, climbed to first floor balconies, even attempted to break through weaker looking parts of the architecture, only to discover more obdurate stone behind each access point.

Night was almost upon him when he finally reached the front again. Nothing. Praximar, or whichever Great Soul the chancellor had tasked with this responsibility had been thorough to the extreme. Rubbing at his jaw, Scorio scowled and dropped into a crouch. Damn it! The old Gauntlet was his best weapon in this impossible battle. How was he supposed to eke out some manner of advantage without it?

“Favorite friend not happy,” croaked a voice, and Scorio leaped to his feet and saw the toad a score of yards off to the side, perched atop a fallen column.

Heart hammering, Scorio studied the fiend. It was close enough to have attacked with impunity. Instead, it shifted its weight again, regarding him.

“No,” said Scorio at last, voice shaky. “Not happy. I wanted into this building. But it’s all blocked up.”

The toad didn’t turn to examine the Academy but kept its attention upon Scorio. “Not all blocked up.”

Scorio’s mind raced, and then he understood. “There’s a way in from below?”

The toad’s silence was answer enough.

Scorio hesitated and licked his lower lip. Considered. Was this all an elaborate ploy? Not long ago this fiend had tried to kill them all, and now…?

“Favorite friend unsure,” croaked the toad, not sounding offended in the least. “Favorite friend think Nox want consume his Heart.”

“I… yeah, something like that.” Scorio studied the toad. “You don’t?”

“Do. But not personal. Nox want consume all Hearts, eat all mana, always, to Ascend.”

“Then, ah, you’re saying I shouldn’t trust you?”

Nox shifted again, his digits making sticky sounds as they pulled free of the column and then attached once more. “Not forever. But for now. Favorite friend warn Nox of terminal nexus. Nox grateful.”

Scorio blinked. “Terminal nexus?”

Nox looked momentarily uneasy. “Flying death human.”

“Oh! Imogen the Woe. Right.” Had he? Scorio tried to think back—yes. He’d yelled something at the toad as they’d raced by. “But you’d have avoided her yourself, right?”

“Maybe too late. Nox sense great power, decide to eat it. Bad decision.” The toad’s wide lips quirked into what might have been a smile. Could toads smile? Did fiends even know what smiling meant?

But Scorio laughed. “Yeah, trying to eat an Imperator would have been a bad decision. She’d probably have ignored you though.”

Nox shifted. “Nox very tasty.”

Again Scorio chuckled. “And modest.” But then a thought occurred to him. “Wait. That because you’re an engorger?”

The toad quirked its head to one side. “Not understand.”

“I mean, the way you’re oozing Coal mana right now. How you can, ah, saturate yourself in it and not run out of power.”

If Nox could have blinked, Scorio bet that he would have. “Engorger. Strange name. But yes. Nox use Delightful Secret Marinating technique.”

Scorio stared at Nox. “Delightful Secret Marinating technique.”

A black tongue swiped out and across the toad’s mouth, so quick that Scorio barely saw it. “Yes. Delightful Secret Marinating technique.”

“That’s your actual technique’s name? All right.” Then Scorio held up both hands. “Wait a second. You have a technique?”

Nox didn’t respond.

“I mean, I didn’t think fiends had… techniques.” Scorio’s words petered off awkwardly. How offensive had he just been?

“Fiend? Nox Imperial Ghost Toad.”

“Oh,” said Scorio, “right, of course. My apologies. You’re an… Imperial Ghost Toad who uses the Delightful Secret Marinating technique. Got it.”

Nox again remained silent, regarding Scorio with alert attention.

“I… well.” Scorio stood up a little straighter. “Would you show me how to get into the Old Academy, Nox?”

“Yes, Favorite Friend Scorio.”

“Wait, you know my name?”

Silence.

Scorio tried again: “How do you know my name?”

“Heard Favorite Friend Lianshi use it.”

Scorio raised his hand. “How do you—never mind.” He curled his hand into a fist, grimaced, then inclined his head. “Guess we didn’t notice you listening in.”

Silence.

“But great. If you could lead me inside, I would be most appreciative, Imperial Ghost Toad Nox.”

“Nox,” corrected the toad, and then hopped off the fallen column to land wetly upon the ground, flecks of Coal mana splatting about it. “Follow.”

The toad moved in fits and starts; a few ambling steps followed by a sudden leap that would carry it a dozen yards ahead. It led Scorio back toward the bridge, and then to its collapsed home. Upon landing on its favorite boulder, it turned slowly around to regard him.

“World below different from world above.”

“Right,” said Scorio. “I spent a few days in the caverns. I think I know what you mean.”

“World below more dangerous than world above. But we not go far. Stay close.” And then Nox hopped off his perch, into the hollow crater beneath the collapsed columns and roofing, and disappeared.

“Right,” said Scorio again to himself, wiping his palms on his hips. “Just follow the Imperial Ghost Toad into the caverns. What could go wrong?”

He hesitated, sighted back toward the bustling city. But what choice had he? Taking a deep breath, he stepped under an angled column and into the hollow within. The basement was a nest of fallen rubble, but with enough cleared away to reveal a tunnel that descended nearly vertically into the dark. Scorio edged down into the pit, slipping and sliding toward the tunnel, and paused at its lip, peering down into the gloom.

Sharpened his darkvision, and saw that only some five yards below the tunnel leveled off. Was Nox waiting below to ambush him? Was he being ungrateful for continuing to suspect the toad? No matter. Scorio labored to ignite his Heart, as there was precious little Coal mana in the air, and leaped down into the dark.

Chapter 58

“Wait, what?” Lianshi stopped in the middle of the hallway to stare at Scorio. “You did what with who?”

Scorio turned around as he kept walking, spread his hands out to his side, and gave her his most innocent look. “An Imperial Ghost Toad, Lianshi. Honestly. I thought I said it clearly the first time.”

Leonis slowed down and reached up to rub at the nape of his neck. “You went out drinking.”

“No,” said Scorio, still walking backward, watching as Lianshi reluctantly began to stride after him. “Though Nox would make an interesting drinking companion. He’s got very definite opinions.”

“Opinions? Are you mad?” Lianshi hurried to catch up and then poked him in the chest with a stern finger. “You went hunting, and then ended up at the Old Academy without us and struck up a friendship with the fiend that nearly killed us only a few weeks ago?”

Scorio chuckled and turned to fall in back beside Leonis. “Not a fiend. He was quite clear about that. Actually, I think that’s a very rude thing to say to an Imperial Ghost Toad.”

“I can’t handle this,” said Lianshi, staring at Leonis. “Is he lying or telling the truth?”

“Knowing Scorio, what do you think?”

They walked in silence till they reached the end of the hall that opened out into a broad hall.

“Wait,” said Lianshi, grabbing him by the elbow. “Wait wait wait. You’re serious.”

“Yes.” Scorio glanced around, making sure none of the other Great Soul students were listening in, and stepped aside into an alcove. “What’s more, he showed me a way into the Old Academy. We went pretty deep, but it wasn’t far, distance-wise. Just a dive and then a climb.”

“You got into the Old Academy,” said Leonis, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Which means you did a Gauntlet run.”

“Three,” said Scorio ruefully. “Which is why I feel hungover today.”

“And why you look hungover,” said Lianshi. “You promised to not do anything stupid!”

“It wasn’t stupid. It was exactly what I needed. It’s our edge, reclaimed.” Scorio lowered his voice. “Look, I can’t do this playing Praximar’s game. This Academy is designed to slot us all into our places and keep us there. I need an outside element, a wild card with which to shake it up. I plan to make octs with Heartstones, to return to harvesting Black Star, but the old Gauntlet’s my only real chance at winning this whole thing.”

“You’ll get expelled if you’re found out,” protested Lianshi.

“I’ll get expelled if I don’t,” said Scorio.

They stood in silence, stalemated, till Lianshi turned back to Leonis. “Reason with him.”

Leonis looked up and scratched at the stubble on his throat, lips pursed in thought, then sighed. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“You what?”

“Scorio’s right. Mad, but correct. Our current trajectory is taking us where, Lianshi? You know as well as I do that our time running the old Gauntlet saw us grow the fastest. I thought I was about to hit Emberling in less than a month, but that month has since come and gone and I’m still struggling.”

Lianshi frowned.

“Think,” said Leonis. “You gave up your hopes of rapid advancement when you turned down Kraken and their advanced treasures. I never had the chance because I died too soon in the original Gauntlet run. Since then we’ve been trying to catch up with the top fifty Great Souls in our cohort and falling behind. We’ve been killing ourselves with training, even going so far as to literally die in runs through the old Gauntlet, and still, we’re falling behind. Why? Because they get to devour those high potency treasures that duplicate all our hard work. What it takes us a week to achieve they accomplish in one swallow. We’ll never catch up without an edge. There are how many Emberlings now? And none of us are even close.”

Lianshi had no response, so she simply stood there, arms akimbo, scowling at Leonis.

Scorio hesitated, then stepped in a little closer. “You obviously don’t have to come—”

Only to bend over as she elbowed him, hard, in the gut. “Don’t say stupid things. Of course I’ll come. You’ll need at least one adult watching out over you two.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Leonis smoothly as Scorio straightened up. “Every Eighthday we’re back in the ruins.”

Scorio winced and smiled at Lianshi. “How close are you to Emberling, do you think?”

“Close,” she said, tone growing morose. “I’m having trouble igniting my Heart, but feel like I’ve plateaued.”

“There you go,” said Leonis. “We’ve all day today to push ourselves past any sane limit. I’ll wager you reach your First Trial before Second Clay.”

Lianshi stilled. “You think?”

“One way to find out,” said Scorio with a grin. “Nox said we could use the tunnel whenever we want, though he takes no responsibility for our dying horribly if we run into something bad down there.”

Lianshi’s hopeful expression fell into a deadpan stare.

“Which won’t happen,” said Scorio, raising both hands and backing away. “Because I lead a charmed life, and all who travel with me are equally blessed.”

“Uh-huh,” said Lianshi. “You’ve been spending too much time with this big idiot.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Leonis punched a fist into his other palm. “Let’s get going. We’ve only ten Eighthdays left before our real Gauntlet run. We need to make the most of them.”

“Well, all right then,” said Scorio with a grin, and led them back out into the hall and turned left, toward the closest Academy exit.

“Speaking of,” said Lianshi, stepping up to Scorio’s side. “How are we going to convince Naomi to come back? It doesn’t feel right without her, and I don’t want to invite anyone else to complete our team.”

“I don’t know,” said Scorio, rubbing at his chin. “Asking her back won’t work.”

“I know,” said Leonis. “We each reach Emberling and approach her with a show of force. Show her that we’re not a group of spoiled children, but warriors in our own right. When she sees that we’ve caught up with her, she’ll take us seriously and agree to come.”

Scorio and Lianshi exchanged a glance.

“That actually sounds pretty good,” said Lianshi. “What did you do with the real Leonis?”

Who only groaned and placed his hand over his eyes. “I was once worshipped as a grand king, and now I’m subjected to such paltry taunts? How the mighty have fallen.”

To which Lianshi dexterously slipped her foot between his two and tripped him up. Leonis let out a cry of alarm, staggered, then fell to one knee.

Lianshi let out a high-pitched laugh and took off running down the hall, followed a second later by a roaring Leonis.

Scorio chuckled as he watched them go. But his smile faded, and he proceeded alone, his mood turning somber. It was heartening to see them play, but on some level, it only served to remind him of how different their worlds were. The thought of playing such antics himself felt surreal.

No. He didn’t have it within him to fool around. He had to focus. For Leonis was right: they had but ten more Eighthdays, and Scorio intended to wring blood from each and every one.

* * *

“Gah!” Scorio awoke upon the ancient, jeweled bier and clutched at his stomach. Pain sliced through his core where the statue’s spear had impaled him in the gut, and he curled over onto his side, grimacing and fighting down the urge to moan.

Just pain, he told himself, just pain.

But the wound felt so real. On some level, it just didn’t make sense that blood wasn’t flowing through his fingers, that his stomach wasn’t torn open, that he wasn’t dying. The pain was primal, overwhelming, flattening out the rest of the world with its terrible immediacy.

But Scorio forced himself to breathe through it, and by slow degrees, it abated, like a tide withdrawing from the shore. When he was able to, he ignited his Heart, and then unknotted himself and breathed deeper as the pain faded away. With great effort, he sat up. He was drenched in sweat, beads running down his face, his robes clinging to him.

“You guys all right?” he called out, and then blinked and sharpened his darkvision so that the impenetrable darkness before him resolved into a narrow tunnel of outlines and gray shapes.

Whoever had sealed off the Academy had done a masterful job; a smooth stone shell a foot thick flowed within the other walls, plugging every gap, sealing every door and window, and reinforcing the masonry so that no new holes could be knocked into the walls. Imogen’s destruction was completely sealed over. As a result, everything within was pitch black, a swarming, utter absence of light that felt smothering.

“Loving life,” rasped Leonis from one side. Scorio looked his way and saw the huge man rubbing his neck. “Especially when being the greatest threat results in having knife thrown at your throat.”

“Your fault for being so good-looking,” said Scorio, then glanced around. “Lianshi?”

She wasn’t there. Scorio wiped the sweat from his eyes and swept his narrow beam of darkvision over the biers. She’d laid down on the one to his immediate left, but it stood empty. Had she rolled off in pain upon appearing? Sliding off his own, Scorio limped around her bier, his core still wrenched and in pain.

“She’s not here,” he said, turning to Leonis, dark panic opening its wet wings in this throat.

“Not here?” Leonis forced himself up to sitting and stared back. “What do you mean, not here? We always return at the same time.”

Scorio forced himself to stand still and think. “Perhaps the mechanism is getting older. Perhaps her return is being delayed.”

“By the ten hells, I hope not,” growled Leonis. “That’d mean this whole system is falling apart. Or perhaps she’s still stuck inside?”

“No,” said Scorio. “I saw her go down fighting that axman. She died just before I did. She should be here.” And he turned to stare angrily at the bare surface of the bier. “Where the hell is she?”

Leonis stood, rubbed at his neck one last time, then dropped his arms. “We should go back in, then. Find her. Perhaps she’s looped and appeared at the entrance again.”

Scorio had no words. The very thought terrified him. What if Lianshi was trapped within the Gauntlet forever? They’d have to rush back to the new Academy, tell Praximar, Helminth, someone who might know how to wrest her free.

“Come on,” said Scorio. “Let’s go back and look for her.”

Grimacing, Leonis activated his crystal and returned to his bier. Scorio did the same, lay back down, and a moment later, appeared once more in the tomb of hammered copper.

His body felt rough, still suffering from the pain of the previous death, but he ignited his Heart again and leaped out of the opening. He saw Leonis doing the same, and cast around at the other tomb entrances.

All were sealed shut.

“No,” he hissed, darting from one to the next. “Leonis, which one did she emerge from? Do you remember?”

“I don’t,” rasped the other man, rubbing at his throat as he approached. “One of these, but I can’t remember which.”

“Lianshi?” Scorio crouched by one and pounded on the copper plate that sealed off the tomb. “You in there?”

They paused, listened.

Silence.

Together they moved from seal to seal, but no sound emerged from below, no voice responded to their anxious calls.

“Perhaps she already went in,” said Leonis, rising to his feet to look at the bright beam of pale light. “Time might flow differently here. While we were talking outside, she might have decided to proceed alone.”

“Let’s go, then.” Scorio led the way at a run, his Heart burning darkly, the power washing away the last of the pain in his stomach, till he was able to open his stride and race about the rough stone dunes to the huge chasm of light.

Picking up speed, he ran straight at it and dove. The move was almost automatic now; he appeared in the first chamber, slid under the sweeping blade, and fell into a forward roll. Leonis dove into view just as Scorio rose to his feet, Heart guttering out, and a moment later they stood, turning in slow circles, examining the chamber.

“Nothing. Next one.” Scorio led the way to the dark door, hauled it open, and stepped through. The broad hall with its statues presented itself, each pristine and still upon its plinth, the central passageway to the far side cloaked as ever in absolute darkness.

“Nothing,” said Leonis, emerging next to him. “Would the statues be damaged if we were following after?”

“Or perhaps we’ve entered a different iteration,” said Scorio, the idea chilling him. “Maybe if you don’t enter at the same time, you can’t follow each other.”

“Stop scaring me, man,” growled Leonis. “That would mean we can’t reach her.”

“Damn it, let’s go. Ready?”

Leonis raised a hand. “Give me a moment. It’s taking longer and longer to ignite these days.”

When Leonis, at last, was ready, Scorio jogged forward, wary, focused, waiting for the tell-tale grind of stone as the first statue came to life.

A compact man to his left with a long dagger in each fist shifted, stepped forward as Scorio passed him, and immediately Scorio threw himself back, avoiding the first knife swipe by inches.

Leonis barreled into the statue from behind with a roar, lifting the stone figure clear off the ground in a feat of stunning strength and then bore the man down to the ground.

An archer awoke, stepped back and off his plinth, arm looping up and behind to grab a stone arrow from his quiver and nock it to his stringless bow.

You charged archers if you were close, zigzagged if you weren’t. The statue was only four yards away, so Scorio yelled and hurled himself right at the archer as he drew his arrow’s stone fletching back to his cheek.

No hesitation, no doubt, and as a reward, Scorio heard the arrow whisk past his head as he tackled it around the waist and knocked it into the wall. Heard stone crack, and then everything became a flurry of elbows and knees, the statue abandoning its bow to fend off Scorio’s attacks.

But his fear, his terror over Lianshi’s situation caused his Heart to burn all the brighter, and Scorio heard himself screaming as he slammed an elbow into the statue’s face, then again, then palmed the man’s features and crunched the back of his head into the wall.

The stone fractured, fell apart, and Scorio turned as the statue collapsed to see Leonis wrestling with the knifer, who’d twisted onto his back and was trying to force a blade up into his friend’s chest.

Leonis had the knifer by both wrists and was forcing the blade aside, his face red with effort. Scorio lunged forward and stomped the heel of his boot down upon the statue’s face, again and then a third time.

Stone cracked once more, and the statue cracked and fell apart.

“That’s right, you gray-faced bastard!” shouted Leonis, sitting back on his heels as he caught his breath. “And yours? Dead already? Well done, my friend!”

Scorio staggered back, took a deep, shaky breath, and then extended his hand. Leonis took it, hauled himself up, and then together they turned to the third door.

“Not looking forward to this,” said Leonis quietly, taking the lead.

Scorio frowned. “Lianshi… she can’t have made it this far by herself.”

“She might have. If she tackled this room alone, she’d have only fought the one statue. One way to find out.”

Leonis led the way through into the next room, and together they paused to examine the grid that was etched deeply into the walls.

“No sign of her,” said Leonis, tone heavy.

“Let’s press on. Move fast but don’t lose focus or control. It’s the moment you panic and let the pain get to you that you’re dead. Ready?”

Leonis sighed, dusted off his thighs, then gave a curt nod. “Together?”

“Sure. We can shield each other’s sides. Let’s fill our reservoirs first, then on the count of three.”

They strode forward when they were ready. Scorio swept more Coal mana into his Heart, replenishing its already dwindling reserves, and stared straight ahead.

Movement to his left, and he darted forward to avoid a block as it flew at him. Only to realize that he’d left Leonis’s flank exposed. He cried out a warning, but the other man was reacting to a second block.

Scorio leaped as another flew at his ankles, and then everything was movement and chaos. They made it two-thirds of the way across the room before they were felled, pummeled and jellied by the blocks that came faster and faster.

Scorio stared at the distant door, fought to crawl toward it, needing to see if Lianshi lay on the far side, fighting off the terrible pain until he couldn’t even move, could only curl up into a ball.

The pain was terrible, but it ended mercifully soon; all was dark, and then Scorio groaned as he found himself upon the bier once more.

But this time he pushed nausea and agony aside to sit up, bleary-eyed. He ignited his Heart again, the expenditure costing him, and peered around, darkvision quickening anew.

“Lianshi? Lianshi!”

“Here!”

The sound of her voice was a sweet balm, and he collapsed onto his elbow, gasping as his body protested at the abuse it had suffered, his bones and joints clamoring, his head pierced through and through by a shaft of pain that quickly began to abate before his Heart’s flames.

“You’re alive,” gasped Scorio, lowering his brow to the cool stone of the bier as he fought down the urge to vomit, then forced himself to look up once more. “What happened?”

Lianshi stood beside her bier, eyes wide, her black hair spilling down past her shoulders, lanky and tall as ever—but something subtle had changed about her. Even through his wall of pain, Scorio could sense it, a novel if dim presence, a feeling of… solidity, as if she’d become ever slightly more real than the world around them.

Lianshi was staring down at her hands but blinked and flicked her gaze up to meet his own. And in that moment, he knew.

“You’ve reached Emberling,” he whispered, sitting up once more.

Her eyes gleamed, and her smile was tight and victorious, her whole frame thrumming with energy as she moved forward to stand before him. She went to say something but was clearly overcome with emotion, so instead, she simply gave him a curt nod, her lips parting into a brilliant smile.

“She what?” Leonis still lay atop his bier, one arm draped over his eyes. “No. That’s not fair. I was supposed to make Emberling first.”

Scorio studied her with wonder. “The Trial? You underwent it?”

“Yes.” Her voice was an awed whisper. “I did. And… and I understand now why we’re told not to discuss it with those who’ve yet to undergo it.”

“Wait,” protested Leonis, shoving himself up to sitting. “You saying you’re not going to tell us?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, real regret twisting her features. “But there’s a reason. I would if I thought it would help you, but it would do the opposite. It would only twist the trial itself. And… beyond that, I think what I experienced would have nothing to do with what you’ll undergo.”

“Huh.” Scorio stared at her, nonplussed, but then he grinned and lurched off the bier to envelop her in a fierce hug. “You did it! You made Emberling!” And he picked her up and wheeled her around, causing her to laugh self-consciously. Setting her down, he stepped back to regard her. “What’s it like?”

“And what can you do?” asked Leonis, padding over. “You figure that out yet? Your technique?”

“I have, actually. The knowledge comes to you at the trial’s end.” Lianshi took a deep, shaky breath, and then cast around, searching the floor. “Wait a second.” She hurried away, dipping and examining the spaces between the biers, and then returned with a stout plank of wood and handed it to Leonis. “Here. Hit me in the face as hard as you can.”

Leonis blinked and turned the inch-thick plank over in his hands. “You’re… sure?”

“Positive. As hard as you can. Trust me.”

Leonis licked his lower lip and raised the board over one shoulder with both hands. “This doesn’t feel right. I’m only hitting you in the face as hard as I can because you’re my friend.”

Lianshi laughed nervously. “This should work. Don’t worry.”

Leonis glared at her. “Should work? If it doesn’t, I’ll take off your head.”

“No, it’s fine. Swing on three.”

Leonis settled back down and rippled his fingers over the stout board.

Scorio watched as Lianshi counted, heart in his throat, his darkvision reducing them both to gray outlines. A defensive power, then? Nothing that would hurt Leonis. What would it be? That ruled out a ranged attack like Hera’s or Feng’s. Something like Jova’s resistance…?

“Three,” said Lianshi.

Leonis grunted and swung, brought the board screaming around against Lianshi’s face.

The board shattered.

Leonis staggered, off-balance, then lifted the foot and a half of broken board that remained in his hand in shock.

But Scorio only had eyes for Lianshi. A gleam had washed over her, reflective and smooth like a coating of glass. It lasted four heartbeats, then faded away.

Lianshi let out a whoosh of air and shook out her arms. “It worked!” She laughed nervously, then cut herself off. “I mean, I knew it would, it’s just that—wow. I…” And she gave her head a quick shake.

“Wait.” Leonis tossed the board away. “Your Emberling power is immunity to wooden boards?”

“No, idiot,” said Lianshi, stepping forward to shove him in the chest. Leonis didn’t budge. “It’s more than that. It’s… complete immunity. To anything. Any attack.”

Scorio let out a low whistle. “Complete immunity? You become invulnerable?”

“Yeah,” said Lianshi softly. “I think so. But only for a few moments. And I can’t use the power immediately again. It takes a little while to become available.”

“Huh.” Leonis placed his hands on his hips. “How long?”

“I think it’s ready again now,” said Lianshi, curling a long strand of hair behind her ear. “But… that’s going to be tricky, to use it in a fight.”

“Yeah,” said Scorio. “You’ll have to time its use just right. But damn, Lianshi. Invulnerability? And that will only grow as you advance in power, right?”

Lianshi smiled shyly and again curled her lock of hair behind her ear as it slipped free. “I think so, yeah.”

Scorio shook his head in wonder. “Even Jova takes damage. And do you become immovable, too?”

“I—I don’t know,” said Lianshi. “I mean, I think so? I didn’t budge when Leonis hit me.”

“Let’s try it,” said Scorio. “Activate your power, and then we’ll try to push you over.”

She gave a sharp nod, inhaled, and then that glassy sheen swept over her again. Together, Leonis and Scorio stepped forward and gripped her arms. It was like taking hold of a steel statue. They grunted, trying to move her, and completely failed.

“There!” gasped Lianshi, releasing her power. “That’s as long as I can hold it for.”

“That’s fantastic,” said Scorio in wonder. “Imagine, you could activate your power and block a door, or stop before a carriage so that it crashes through you, or…”

“Wait,” said Leonis. “Can you move when you have your power activated?”

Lianshi just nodded, eyes wide.

Leonis let out a low whistle. “Now we’re talking. Does it make you stronger?”

“No, I don’t think it does.” Lianshi hugged herself tightly. “Not like I could push through a wall or something.”

Scorio nodded, mind whirling. “But, for example, in the room we just died in, the one with the flying blocks, you’d be perfect at racing through it.”

“You just died in the room with flying blocks?” asked Lianshi, clearly confused.

“Yeah. You didn’t appear when we did, so we grew… concerned,” said Leonis.

“Oh. Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t have any control over that. It just came upon me during our last statue fight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Scorio, brushing her words away with a sweep of his hand. “But what did it feel like? The onset of the Trial? Did you know what was happening?”

“It’s just like Hera told us,” said Lianshi, stepping back to hike herself back up onto a bier. “It was becoming nearly impossible to fill my reservoir. And then during that fight, remember how I hung back?”

Both men nodded.

“I was desperately trying to ignite. I felt like I was drowning, just drawing in more Coal, but I couldn’t will it to ignite. And the more I panicked, the more I drew in. It felt like suffocating, but maybe that’s because I was working with Coal, but I saw you both fighting, and realized I couldn’t hang back and wait. So I ran in—”

“Without igniting?” asked Leonis in disbelief.

She nodded. “But I kept drawing in mana as I went. And when the axman cornered me, I felt… I don’t know how to put it. This strange mixture of desperation and determination. I wanted to ignite so badly, knew I was dead without my Cinder abilities, and knew that you’d die if I fell too quickly, and I think… well.” She frowned and looked down at her knees. “I think I managed to ignite just before he clove me through the chest. And that’s… that’s when everything changed.”

“Damn,” whispered Leonis. “And now you’re an Emberling.”

“What about the standard Emberling powers?” asked Scorio. “Can you use them?”

Lianshi paused, then laughed. “I hadn’t even thought to check. Let’s see.” And she stared past them, frowning. She blinked a few times, her face without depth in his darkvision, and her eyes widened.

“Oh, wow. Yes. My darkvision has widened to nearly double what I could do before. And… there’s… it’s hard to put this into words. I can sense more? It’s like…” She trailed off, then twisted about in her seat, looking around the dark interior of the basilica. “I can sense the mana? It’s all Coal, but I can feel it, see it—but it’s more like a translucent overlay, it doesn’t block the room, but… it’s really hard to put into words.”

“What about us?” asked Leonis. “Can you sense anything?”

She pursed her lips and scrutinized them both closely. “Yeeeee…esss,” she said, dragging out the word. “But not much? I can sense hints of Coal within you? And… there’s a feeling that I can’t interpret. I’m going to need more practice, or perhaps just more information before I can explain it.”

“Fascinating,” said Leonis quietly. “And incredibly useful.”

“Your strength?” asked Scorio. “Your body?”

Lianshi grinned. “All I’m going to say is that Leonis better watch his step.”

To which Leonis guffawed, hands on his hips. “Now that’s incentive for my reaching Emberling right there! Come, both of you! Another go at this old Gauntlet?”

“Absolutely!” said Lianshi, hopping off her bier and dropping to the ground smoothly. “I can’t wait to try my power against those statues. But first.”

Scorio and Leonis turned back to her.

“I want to thank you, Scorio.” Her voice grew grave. “Without your pushing us, we’d never have come to this place. I’d never have trained so hard, so effectively. Who knows how long it would have taken me to reach Emberling? Without the resources the elites get, I was starting to feel like I was drowning… but this. This place. It was the edge we needed. The way to catch up. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Ah, don’t mention it,” said Scorio, rubbing at the back of his head. “We’re all in this together.”

“Sure. But… yes. Thank you.”

“Of course,” said Scorio, but then his smile grew troubled. He was where Lianshi had been before she’d come here. He felt like he was drowning. It dismayed him how far he still had to go. “Let’s get to work.”

They palmed their crystals and lay back on their biers. A moment later Scorio felt the chill of the tomb. Opened his eyes, sharpened his darkvision, and flipped up to his feet. Drew in Coal, labored for a moment to ignite his Heart, and leaped forth to land in a crouch upon the floor of the vast antechamber.

Leonis was clambering out, muttering under his breath, and then from a third empty square, Lianshi burst forth to land lightly on her feet, poised and balanced and with a wicked smile on her face.

“I could get used to this,” she said and turned a perfect pirouette.

“Don’t get cocky,” said Leonis, dusting his hands off as he finally rose to his feet.

“It’s far, far too late for that,” laughed Lianshi. “Keep up if you can, boys.” And she took off, light on her feet, skipping ahead effortlessly and forcing both men to push themselves to hurry up.

Scorio grinned as he watched Lianshi enjoy her new abilities. She leaped over stone dunes for the fun of it, then did a cartwheel just before the huge blade of light, so that she flew into the burning pale light feet first, her streaming black hair the last thing they saw.

“She didn’t just do that,” said Leonis, drawing up short before the light.

“Emberlings,” said Scorio in mock disgust. “Ready?”

Leonis nodded, and together they sprinted forward, leaping as they’d done a score of times before, to dive through, into the next chamber, and avoid the slashing blades. They both tumbled and rolled up to their feet, to see that Lianshi was already at the far door.

“Very gracious of you to wait,” said Leonis.

“I am nothing if not patient,” she said sweetly. “I was thinking. When we move into the next room, let's use my power to neutralize each foe. I’ll try to catch their weapon or otherwise entangle them, and you both destroy them. Agreed?”

Scorio smiled. “You’re the Emberling. Let’s give it a try.”

They passed into the next chamber and eyed the rows of statues, still and ominous as always. But a new mood was in the air, an infectious levity that came from Lianshi’s expectant grin. They all labored to fill their reservoirs, then Lianshi turned to walk backward, raising an eyebrow at them both as Leonis groaned and shook his head, turning at the last moment just as the assassin lady flowed forth off her pedestal to attack her.

Scorio and Leonis bolted forward, galvanized into action by Lianshi’s war cry, and Scorio ignited his Heart as he saw Lianshi gleam with her glassine layer and leap straight into the assassin’s arms. The statue tried to back away, hacked at her, but Lianshi grabbed her in a hug, tangled up her arms, then both men were there.

Other statues were awakening, but there was no time for them yet. Scorio kicked out the assassin’s leg from under her just as Leonis sidestepped a wild stab and slammed his elbow into her face with a cry.

The assassin’s head fissured but didn’t shatter; Lianshi stepped back, punched the assassin’s fist, and broke her fingers. She caught her short blade as it fell, ducked under the other dagger as it swiped across, then rose and slammed the blade into the statue’s head.

It shattered at last, and as the assassin went down, the three of them turned to see a spearman slowly approaching, weapon held at the ready, while a stiff, elderly man with a slightly curved sword and shield came in at their flank.

“Hate the spearman,” said Leonis, rubbing at his elbow.

Scorio edged back. “Slowly give ground, but not fast enough to provoke a charge. Give Lianshi time to regain her power.”

The three of them gave way, the two statues approaching slowly but surely, the tension in the air growing palpable until Lianshi snapped her fingers.

“Ready,” she said, and her body flared with its translucent layer. She darted forward, smacked the spearhead aside, its tip raking uselessly against her arm, and clotheslined the statue, dragging him back before swinging in behind him and leaping up onto his back to scissor her legs around his waist and apply a lock with both arms around his neck.

Scorio came right after her as the swordsman charged, and shoved the spear across so that it smacked into the other statue’s legs and tripped him up. Leonis pounced, overwhelming the statue with his sheer size and strength, slamming him viciously into the wall and breaking off his leg.

Lianshi grunted and the spearman’s neck crunched as his head popped off. Before his spear could crumble, Scorio tore it free of his suddenly nerveless hands and hurled it at the swordsman, impaling him in the side.

Leonis hammered the base of his palm into the statue’s face, keeping him off-balance, stumbling back, then with a roar stepped in to pick up the swordsman with tremendous effort and hurl him into the wall.

The statue exploded into large, jagged chunks and crashed to the ground.

Scorio’s eyes opened wide. “Did you just throw him?”

“I…” Leonis was panting for breath, his shoulders rising and falling. “Yeah. I did. I threw him.”

“Damn.” Lianshi tossed the spearman’s head aside, which crumbled apart midair. “You really don’t like being left behind.”

“Ha,” said Leonis. “Come on. We’ve my favorite room in the world to tackle.”

The three of them marched past the other statues toward the distant door.

“Wait,” said Scorio. “Did the three of us just emerge from that fight unscathed?”

“We sure did,” beamed Lianshi. “Looks like our little team is getting dangerous.”

Leonis took hold of the doorhandle. “What’s our plan for the next room?”

“I can run across in my invulnerable form,” said Lianshi, “but that doesn’t help you both.”

Scorio frowned, remembered how he’d been unable to protect Leonis’s flank. “Actually, this is what we’re going to do. You’ll escort each of us across, one at a time. We sprint, and you provide cover to our left. That leaves just one side to watch, which should make it easier.”

Both of his friends nodded.

“Let’s try it,” said Leonis, and they passed through.

The sight of the grids in the walls gave Scorio a chill. “I’ll go first. Ready Lianshi?”

“Count of three.” She crouched slightly, ready to take off at a run. “One.”

Scorio leaned forward, knees slightly bent. It wasn’t far to the far side of the room. A mad dash should cover it in time. He just had to avoid taking a block to the head.

“Two. Three!”

He ignited his Heart just as they took off, sprinting as fast as they could. Lianshi was a gleaming presence at his left, but Scorio only watched the right wall as blocks began to shoot toward him. He dodged, leaped, spun, took a hit to his shoulder which crunched. But it was easier to just watch one side; a second block grazed a trail of fire across his back, and then they slammed into the far wall with a whoop.

“It worked!” Scorio laughed, grabbed Lianshi, and pulled her into a tight hug. “When you’re ready, head back for Leonis.”

“Do I have to?” She grinned as the massive man made a rude gesture at her. “Fine.” She took a few deep breaths, dropped into a crouch in which she bounced slightly upon the balls of her feet, and then rose. “Huh. It’s already a little easier to ignite than it was just before I hit my trial. All right. Here I go.”

Again she took on that vitreous sheen, and again she sprinted across the room. It was amazing to watch—the blocks bounced right off her, spinning wildly in all directions as they cracked and shattered.

Then she was on the far side, running into the far wall with arms outstretched. She turned, face flushed, pensive. “So I’m noticing the duration is growing shorter if I use it as quickly as I can. It’s not a full reset.”

“Then take your time,” called Scorio. “We’re not in a huge rush.”

She nodded, swung her arms in windmills, then turned to punch Leonis on the shoulder. “You’d better make it across in one piece.”

“If you cover my side I will. Don’t sprint off without me.”

Lianshi laughed, exhilarated. “I won’t.”

They waited another couple of minutes, and then she nodded. “Ready. Count of three?”

Scorio watched, tense, as Leonis prepared and then dashed out. He was powerful and surprisingly adroit for his size, but nimble wasn’t a word Scorio would use to describe his friend.

Still, he did well; four cubes hit him in all, the first three pounding into his shoulder and thighs, but it was the fourth that caught him hard, cracking into his elbow as he stumbled, the huge muscle of his thigh seizing up and nearly causing him to spill. Lianshi grabbed his arm and hauled him clear, so that they both collapsed to the ground at Scorio’s feet.

“You all right?” Scorio couched by Leonis’s side. “Your arm?”

Leonis’s face had turned pale, and he cradled the arm to his chest. “Think the elbow’s broken.”

“Damn.” Scorio straightened and stared at the black door as it appeared. “The next room is all about climbing.”

“I know,” said Leonis. “Perverse to place it right after a room like this.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lianshi, her humor all gone. “I tried, but—”

Leonis interrupted harshly. “What are you sorry about? It’s because of you that we’ve even made it this far.”

“Because—well.” She dipped her head. “Scorio said Naomi crossed this room easily, right? And she’s just an Emberling. I should have done better.”

“First off,” said Scorio, “you’re not even used to your power yet, whereas Naomi’s been the Nightmare Lady for, I don’t know, years? Second, her power is more adept at defending others through these kinds of challenges, while yours is perfect for defending yourself. Third—”

“Fine, all right, I get it,” said Lianshi, ducking her head. “I still feel like I should have done better. And the climbing room? Being invulnerable won’t help me climb any faster.”

“We’ll just do the best we can,” said Scorio, reaching down to clasp Leonis’s good hand. “Remember, the three of us have never gotten into this room together, and now we’re passing on to the fourth. That’s amazing growth.”

Lianshi considered, and then her expression lightened. “You’re right.”

“Let’s go through,” said Scorio, “but remember, the floor falls away almost immediately, so leap for the wall quickly.”

“Then?” asked Leonis.

“Then do your best. Ready? Let’s fill our reservoirs and then go.” Scorio waited, dragging in Coal till he could drink in no more, then opened the door and led the way. They passed through the void into the tower room, the ceiling easily some thirty or forty yards above. The far wall was only five yards away from the doorway, painted a pure white and textured like a natural cliff face, complete with handholds and ledges. These extended all the way up the face of the cliff, making for a difficult but not impossible climb.

Not hesitating, he ignited his Heart and leaped across to clutch at a set of handholds, Lianshi and Leonis did likewise. A second later, the floor fell away, revealing darkness, and then the wall began to scroll downward.

Leonis was forced to jerk his way upward, lunging for each handhold with his good hand, scrambling to stay ahead of the drop, but even with the slow scrolling, it was clear he’d not make it.

Lianshi, on the other hand, scampered up then paused, uncertain, to stare down at Leonis.

“Go!” he barked. “You’ll not get me all the way to the top. I’ll see you both in the basilica!”

Scorio half-expected the massive man to release his handhold and fall back, but he climbed gamely until the increasing speed of the wall became too much, and he fell away silently into the void.

Focusing on his own climb, Scorio surged upward, seeking ever new handholds and ways to climb, Lianshi always ahead of him, lithe and light and climbing with otherworldly grace.

But the speed only grew, and Scorio realized that he’d passed the point where the Nightmare Lady had plucked him free and carried him aloft. He focused, clenched his jaw, but slowly he began to descend, his speed unequal to the scrolling drop. Gasping for air, sweat beading his brow, he thought wildly for a second of reaching into his robes for his bridge, his chalk, only to realize of course they’d not come across with him into the Gauntlet.

“Scorio!” Lianshi had reached the ledge at the top, now a good twenty yards above him, and stood, hands on her knees, panting hard as she stared down at him.

He wasn’t going to make it. Then his Heart died, and with it went his strength and enhanced skill. With a cry, he leaped up again, grabbed a ridge with one hand, but missed with the other. He swung out wide, feet scrabbling at the wall, dropping down toward the dark.

“Good luck!” he shouted, then the wall fairly spat him down into the darkness. The white glow of the climb receded, shrank, and then he hit something at terminal velocity and died.

Only to blink, back spasming and arching powerfully as he awoke upon the bier. Leonis was gasping to one side, and Lianshi let out a cry of agony as she curled up into a ball on the other.

“Ignite,” cried out Scorio, battling the pain of what felt like shattered hips and broken shoulders. He willed his Heart to burn, but for a moment it wouldn’t catch, no matter how much Coal he swept into it. He panicked, felt a pang of terror over the thought of remaining in this state of pain forever, and then his Heart went up with a whoomph and black flames consumed it.

Immediately the pain began to recede, muscles relaxing, cramps easing, deep pain flowing away.

“Argh,” said Leonis. “That was no fun.”

“Lianshi,” gasped Scorio, pushing himself up. “How did you do?”

“Not well,” said his friend, sitting up as well. She grimaced. “That… monster? The creature on the throne? It was brutal. I tried to use my power to best effect, and I guess I managed to surprise him, but without a weapon, I wasn’t able to take advantage of my few seconds. Then he grabbed each of my wrists and tore my arms off.”

“Ouch,” winced Scorio. “We’re going to have to brainstorm the best ways to use your invulnerability.”

“I…” She paused, frowned, then met his gaze. “You said Naomi killed him easily, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know about easily,” said Scorio, but in his mind’s eye, he saw the Nightmare Lady’s tail whipping out to stab into the hollow of the monster’s throat as she darted past. “But yes. She did defeat it without taking a wound.”

Lianshi punched the bier lightly and looked away.

“Naomi’s no slouch,” said Leonis, easing off his bier. “And as Scorio said, she’s had years of practice. She’s utterly lethal in combat, but she’s not invulnerable. No one is, except you.”

Lianshi sighed. “Thanks. I… You’re right. I shouldn’t compare.”

“And think of it this way,” continued Leonis. “Our powers are supposed to grow and meld with whatever new abilities we develop, right? Who’s to say how long your invulnerability will last when you’re a Dread Blaze? And what else you’ll be able to do at that point? I mean, it kills me to counsel patience when I’m dying to make Emberling myself, but relax, Lianshi. Try a little patience.”

“We did make it much further than we’ve ever done before,” said Scorio, wincing and stretching out his back. “To go from the hall of statues to the climbing room is a huge leap, especially with both Leonis and I as dead weight.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Leonis. “I am a force of—”

“Yeah,” said Lianshi, then sighed again. “True.” Then she held up her hand, and in Scorio’s darkvision a wash of translucent energy washed over it. “And I could get used to being invulnerable when I need it most.”

Leonis laughed hoarsely. “Are you even listening to yourself? Get used to being invulnerable? Damn me to the Pit.”

Lianshi grinned self-consciously.

Scorio matched her smile and was about to suggest they give it another run when he caught himself. A memory came to him: Naomi having to carry him back after he’d pushed himself too hard, too far. She wasn’t here now to protect them, and if they went too hard, they’d not only suffer for it, but probably die on the return trip to the Academy.

“Good job, everyone,” he said. “Probably time we headed back.”

“Wait,” said Leonis, narrowing his eyes. “Who are you? Where’s Scorio?”

“No, I’m serious. I learned my lesson the last time. Let’s head back, get some rest. We’ve nine more tries at this Gauntlet before we must tackle the real one. Let’s not get ourselves killed on the way home.”

“Wonders never cease,” said Leonis in mock amazement.

“I made Emberling, and Scorio lost his death wish. We really have grown as a team.”

“Ha,” said Scorio. “I’d go again if it was just me, but I’d not be able to live with myself if one of you got hurt on the way back.”

Leonis raised an eyebrow. “You do realize that you’re the Cinder, and she’s the Emberling, right?”

“Not for long,” said Scorio, willing it to be true. “Soon we’ll all be Emberlings, and then this old Gauntlet won’t know what hit it.”

Chapter 59

With only seven days till his next bout in the tournament, Scorio poured his every ounce of energy into training and hunting. He woke up early and attacked the morning run with grim determination, ignoring the other Great Souls and instead attempting to draw on the different hues of mana that filled the great circuit, working on his ability to fill his Heart and run without igniting. It felt like racing with a great bowl of water balanced on his head; deprived of the adrenaline rush of imminent danger, his focus and control felt sloppy and vague, and so he ran, his pace methodical, staring through the crowds, intent on holding onto the mana for as long as he could.

Classes went by in a blur; he found it hard to focus on the academic subjects that didn’t touch on combat or direct progression. Seminars on the geography of hell, the political factions of Red Keep, the biographies of the hundred and seventy-six Imperators that had lived and died since the founding of Bastion, the commercial activities of the great Houses—all of it failed to grasp his attention, and more than once he slipped out of the Academy instead to sneak in an hour or two of hunting along the edges of the ruins. Only Instructor Hera’s class on Mana Theoretics on Fourthday held his focus, but it served only to drive home how ruined his Heart was becoming.

Which made sparring practice before lunch the perfect opportunity in which to vent his frustrations. Scorio redoubled his efforts on his First Form, again seeking to carry a Heartful of mana as he executed the scripted blocks and attacks, hearing once more Naomi’s instructions in his head even as Feng critiqued and advised: envision your opponents, remember where each is, then move to engage, to destroy.

That week, however, a new element was introduced to their sparring classes: each day, four or five of the Great Souls from the winning bracket cycled through, with each of them fighting two or three of the ten students that Feng selected as representing the best of that unit. They were working their way through every class, taking on different students as a form of reward for their success and a means to enhance their training.

“The closer to actual combat you can come,” Feng had said, repeating Naomi’s own wisdom, “the more effective your training. Thus fighting before a crowd, fighting for glory, if not your life, is a step up from any other form of sparring. And the students from the winning bracket will take your sparring to the next level, to your mutual benefit.”

Scorio had raised his hand. “Excuse me, Instructor. Is that why we hold the tournament in the first place? As a more advanced form of training?”

“Exactly so,” Feng had said, his smile quietly amused. “I forget that you missed our first classes where we reviewed such basics, Scorio. But I’m glad to see that you can put two and two together.”

Scorio had flushed but nodded; it made sense. His fights against his first two opponents in the last round had felt more intense and real than anything short of his Gauntlet runs or actual fights in the ruins. It was the pressure, he realized, the desire to advance through the tournament; it formed its own crucible in which their talents were honed and grown.

And on Sixthday, it was Jova’s turn to visit their sparring class.

Along with three others—one of them being Kuragin—she stood in the center of their modest sparring circle, hands linked behind her back, gazing out over the crowd as if unwilling to engage them even by meeting their eyes.

Scorio and the others gathered around, hair matted with sweat, bodies limber and warmed up by forty-five minutes or so of practice.

Instructor Feng hopped up onto the edge of the ring and turned to regard them. “You all know the drill. Everyone, take a seat. We’ll begin with Kuragin and… let’s see. Scorio.”

Everybody began to move toward the seats, including Jova and the other two students in the circle.

“If you please, Instructor Feng,” Scorio heard himself call out, “I’d like to request a change.”

Feng paused and looked slowly back over his shoulder at where Scorio stood, one of his arched brows rising slowly. “Oh?”

It was a dangerous sound, a clear warning that Scorio was straying far out of bounds, but with his heart pounding, Scorio didn’t care.

“With all respect, and if it is at all possible, I would like to spar with Jova Spike instead.”

Everyone stopped and stared. Jova, who’d been on the verge of leaping down off the circle, turned to regard him with an inscrutable stare.

“You do not get to pick with whom you spar,” said Feng, already turning away. “And to refuse to fight Kuragin is to insult his achievements.”

Scorio balled up his fists, his posture stiff, and raised his chin as he held Jova’s dark gaze. It had been madness to request the fight in the first place, but he wanted to test himself, to try his abilities against her own so badly.

“Instructor Feng,” said Jova, voice quiet, her liquid black eyes holding his gaze calmly. “If Kuragin doesn’t object, I would accept Scorio’s challenge.”

Kuragin frowned, his huge arms crossed over his chest, his whole body radiating an eagerness to fight. But then he inclined his head stiffly. “I’m happy to accommodate Jova’s request.”

Feng paused, turning around to face them both. “This is highly irregular. These are informal sparring matches, and not meant to reflect any outside grudges or attempts to acquire glory. However, that being said…” He paused, considered them both, then shrugged. “There’s also nothing against allowing it. If Jova is amenable, then so be it. Scorio, in the circle.”

“What are you doing?” whispered Lianshi as he left her side, his mouth suddenly dry, his pulse racing, a strange, light sensation filling his chest. He placed a palm on the edge and vaulted up. Rose and stepped forward to face Jova, who’d moved to her spot on the other side of the ring.

Feng had climbed up onto his raised chair, and now sat back and crossed an ankle over the other knee. “A quick reminder: this bout is informal, and points are scored through strikes that touch the chest, back, or head. You may ignite your Hearts but not use any powers or abilities. Failure to cease sparring on my command makes you liable for disciplinary action. The first to reach three strikes wins. Am I clear?”

Scorio nodded, his gaze never leaving Jova’s. He felt at once faint and energized as he lowered himself into a three-quarters combat crouch, hands raised, his stomach fluttering, his skin prickling.

Jova crossed her arms and pursed her lips, making no attempt to enter a crouch of her own.

No powers or abilities. That meant she could lean on her natural Emberling strength and speed, but not engage her resistance to damage.

“Begin,” barked Feng, and Scorio felt the crowd inhale as one.

Jova gazed at him contemptuously, weight on her heels, hips subtly thrust out, shoulders back.

Provocation? No matter. Scorio purposefully forced himself to relax, to deepen and slow his breathing, and again he heard Naomi’s words in his mind, instructing him to calm down and focus and to allow his instincts and training to do the heavy lifting.

“You have to attack me,” said Jova, sounding bored. “This isn’t a staring match.”

Scorio flushed as light laughter rippled across the crowd, but then grinned and advanced, feeling predatory. He swept a great mass of Iron mana into his Heart, forcing it in, packing it tight, and then as he drew close, he flexed his will and caused it to ignite. It took a moment, but then steel flames erupted from his Heart, and immediately he felt mana began to vent from the many cracks that fissured its surface.

Victory would come quickly or not at all.

Jova watched him approach and didn’t even react to his first feint.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Scorio heard himself think, By the ten hells, I’m fighting Jova Spike. This is… awesome.

But that was the last thing he thought, for he threw a jab that caused her head to sway aside, and followed with a flurry of crosses and hooks.

As if awakening from a reverie, Jova floated back and away, circling as he came after her, dodging adroitly, eyes narrowed, her gaze passing clear through him. Scorio reined in his excitement; he fought cautiously, aware that she was trying to goad him into a wild attack, to open himself to a vicious counter.

Still, when it came, he wasn’t ready.

He threw a couple of quick jabs then glided forward with another powerful cross. She simply bowed back and away and simultaneously flicked out a neat roundhouse kick that cracked him in the ribs under his outstretched arm.

The blow nearly broke bone. Scorio hissed and bounced back, lowered his elbows to cover his sides, and in Jova’s face, he saw the first hint of emotion, a contemptuous upturn of the corner of her mouth.

“Come on, Scorio!” he heard Leonis shout off from the side. “Stave her head in!”

“Silence,” snapped Feng, but the words combined with Jova’s smile pricked Scorio into action. For a second there he’d begun sliding into a defensive panic, but that was exactly what she’d expect; instead, he moved forward once more and unleashed a flurry of tight blows, elbows kept close, along with a high kick to her side that almost caught her by surprise.

She blocked them all, then hopped away, moving around once more in a sideways skipping motion. Her black-painted lips were pursed, and her eyes narrowed as she stared right through him again.

Had she even ignited her Heart yet?

Scorio gave her no breathing room. His mana was running out. He pursued, shoulders raised, chin tucked in, elbows tight against his ribs, fists hovering just before his chin. Tight front kicks, jabs, the occasional follow-up elbow.

Jova gave ground, light as mist upon the sparring circle floor, unconcerned, not interested in standing firm—until she was.

With a burst of pressure, he felt her ignite her Heart, the sensation like an oven door swinging open, and then she reversed her trajectory, pushing off the ball of her foot to dart in and low, ducking and weaving to the side to slam a hook into his elbow where it was pressed against his side.

The power behind the punch nearly lifted him off one foot, but was immediately followed by a second hook from her other arm so vicious and swift that it was all he could do to bring his forearms together to block it.

One, two, and the third punch was a pure uppercut, launched from the hips, her entire torso swiveling behind it, coming in so low it slipped right under his guard and slammed into his stomach, pounding up and into his ribcage as he felt his innards jelly and the breath explode from his lips.

“Second point,” Feng said clinically from somewhere to the side, and Scorio staggered back, unable to breathe, his whole chest locked up. No expression from Jova this time, no smile, no taunts. Her gaze was flat and direct as she followed, her burning Heart still giving off a terrible heat, her intent to finish him off plain as the fact that he was horribly outmatched.

Scorio heard a great pounding in his ears as he realized he was going to be defeated within the next few seconds, and the very thought of such ignominious schooling caused a flush of strength to flood into him, subsuming the pain, his vision narrowing to a tunnel with only Jova at the end of it.

He couldn’t breathe, his core was spasming, but he crushed the pain with a ferocious will. He eschewed the stubborn Iron mana that was all around them, and instead reached for Coal, filthy and turgid, heavy and scorned. Swept a great mass of it into his Heart, and willed it to burn.

A rough, crude power flowed into him, and with a cry he threw himself forward into a hopping forward kick, thrusting from the hips and leaning back, the kind of blow that would shatter a door or, as Leonis had put it, stave in a head.

It caught Jova completely by surprise, and she leaped aside, batting his leg away, but Scorio pivoted on his foot, going from heel to the ball, revolved his hips up and around, chambered his calf back to his hamstring, then snapped out a follow-up roundhouse right at her face—once, twice, three times.

Jova’s eyes widened further, and she brought both arms up to block, taking the shuddering blows full on.

Enraged, not thinking, Scorio thrust his leg back in one fluid motion and kicked out behind himself, the motion propelling his upper body forward as he threw a cross at her with all the strength his Coal-burning Heart could muster.

His punch crashed through Jova’s defenses, blasted right past both raised arms, and slammed into her sternum like a sledgehammer.

With a cry, she staggered back, eyes flaring wide in shock.

“Point to Scorio,” said Feng, his dry voice registering just a flicker of surprise.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” yelled Leonis, rising in the stands.

“Last warning, Leonis!” barked Feng, whipping around.

Jova inhaled powerfully, stretched out her ribs, then glowered at him, her dark-rimmed eyes narrowing to slits, her black hair falling before her features in a curtain.

Elated, feverish, Scorio grinned at her. “Right now you could care less about me,” he said, “but mark my words, you will care by the time I’m done.”

Jova snarled, rose to the balls of her feet, then rushed at him. Scorio saw death in her eyes, and his grin slipped just as she leaped up, her right leg passed before him, not a strike, he realized, but a preamble, a setup for her other leg which came scything all the way around as she spun in the air like the apocalypse itself. The outside of her left fist slammed into him with the force of a charging fiend; Scorio felt himself lifted clear off the ground and sent flying, to bounce once then fall off the edge of the sparring circle, crashing to the ground below.

Feng’s voice seemed to come from a mile away. “And we’ll say that’s the third point, making this an easy victory for Jova.”

Scorio lay there blinking, staring up blearily as he felt pain course through him. A dark shape appeared at the edge of the ring to stare wrathfully at where he lay.

“I won’t believe your lies!” he heard Jova snarl.

That made no sense. What was… but it was too hard to think. Instead, he rested his head back and grinned. The sweet glow of having scored a point enveloped him, and her anger, strangely personal, made his accomplishment all the sweeter. He could hear voices, hear people rushing to his side. “I think she likes me,” he said to nobody in particular, then everything dropped away, as if falling down a well, and he blacked out.

Chapter 60

The remaining three days passed all too quickly. He trained, sparred, studied, and meditated in a frantic blur. There wasn’t enough time. Not enough cycles in the day. The sun-wire became his enemy, sleep his begrudging opponent. His Heart was his challenge and obstacle, the altar at which he worshipped and the source of all his greatest frustrations. He came to know the angular cracks and deep fissures that rivened it in intimate detail, and its topographical map haunted his dreams.

But there wasn’t enough time to heal, and the paltry Black Star pills he received each morning were a mockery of the treasures he’d been promised. He swallowed them bitterly, thinking on his farm out in the ruins, and yearned for the next time he could harvest his plants. Better, he’d grow a veritable jungle, he vowed, and steep himself so deeply in its noxious power that he’d never lack for mana again.

Hunting proved more fruitful. He finally managed to pay Jelan a visit with his heavy sack of Heartstones, and negotiated with the shocked alchemist until he was able to wrest an upfront payment of thirty golden octs with the promise of fifty more once the man secured the funds.

“There are more proper avenues for dispensing such… items,” Jelan had said with obvious dismay as he’d hefted the ichor-soaked sack. “They might pay you better rates, too.”

“They might,” Scorio had said. “But I trust you.”

“Trust,” Jelan had sniffed. “Oh, my dear child. You’re entering a very dangerous part of the economy, you know. Those who hunt Heartstones do so in large teams and are led by experienced veterans. Please tell me you are not doing this by yourself.”

“Less folks with which to split the profit,” Scorio had grinned. “What about Black Star? How much might you be willing to pay if I brought you syrup?”

“Black Star syrup?” Jelan had sounded less than impressed. “I suppose there’s a need for it. Refined?”

“If you prefer.”

They’d haggled, Jelan complaining that the substance was practically worthless, Scorio coming back with how the Academy clearly saw fit to serve it to students. Jelan had protested that the market was already saturated, to which Scorio had replied that Jelan could sell at cut-rate prices.

In the end, Jelan had made an offer: two iron octs per refined pill.

Scorio’s heart had sunk, but he’d forced himself to agree.

“Now,” he’d said. “Let’s talk about what I’d like to spend these gold octs on.”

And with his profit, he was able to triumphantly purchase his first Sublime Purification pill. Which meant handing his thirty gold octs along with another twenty from what he was owed right back to Jelan, who procured the pill from private sources and had it delivered to Scorio’s room in a prim case of ebon wood.

“You can’t go on like this,” said Lianshi, standing before him with her arms crossed. He was sitting on the floor of their common room, bathed in sweat, fighting to regain his breath after the umpteenth time of practicing the First Form.

“What?” He gazed up at her, wiped at his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re fighting tomorrow. You think you’ll do better if you’re an exhausted wreck?”

“She’s got a point,” said Leonis from the nest of cushions in the corner of the room where he lay, hands interlaced behind his head, eyes closed as he ostensibly meditated. “A good night’s sleep will do more for you now than another dozen run-throughs of that form.”

Scorio scowled. “I’m not ready. My Heart’s nowhere close to Emberling. The Sublime Purification pill helped, but I need more. When… when Jelan delivers the next one… but that won’t be in time for my fight. I need…” He trailed off, frustration gnawing at his innards like a starved rat.

“And you think you’ll make Emberling tonight?” Lianshi’s tone was flat and uncompromising. “Sleep, Scorio. Give the Sublime Purification pill time to work on your Heart. You’ll have to face your opponent tomorrow as a Cinder. There’s no way around it. I’m sorry.”

Scorio bowed his head, felt sweat bead its way down his temples, run along the line of his jaw. “Damn it.”

“I’m sorry.” She crouched before him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know how important this is. I wish I could help, but you gave it your all. Whatever happens tomorrow, you know you couldn’t have done more.”

“Truth,” said Leonis. “Your Heart’s too big and your treasures too paltry. It was an unfair playing field from the start. You can’t get mad at yourself when you had no chance to begin with.”

“Not helping, Leonis,” said Lianshi with false sweetness.

“I know, I know,” said Scorio at last. “It’s just… I can’t think of what else I can do. We’re hitting the old Gauntlet, I’m training in every waking minute I’ve got, I’m pushing myself in every way I can think, and all Hera can counsel me is to be patient and give my Heart time.”

“Look.” Lianshi withdrew her hand and briskly brushed her hair back. “Think of it this way. You did the impossible to get here, but at the cost of your Heart, right? Now half of all your training is wasted as the benefits are vented. You have to literally work twice as hard to accomplish what anyone else here does normally.”

“Lianshi,” said Leonis in the same false, cheery tone. “Not helping.”

Scorio scowled at his hands. “I know. I just thought—hoped—I could force my way through. Just… overcome my limitations through sheer effort and willpower alone.”

“Doesn’t work that way,” said Lianshi softly. “It’s why the Academy doesn’t duplicate your approach for everyone else. It’s why we’re warned of excessive Coal use, why we’re told from the get-go to not consume treasures beyond our abilities. Sure it would give anyone a momentary advantage, but the cost…”

Silence. Scorio felt a pain in the back of his throat as nausea roiled through his guts. His hands were shivering, he saw, while the muscles across his back and neck were so tight, they felt as if they were cramping. “I just wanted…” He forced himself to stop, then hung his head. “I know. You’re right.”

“Those are the facts,” said Lianshi, her tone quiet but firm. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t have a chance tomorrow. As long as you’re paired up against another Cinder, you’ll be fine.”

“Sixty-three other contestants tomorrow,” said Scorio softly. “Of which one third are Emberlings. Odds are decent.”

“Not bad,” said Lianshi with a gentle smile. “But that’s not stopped you before. Now come on. Drink some water, go swim and wash off, then bed.”

“Yeah,” said Scorio, rising wearily to his feet. “All right.”

He felt Leonis and Lianshi’s concerned stares as he padded down the path through the ferns to the radiant blue pool. Shucking his robes, he slipped slowly into the water with a sigh. Ducked his head and swam underwater to the far side, using the motions to limber up his body, release the tension that had coiled within him. His head breached the water’s surface at the pool’s far side, and he sat upon the ledge, lips pursed, staring out at nothing.

He didn’t think about much. Instead, he just felt, his emotions passing through him in a continuous wave. A longing for Naomi, a fear of tomorrow’s match-up, the old anger at Praximar and the whole system, the frustration at himself. Finally, his mind settled on Jova Spike’s face. Her kohl-rimmed eyes, her full lips painted black, her dark skin, her raven hair. Why had she accepted his challenge? If he was so beneath her, she should have disdained the opportunity.

Because he was a Red Lister? An opportunity to humiliate him? To prove to herself that he was exactly what she thought, a worthless, conniving foe?

Or had there been something else? Her anger at the end, her furious outburst—wounded pride? Or…?

The puzzle was beyond him. His body ached, and he felt a hollowness within his chest that somehow felt heavy. With a sigh, he pushed forward, back into the pool, and slowly swam back. Back, to sleep, to rest, and then tomorrow, to fight.

* * *

The roar of the arena’s crowd crashed around him like waves in a storm. Thirty-two sparring circles were gathered close, and the scope and scale of the environment were as overwhelming and awesome as ever.

But Scorio ignored it all. Ignored the huge crowd, Helminth’s voice as she called out the rules, the roiling dark sky overhead, everything.

He had eyes only for his opponent. The sight of her caused his hopes to sink, filled his body with a sudden numbness that contrasted with the dizzying sensation in his mind. He tried to swallow and couldn’t; he felt his throat thicken as if his heart was beating right below it, causing it to close.

His opponent, on the other hand, appeared entirely unaffected by his appearance. She gazed at him with emotionless eyes, her expression lifeless, her eyes half-lidded, appearing somewhere between utterly disinterested and absolutely unimpressed.

Chloe.

He’d no classes with her, only glimpsed her occasionally during the morning runs or at mealtimes. Pale-skinned, with her tousled, curly red hair shorn short at the back and lengthening down the line of her jaw. She had a single, prominent beauty mark to the side of her upper lip and a watery, deathless stare that made her look like the veteran of a thousand brutal fights.

And she was an Emberling.

Scorio had studied every single one of his potential sixty-three opponents, with a focus on those who’d graduated to the next power level. He’d compiled three categories for them: absolutely no chance, extremely difficult, and brutal. There’d been only three Emberlings in the brutal category, five in the extremely difficult, with the rest all being absolutely no chance.

Which was where he’d placed Chloe.

Scorio blinked as the chimes sounded. Was that the second or third? Heart thudding, he raised his fists and fell into his customary combat crouch and swept Coal mana into his Heart. The cracks had receded overnight, with some sealing over altogether. Scorio at once felt euphoric over the effect of the first Sublime Purification pill, and mortified: at this rate, it would take dozens, if not scores of pills to heal his Heart back.

How by the ten hells was he supposed to hunt that many fiends in time?

The chime sounded again, and Chloe began walking toward him, unhurried, expressionless, with all the inevitability of sure death.

Scorio forced his breathing to slow, willed his thoughts to calm. There was a chance. Technically. As long as he didn’t let her touch him and trigger her power, he could feasibly defeat her.

Feasibly.

Warily he advanced, focusing on his breath, watching her carefully as they drew close. Her features were striking, almost boyish, and her confidence appeared total. She slowed, finally raised her fists, her watery, hazel eyes narrowing a fraction as she studied him.

Instead of closing in directly, Scorio immediately began to circle. He couldn’t let her land a blow. Which meant… drawing her out and riposting.

Chloe wasn’t interested in wasting time. She came right at him, her path curving to match his own, and then she darted forward, kicking out at his knee.

A light blow that would have resulted in but a tap, but Scorio immediately willed his Heart to ignite as he jerked back hurriedly. Her kick swished, and she came in again, throwing out a couple of quick jabs.

Suffused with power, Scorio dodged, his nerves making him exaggerate the movement. Skipped aside to gain a couple of yards again, and hunched his shoulders, fists coming up before his face.

He felt light on his feet, his stomach fluttering painfully, his skin prickling. His mouth was parched, but still, he tried to lick his lips as he circled again.

Chloe frowned, impatient, and closed once more, coming right at him. She could afford to take a couple of punches if it meant landing just one of her own.

Scorio darted in and risked a punch at her face, extending himself to his full reach, and cracked a blow into her cheek. Her head snapped back, but before she could react, he kicked at her leg, hammering his shin against her thigh.

Chloe hissed in pain, but Scorio danced back and away.

“You can’t run forever,” she said, tone venomous, and again came right at him.

And she was right. But, heart pounding, Scorio kept moving, light on his feet, backing away as she came at him with bullish intensity. He threw a couple more jabs and she didn’t even flinch.

No feinting, then.

With a snarl she leaped at him, unleashing a flurry of punches, and Scorio leaped back, nearly tripped, then retreated as quickly as he could. She came right after, throwing punch after punch, her expression darkening with growing anger. Desperate, Scorio timed it just right; caught his weight on his back foot, then surged forward and under her punch, to slam a tight uppercut into her sternum.

He heard the air whoosh out of her, and in a frenzy of fear threw himself aside before she could land an elbow. He danced back then checked his instincts—he had to make the most of this single moment. She was hunched over, eyes wide, turning to face him. He lunged forward, cracked a punch across her jaw, hit her with a cross. She reeled, staggered back onto her heels.

A decisive blow. He needed to end this now as his Heart guttered. With a cry, he threw a powerful cross, the kind that could pulverize a brick—and she ducked and swayed under it, suddenly in control of herself once more.

She’d lured him in, he realized, pretended to be weaker than she was—

Her punch slammed into his ribs, tearing a grunt from him.

But then she was gone, flickering away from view, and Scorio twisted about, trying desperately to locate her—

She was behind him, and punched him right in the kidneys. Then disappeared again.

Appeared by his side to smash her fist across his jaw, and disappeared once more.

Scorio roared in pain and frustration, swung his arm out wide, a blind backhand that swept through the space in which he hoped she’d appear.

No luck. She was behind him again, and the blow to the back of his head was like being brained by a club. He staggered forward, his vision filling with radiant light. Each time she hit him she instantly repositioned herself to the most optimum location, was able to hit him harder, faster than before.

Another blow buried itself in his gut, followed almost immediately by a second smashing into the side of his knee, then a third straight into his face.

Faster and faster they came. From all directions, her momentum building, building, until Scorio felt himself in the center of a vortex of pain, unable to defend, to block, to do more than hunch over, arms before his face.

Blow after blow, each stronger than the last. His leg broke, his ribs staved in, and then she caught him right under the chin and crushed his throat.

He fell, the blows still coming, but he knew it was already over. A second later, a terrible force came crashing down upon his skull, and all went dark.

* * *

Scorio awoke upon his bier. No pain. All the agony was wiped away. He lay still, eyes closed, hearing the hubbub all around him, the voices raised in excitement, others in anger. Lay still, internalizing what had just happened.

He’d lost.

He was out of the tournament.

It was strange. He’d known this was going to happen. The odds had been against his advancing another round. Yet somehow, despite the impossibility of it, he’d thought he’d make it. Would somehow find a way to claw his way through, defeating whoever came at him… and…

Scorio exhaled. And what? Prove to be the exception to all accepted rules and expectations?

Suddenly he felt bereft, childish, immature. The world didn’t work that way. You couldn’t keep getting lucky, couldn’t continuously defy the odds, and come ahead through sheer desire alone.

“Scorio?” Leonis was by his side. “Hey. You did well. As well as you could, at any rate.”

He opened his eyes, stared up at the distant ceiling, and nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

Lianshi appeared at his other side. “When I saw it was Chloe…”

Scorio sat up, rubbed vigorously at his face, and said nothing.

“We’ve still got some nine weeks left,” said Leonis, peering into his face. “This isn’t over.”

“But it will be if I don’t change things up.” Scorio looked up, feeling bleak but honest with himself. “I can’t follow the Academy’s routines and expect to come ahead. Even our weekly runs at the Gauntlet won’t make a difference, not compared to the top students who are being force-fed elite treasures every day.”

“Then?” Lianshi bit her lip, hesitated, then gave a despairing shrug. “What else is there?”

“I don’t know.” Scorio stared down at his hands. “But there has to be something I’m overlooking. Maybe if I can convince Naomi to give me one of her vials. Or…” He blew out his cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“We’ve got nine weeks to figure it out,” said Leonis, crossing his arms and frowning.

“Yeah.” Scorio felt hollow, light, almost weightless. As if the bonds that held him to his body, to the bier, to the world, were falling away.

Around them, Great Souls were congratulating the winners, comforting the losers, and then grew silent as Praximar gave them his laudatory speech. Scorio ignored it all. More and more, he was coming to accept that the Academy wasn’t the answer. Its systems ensured the outcome. The strong got ever stronger, and those who’d been unfortunate enough to not merit attention fell ever behind.

But if the answer didn’t lie with the Academy, then where? The Houses were denied to him. They’d not patronize him if he came crawling offering treasures. He couldn’t reach Imperator Sol, and even if he did, he doubted the Imperator would help him further.

So what was left?

In his mind, he saw the ruins, Naomi’s tower, the tunnels beneath the old Academy, the fiends in their hundreds existing within their complex ecosystem.

Then he thought of Nox, the Imperial Ghost Toad, and blinked.

“Actually. I may have an idea.”

“Oh?” Leonis rocked back onto his heels and raised an eyebrow. “Raid the Academy’s treasure house?”

“What?” Scorio stared at him. “We can do that?”

“We absolutely can’t,” said Lianshi, glaring at Leonis. “It’s better guarded than even the Final Door. Maybe if we were each a Charnel Duke.”

“Oh.” The hope died as quickly as it had flared. “No. But before I share it with you guys, I want to do some research.”

“You’re not going to keep us in suspense,” said Lianshi, tone dire.

“That would be incredibly cruel of you,” agreed Leonis, lowering his chin to stare at Scorio from under his brows. “A cruelty that might cost you your dearest friendships.”

Scorio couldn’t help it. Despite the desolation he felt from having lost, he found himself chuckling. “Fine. Come on. I’ll tell you about it on the way to the library.”

Praximar dismissed them, and everyone was filing out, the four hundred or so Great Souls all embroiled in conversation, discussing the fights that had just taken place.

Filled with purpose, Scorio pushed off the bier and began to stride through the crowd, not caring whom he cut off.

It was a terrible idea. The kind that would make Hera curse his stupidity, Naomi roll her eyes in despair, and which no sane Great Soul would ever take seriously.

But it was exactly the kind of plan that had gotten him this far.

Chapter 61

The library was a hoary maze of winding passages that occasionally expanded into large, hexagonal chambers dominated by clustered desks. Dust seemed to hang heavily in the air, and the only source of light was the intermittent lantern whose Iron-mana light bathed everything in an ethereal glow.

“This makes practically no sense,” said Scorio, frowning at a faded map framed up on the wall. “How does parafiendology flow into ontological uncertainties? What do either of those even mean?”

Lianshi sighed and stepped up next to him, placing her finger on the map, where Parafiendology was written in ornate script on a curving tunnel. “The associations are fluid and have grown naturally over time. Each chamber represents a confluence of the six differing branches, see? So, for example, the chamber we’re in”—she moved her finger to the hexagon in question—“is Cell of Sublime Dangers. The offshoots are Parafiendology, Inimical Botany, Regressive Psychology, Cacogenous Topology, Virulent Contagions, and the restricted corridor of Banned Histories. See? Whereas on, say, the other end of regressive psychology you have the Cell of Inner Reflection, with its six corridors, like Inestimable Virtues and so on. They flow into each other, allowing you to pursue topics of research based on inspiration and correlations.”

Scorio’s frown only deepened. “If you say so. So what we want would be off… the Cell of Fiends.” He leaned in. “Parafiendology, Collected Taxonomies, a restricted hall on True Fiends…” He turned to Lianshi. “True fiends? What are those?”

“Apparently what the Imperators fight around the Pit.” She shrugged. “Nothing we have to worry about for a long, long time. We should make our way to this one here: Observed Properties and Powers.”

“Not far away,” said Leonis, leaning down over both of them to scrutinize the map. “Shall we?”

Lianshi led them out of their current cell and into the long and meandering tunnel of Parafiendology. The walls were covered in ancient shelving, some of it listing under the weight of heavily bound books, most of the tomes opaque under their layers of dust. Many of the shelves were sparsely populated as if they’d been looted long ago. The ceiling was low, and the tunnel dipped and curved as if carved by an ancient worm, not hewed out by the hands of men.

“That’s strange,” said Lianshi, slowing as something caught her eye. “Does this book look strange to you?”

Scorio and Leonis both stared at where she was indicating. They saw a collection of folios, a couple of battered tomes, and a wooden box with a heavily rusted lock.

“Which book?” asked Scorio.

“The crimson one,” she said, reaching out to a shadowy space then drawing her hand back. “It looks… something about it drew my eye.”

“There’s no crimson book there,” said Leonis, tone flat. “You’re drunk, Lianshi.”

“No, see?” And she reached into the shadows to pull a book out. It was indeed a faded red, its corners chased in gold, and a latch with a simple lock was wrapped around its pages.

But Scorio found it hard to focus on; his gaze kept wanting to slide away like water off an oiled surface. Staring too hard caused pressure to build up behind his eyes.

“Oh,” said Lianshi. “Oh! It’s got some manner of warding on it. That’s what caught my attention. It’s hidden from Cinders and Chars. See? I mean, I’m sorry, of course you can’t, but there’s a subtle field around it, as if it were immersed in a sphere of water? Light refracts around it. Huh.”

She turned it over in her hands, then read the spine. “The Provenance of the Winged Plinth,” she read, tone soft. “Can’t open it, though.”

“Can you put it back, then?” Leonis was grimacing. “It’s making my head ache.”

“Sure, of course.” She did so, then turned slowly. “There’s another. And there. Actually, there’s a lot of them.”

“Ah,” said Scorio. “I thought the shelves looked strangely sparse. You’re saying there are warded books all over them?”

“Quite a few, yes.” Lianshi nodded pensively, stepping over to a nearly empty segment of shelving. “I can see them if I focus, like how you can activate your darkvision?”

“Emberlings,” said Leonis in mock disgust. “Inveterate show-offs.”

Lianshi turned and gave him a shove, but then Scorio slipped past them both and continued.

They entered the Cell of Fiends and found a handful of strangers gathered there, each to his or her own desk, reading all manner of literary materials under the lights of the high lanterns. A couple of them raised their gazes to take in the new arrivals, and a quick assessment told Scorio that none of them were students. They had the look of travelers, most of them in their early to mid-twenties, though one hoary old lady in the corner swaddled in a thick green robe was the oldest living Great Soul he’d seen yet.

“Excuse us,” said Lianshi quietly, and the readers went back to their tomes. She paused, scanning the golden plaques above each of the hexagon’s six tunnels, then led them into the one marked Observed Properties and Powers.

“This might take a while,” she said, running her finger along the spines, leaving a horizontal band in the dust. “Imperial Ghost Toads. That would be classified under… under what?”

Scorio was reading the titles as they went, but half the books were unmarked, and again there were numerous empty spots and even entire shelves that looked bare. When he stretched forth his hand, however, he felt a strange resistance, a bubble of pressure into which he couldn’t pierce.

“Is there a protective force around them?” he asked, drawing his hand back.

“No. You were just touching the books right then,” said Lianshi, glancing over to him.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“Maybe…” She trailed of pensively. “Maybe the ward prevents you from even telling you’re touching the books? I don’t know.”

“Frustrating,” said Scorio, staring at the empty expanse.

“I think this means we Cinders can’t be of much help,” said Leonis with heavy regret. “Come on, Scorio. Let’s return to our rooms and take a dip. Lianshi our esteemed Emberling will report back with good news soon.”

“Very funny,” she said, pulling out a slender brown book and opening it to the title page. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask for help.”

“Help?” asked Scorio. “From whom?”

She gave him a deadpan stare. “You have done no studying for your academic classes at all, have you?”

“I have,” chimed in Leonis. “Once or twice, I think.” He pulled down a huge book and blew dust from its covers. “The Proclivities and Morbid Tendencies of Low Nothings.” He opened it, eyebrows raised, and then turned excitedly to them both. “Look, this one has pictures.”

Lianshi rolled her eyes. “I’m going to find a librarian. It might take a while. Keep looking while I’m gone, will you?”

And with that, she returned the brown tome and strode off.

“Maybe there’s a… what would it be called?” asked Scorio.

Leonis turned to him with a blank expression. “Hmm?”

“A guide? A list of all the books? A catalog? In the main cell? To help people search for books? There has to be some order to all this.”

“A worthy idea,” said Leonis, putting the huge book back carefully. “Oh, hold on. What’s this?” He pulled down another tome, tall and slender, its cover bound in gray felt and pink silk. “The Wicked Enchantresses of Lost Moor, Being an Illustrated Treatise on Their Divers Powers, Physical Charms, and Fiendish Beguilements, as Prepared for the Five Hundredth and Twelfth Concolation of Red Keep. Huh.” He cracked the book open and raised both eyebrows. “You go on ahead, Scorio. I’ll be right there.”

Scorio sighed deeply, edged past the large man, and returned to the Cell of Fiends. This time the other researchers didn’t even glance up. Scorio pursed his lips, feeling completely out of place, and scanned the chamber. Desks, more desks, lamps burning gently above, another map, six arches taking up most of the walls…

Cheerful whistling came from a side tunnel, drawing irritated stares from the other researchers, and a moment later, a languid and leonine man entered the cell, one hand thumbed into his belt, the other holding a cloak tossed rakishly over one shoulder, his mane of golden hair freshly washed and combed back.

“Will you cease making that terrible sound?” snapped the old woman, glaring at Gelegos furiously, finger pressed to her passage on the page.

“For you, dear Dame Musko? It would be an honor.” Utterly unabashed, Gelegos began making his way between the tables, intent on passing through, and then saw Scorio and stopped. “Scorio! Early afternoon bout of studying?”

“I—yes.” Scorio was supremely aware of the glowers coming from the other readers. “Or attempting one. It’s my first time in the library.”

Gelegos chuckled as he drew closer then sat upon the corner of a desk. “You didn’t strike me as the academic type. But I’m glad you’re finally awakening to the wonders of the written word. More power is hidden away between the covers of the books here than can be found in the treasury of House Hydra.”

That gave Scorio pause. “You’re serious?”

“But of course! Alas, it is a source of power that requires work. Any fool can pop a pill, but it takes a dedicated scholar to unearth the nuggets of gold hidden amidst these countless books—”

“Gelegos!” Dame Musko was practically shivering with anger. “This is not the antechamber to some pisshole bar! Be silent, or begone.”

“Of course, Dame Musko, your slightest wish is like a geas upon my soul.” And Gelegos hopped up off the desk, bowed low, then crooked a finger to Scorio and led him down a tunnel.

Bemused, Scorio followed.

“How’ve you been?” asked Gelegos when they were a safe distance away. He crossed his arms and leaned against a shelf. “I heard you lost in your last fight.”

“I did, yes.” Scorio scratched at the back of his head. “Went up against an Emberling. I thought I had a slim chance, but was quickly, ah, disabused of that notion.”

“Tough, tough,” said Gelegos, nodding sympathetically. “And your morale? Spirits? Are you keeping it together?”

“I am,” said Scorio, meeting the recruiter’s gaze squarely. “It’s why I’m here, actually. Had an idea. Probably not a good one, but decided to research it. Just having trouble finding the right book.”

“Oh? How intriguing?” Gelegos glanced down the tunnel then back at Scorio. “Well, I suppose Millandria has waited seventeen years, another few minutes won’t go awry. What’s this idea?”

“I…” Scorio hesitated, looked down the tunnel, then back at Gelegos. “Someone’s been waiting for you for seventeen years?”

Gelegos waved his hand. “In a manner of speaking. She’s dead, alas. Which makes sense, seeing as we’re fated to never reincarnate at the same time. When I pass away, she will be reborn, and our correspondence will continue.” He paused, blinked, then smiled. “We’re pen pals, you could say, though our chosen method of communication is painfully obtuse poetry that we store here in the library. We do it to spite each other. I do think it’s the highest form of love.” He smiled fondly. “But enough of that. Your idea, my friend? Tell me it’s suitably cunning and unprecedented.”

“Right, ah, yes.” Scorio blinked, stood up a little straighter, then hesitated. Could he trust Gelegos with his plan? Would the man report him? Tell, if not Praximar, then his head recruiter?

“Oh come,” said Gelegos, smiling in dark amusement. “While I’m happy to help, I trust there is nothing truly new under the suns of hell. Whatever your brainchild, I’m sure it’s been done many times before. Don’t worry overmuch about its secrecy.”

“Oh. Right.” Scorio nodded, more to himself, and then shrugged. “I want to learn more about Imperial Ghost Toads.”

“Imperial Ghost Toads,” said Gelegos slowly, as if tasting the words. “My, that’s an awfully specific request. You must have encountered one during your time in the ruins?”

“Precisely so.”

“Imperial Ghost Toads. Of what use could they be to you? I don’t know much about that class of fiends. They’re cognizant, are they not? Capable of some manner of speech? Did you befriend one?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Intriguing. How do you think one such will help you in your situation?”

“I don’t know if they can. I’m grasping at straws at this point. Do you know how to locate books on them?”

A cunning gleam entered Gelegos’s eyes, and Scorio became sure the recruiter was aware that there was more than was being revealed. But after a moment, he shrugged and pushed off the shelf. “Fair enough, my friend! I respect your privacy and am happy to be a humble assistant in this quest of yours. Come.”

He led Scorio back into the Cell of Fiends and into the tunnel of Collected Taxonomies. Moved past the shelves, frowning and muttering to himself as he went. Reached at last a set of shelves and there stopped.

“Here we go. Class Dire Amphibia, Order Anura, meaning without tail… hmm.” He tapped at different spines, passed over empty spaces, then paused. “A general overview of the Class? No. Let us sharpen our line of inquiry. Ah—Being a Biological Examination of Imperial, Magisterial, Administrative, and Minor Bureaucratic Toads.” He drew forth the small, chunky book, which Scorio was glad to see wasn’t warded. “This should help. Now. Is there an index? There is an index, praise be. Imperial Ghost… Imperial Ghost… here you are.”

He flicked to the right page, then turned the book about and placed it in Scorio’s hands.

There were three pages, Scorio saw, dealing specifically with the Imperial Ghost Toad. The writing was crabbed, practically illegible, but there was a crude ink drawing that unmistakably portrayed a toad with the same eyeless, horned head.

“Excellent, thank you,” said Scorio.

“You’re most welcome. I look forward to your shocking successes! Now, if you’ll excuse me, Millandria awaits.”

“I hope the poetry is appropriately infuriating.”

“Oh, it is. She’s adopted a particularly grating meter that she knows drives me mad. Delightful.” And with that, Gelegos turned and strode away, whistling once more.

Scorio dropped into a crouch and set to work reading the three pages. A couple of paragraphs described the toad’s appearance, another couple on its usual habitat—which seemed to be anywhere rich in its kind of mana—then a page on their social organization.

Scorio stopped skimming and took his time deciphering the ancient writing. Apparently, they were solitary creatures that gathered in great assemblies known as “parliaments” every decade or so. There they would extrude all their gathered mana, forming deep reservoirs in which they would swim, challenge each other to a game known as “quantics,” and then mate, with partners determined by who won the most games.

“Huh,” said Scorio, flipping to the next page. There was no explanation of how quantics was played, nor what its rules were, but a footnote listed a treatise penned by the same author entitled A Review of Quantics, Its Rules, Permutations, and Winning Techniques as Observed by the Author at a Parliament in the Year 634. Frowning, he continued reading. Imperial Ghost toads spent their lives preparing for these parliaments, focusing on consuming ever denser forms of mana through a technique known as “engorgement.”

“You mean ‘Delightful Secret Marinating technique,’ idiot,” muttered Scorio.

Engorgement, the author wrote, was a means by which the toads could continuously extract mana from the environment, a passive process that allowed them to condense it into liquid form that permeated their bodies, the excess of which was secreted and left behind. This worked best when the engorger located a deep concentration of their chosen mana, and could there saturate their being to the utmost.

That gave Scorio pause. He sat back and stared at the books across from him. Saturated with liquid mana. He pondered, then resumed reading. There wasn’t much more on the technique, however; the author only connected its utility for the toads to their parliamentary activities, and never seemed to consider any other application for it.

Frowning, Scorio turned to the last page, which outlined the toad’s natural predators. These proved to be a long list of fearsome sounding names that meant little to Scorio. The last section was on their lifecycle. They could theoretically live forever if they were able to find ever richer sources of mana; after each parliament, their requirements increased, till at last, they starved, unable to find dense enough mana to sustain their aging bodies.

And that was it.

Scorio frowned and tapped the book against his chin. Delightful Secret Marinating technique. He had to learn more about it.

But what could induce Nox to talk about something so private?

He opened the book once more, and ran his finger over the lines, till he settled on the footnote.

A Review of Quantics.

“Scorio?” Lianshi’s voice, a hushed but urgent whisper. “Where are you?”

He rose, and with book in hand returned to the Cell of Fiends, where Dame Musko was glowering at them all. However, the presence of a dour, dark-skinned man clothed in gray woolen robes seemed to keep her in check; he stood beside Lianshi, expression severe, and at the sight of Scorio relaxed a fraction, as if he’d been about to excuse himself and leave.

“There you are,” she said, hurrying to his side and turning to face the man. “This is Librarian Oronto. He’ll help us find what we need.”

“Do you know the title, perchance, or the name of the author?” asked the librarian, the skepticism in his voice so rich that Scorio felt like a child being asked to list his favorite mathematical formulae.

“Actually, I do.” He smiled blithely at the surprised man. “A Review of Quantics, by Sebastian Bufo.”

“Hmm.” The librarian blinked, then tapped his chin. “Very well, then. Let us take a look.”

Lianshi stared at Scorio in confusion and mouthed something that might have been “What are you doing?” as the librarian stalked off into one of the tunnels.

Scorio just grinned at her, tapped the side of his nose, and followed after Oronto.

* * *

“Run this past me again,” huffed Leonis as he raced alongside Scorio.

“Left,” called out Scorio, almost tripping over as he veered out of the main street down which they ran, the sight of huge tentacles clumsily feeling their way around the distant corner ahead of them suddenly changing his planned approach. They scrambled, bolted down the side street, and for the length of the first ruined block kept glancing behind them to see if they were being pursued.

“This way.” Scorio raced over to a collapsed wall, ran fleet-footed up the mountain of rubble, then leaped off the top to the closest roof. Landing in a crouch, he took off at a jog, angling out wide to avoid whatever had been coming around the corner to course correct and resume their route to the Old Academy.

“Gah!” Leonis crashed onto the rooftop and then rushed to catch up. He looked heavy and clumsy compared to Lianshi, who, ever since making Emberling, had gained a preternatural form of grace.

“All right,” said Scorio, jumping over a retaining wall and down to a lower rooftop. Paused for the others to land next to him, then continued running. “So we found a book.”

“A Review of Quantics,” said Lianshi, not even winded.

“A review of what?”

“Quantics. It’s a game Imperial Ghost Toads play at their parliaments. It’s how they determine who gets the best mates.”

“A mating game?”

“Exactly. Far as I can tell, there’s a good amount of strategy involved. This author, Sebastian Bufo, actually entered one of the parliaments and recorded the rules and strategies the reigning Toad champions used to get the best mates.”

“Wait,” said Leonis, lengthening his stride as they rushed to the end of the roof and out over a perilously narrow archway that spanned the street below to the building across the street. “We’re going to give Nox dating advice?”

“It’s a fascinating game,” said Lianshi.

“You read it?” asked Leonis, incredulous.

“Of course I read it!” She glared at him, then flipped her hair behind her shoulder dismissively. “It’s tonal. Two rounds. The first consists of three quick challenges executed in a row. Low basso rumble beats high pitched squawk, which beats what Bufo called the brazen croak, which in turn beats the basso rumble.”

“So a game of chance?”

“Not quite.” She paused to vault lightly over the peak of the roof then slide down the other side, catch her foot in the broken gutter, and then leap lightly down to the street below. When Leonis and Scorio dropped next to her, she continued as they picked up their run.

“Who wins each of the first three challenges, and with what sound, determines the context of the second round, forming the environment that the true battle takes place in. There are over a hundred possible variations on the first round, and the contestants then issue forth songs that weave those results into a combative epic. Whoever unites the first round’s variables best and most insultingly wins the quantic.”

“A song battle,” said Leonis.

“But it’s so much more. The toads evoke their history, the odors of their desired mates and hated enemies, and play tonal tricks with the landscape established by the first round, each of which correlates to different story elements for them to work with. It’s incredibly complex.”

“Fine,” said Leonis, raising both hands. “I’m suitably impressed and also very sorry for these amorous toads. Sounds like a headache. But what’s that got to do with us.”

“A Review of Quantics lists the elements of over a dozen winning songs from a massive parliament held centuries ago,” said Scorio. “We’re going to entice Nox to help us by offering it to him as a bribe.”

“So he can cheat at his next parliament?” Leonis grinned. “I like it. What’s he going to do for us?”

“That Scorio won’t share,” said Lianshi, shooting an angry glare at him. “But I can guess. It has to do with their engorging technique.”

“Delightful Secret Marinating technique,” corrected Scorio.

“But Scorio’s not an Imperial Ghost Toad,” protested Leonis, taking a deep breath as they rounded a corner and entered a broad avenue that speared across the last third of the ruins. “Unless he’s planning to compete in the parliament now that he’s out of the tournament?”

“Ha,” said Scorio. “Ha, ha, ha. Watch it.”

“Engorgement causes the fiend to continuously and passively absorb mana from the environment,” said Lianshi, still staring hard at Scorio. “But the mana appears in the fiend’s body as a physical substance, filling their bodies like water does a sponge. It would kill a Great Soul, and is why the Academy hasn’t pursued it as a viable means of advancement.”

“True,” said Scorio.

“That’s all he’ll say. Which is why we’re coming. To prevent him from doing something irreparably stupid.”

“We’d have to sit on him to do that,” said Leonis.

“Just wait,” called Scorio, and as they ran into a rich seam of dense Coal mana, he inhaled some deeply into his Heart, ignited it, and put on greater speed. “You’ll see!”

Ten minutes later, they jogged out onto the monolithic bridge, across the great chasm and toward Nox’s ruined shell of a home.

“Nox?” Scorio slowed, stopped. “Nox, you around?”

His voice echoed off the stark walls, the bleak streets, and Leonis and Lianshi both turned in a slow, wary circle, examining the city about them.

Movement within the rubble, then the great toad leaped into view to land atop his customary perch.

“Favorite friends Scorio, Leonis, Lianshi.”

“Great,” muttered Leonis. “He knows our names.”

“We’ve a gift for you,” said Scorio, moving forward with his hands held out wide. “Something we think you’ll really love.”

Nox quirked his head to one side, his broad throat working, his sticky feet adjusting their grip on the rock. Thick dollops of Coal mana oozed down his forearms to spill out between the digits and smear across the rock. “Gift?”

“You’re a handsome Imperial Ghost Toad,” said Scorio, drawing closer, grinning widely. “Adept at the hunt, charismatic, good at making friends. It would be a shame if you didn’t take advantage of every angle at the next parliament to mate with the most beautiful lady toads around.”

Nox quirked his eyeless head in the other direction, his body otherwise going still. He said nothing but entered that state of aggressive attention that made the air around him quiver.

“So what have your favorite friends done?” Scorio reached into his robe and drew out the slender book. “We’ve unearthed a human account of a parliament from centuries ago. Sebastian Bufo attended as a guest and wrote down the songs and strategies of the great winners. He marked down their first-round ploys, and how they then used the results in startlingly unique ways to befuddle and confuse their foes.” Scorio tapped the book. “All in here. The best strategies he could find.”

“Quantic? You have quantic strategies?”

“Over a dozen complete ones, with the rest of the book accounting for all the variables and approaches Sebastian witnessed.” Scorio’s grin widened. “All yours if you but do me a favor.”

Nox adjusted his position on his perch nervously, his throat swelling out then sinking back in. “Favor?”

“Teach me your Delightful Secret Marinating technique,” said Scorio, voice turning serious. “Teach me the technique, and I’ll personally read you every page of this book.”

It was next to impossible to read the toad’s expression, to divine his thoughts from his broad and inscrutable visage, but the toad went very still.

Scorio held the book aloft, and for a second thought Nox would steal it away, capture it with his tongue, and retreat into the tunnels.

But no. After a moment’s consideration, the toad raised its head a fraction. “Why Scorio wish to learn Delightful Secret Marinating technique? Is secret.”

“As are the contents of this book. Do Imperial Ghost toads write down the most successful stratagems of each parliament to consult and learn from?”

“No,” said Nox with obvious reluctance.

“Then you have here a secret depository of the best Quantic techniques. One secret for another.”

“Why Scorio wish to learn?”

“Yes,” said Lianshi, turning on him. “What are you thinking? You’ll die of mana poisoning.”

Scorio didn’t look at her. “Because my Heart is fractured, Nox. I lose most of the mana I draw upon. I want to use your technique to compensate for that loss.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” Lianshi almost stamped her foot. “Your body is filled with blood! If you perform his technique, you’ll replace it with Coal mana, and die, Scorio.”

“Favorite friend Lianshi speaks true.” Nox adjusted his digits upon the rock. “This not a good idea.”

“I understand, and I don’t mean to execute your technique as you do,” said Scorio, speaking carefully, cautiously, patiently. “Just learn the outlines of your approach, and then implement a key adjustment. That’s all.”

“A key adjustment?” Lianshi’s frustration was reaching a fever pitch. “You can’t adjust your basic biology, Scorio. If this is your plan, then I regret helping you! Nox, ignore him, please!”

The toad’s throat swelled out, returned, swelled out, returned. “Won’t work. Imperial Ghost Toads enter ghost state to absorb dense mana. Humans cannot.”

“Right,” said Scorio. “I won’t have to, though. I’ve an alternative in mind.”

“What alternative, Scorio?” Lianshi sounded half despairing, half like she wanted to punch him.

“Easy,” said Leonis, pulling her back a step. “Give the man a chance to talk.”

“I’ve eight weeks or so to cultivate Black Star plants. I mean to plant hundreds of them, as many as I can, and harvest them three times before the Gauntlet run. With that many seeds, I’ll make enough diluted tincture to submerge myself in. Then I’ll perform the Secret Marinating Technique and absorb enough mana all in one go to break through to Emberling.”

His words hung in the air, his crazed idea, and even as he said it, Scorio fought off despair. It sounded like rank madness, so wild a hypothesis that he’d not have dared voice it if he had any other chance.

“Scorio,” said Lianshi, tone pitying. “There’s got to be a better way.”

“Like what, Lianshi?” He rounded on her, his anger suddenly burning bright. “Ask Dola to take me back so I can commit more crimes, steal more treasures from the Houses? Smuggle myself out into the Rascor Plains so I can hunt down fiends I can harvest for treasure? Abase myself to Praximar and beg for a second chance? Steal from our cohort?”

“No,” said Lianshi softly, and the sorrow in her face was almost more than he could bear. “Maybe you have to admit that you can’t win through on this one. Maybe you need to accept defeat, and find a way to start over again, from outside the Academy.”

Her words were like daggers punching into his body, and Scorio stiffened, his jaw clenching.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But nothing is worth your dying over.”

Scorio looked to Leonis, whose jocular face was now cast in a solemn expression. “I’m sorry Scorio,” he said at last, tone grave. “I’m all for wild and improbable strategies, but asking an Imperial Ghost Toad to teach you his Delightful Secret Marinating technique so that you can drown yourself in a bath filled with toxic Black Star tincture doesn’t sound…” He trailed off then shrugged his shoulders apologetically. “Maybe Lianshi’s right on this one.”

Scorio felt his breath coming rapidly in shallow pants. The worst of it was that he’d wrestled with these very doubts himself. But the alternative, the path of defeat, just wasn’t an option. The thought of leaving the Academy, shoulders slumped, to—what—find some low-tier job at House Chimera under Gelegos’s blessings?—drove him half-wild with madness.

“No,” he hissed, and curled both hands into tightly knotted fists. “I’m Scorio the Scourer, Lord of Nagaran, Master of the Black Tower, The Bringer of Ash and Darkness, the Shadow of Spurn Harbor, the Abhorred, Quencher of Hope and Unmaker of Joy. I will not admit defeat. I will not bend the knee to Praximar, to anyone. I will find a way to victory, or die trying.” His stare was such that the air before him seemed to quiver with heat. “Do not try to stop me.”

His friends stared at him, their faces pale, and then Lianshi looked away. “Fine. But I won’t witness your self-destruction either. I care too much for you to stand by and watch you commit suicide. I’ll pray for your success, Scorio, but I won’t enable you further. I… I just can’t watch you do this to yourself. I’m sorry.”

And with that, she turned away and began crossing the bridge back to the Academy.

Leonis stood there, shoulders squared, lips pursed, his gaze steadfast. Then, with a sigh, he walked over to where Scorio stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m with you, my friend. I don’t agree with you. But I won’t leave you, either. If you mean to kill yourself, then at least I can make sure you don’t die alone.”

Scorio’s eyes prickled with tears, and he placed his hand over Leonis’s own, then turned to stare at Lianshi’s departing back.

“Give her time,” said Leonis quietly. “She feels more deeply than either of us. She’s with you still. She just needs time.”

“Fair enough,” said Scorio, his voice thickened and rough. “Thank you.”

Leonis gave his shoulder a squeeze and stepped back, turning to Nox. “So, favorite friend Nox. What do you say? A treatise on Quantics in exchange for a small favor for your favorite friends?”

Nox’s impossibly already wide mouth widened further into a disturbing smile. “For my favorite friends? Absolutely.”

Chapter 62

Nox led them down into his crater, deep under the hollowed-out shell of masterfully arranged fallen masonry and columns, and without any ceremony leaped down into the steep tunnel that led into the caverns below.

“Nox has played fairly with us thus far,” said Scorio, sliding down the steeply sloped scree to the lip of the tunnel. “He wouldn’t agree to my plan if there wasn’t a chance it would work.”

“Right. Didn’t you say he was willing to attack Imogen before? He’s clearly a paragon of wisdom and restraint.” Leonis slid down next to him and glowered down at the dark hole. “But sure. Let’s trust him to decide what’s best.”

“He seems excited to show us something,” said Scorio with a grin. “Who knows what it might be? Come on.” And not giving his friend the chance to complain further, he leaped in after the toad. The initial drop was some five or so yards, so Scorio ignited his Heart to land smoothly on the nearly sheer slope and drop into a controlled slide, legs crouched, darkvision activated, to swoop down and out as the tunnel leveled out.

Nox edged around, clearly able to make him out despite the darkness, throat bulging out and sinking back in, and a second later Leonis half-slid, half-stumbled in behind Scorio, flailing around as he caught hold of a ridge of rock and steadied himself.

“This way,” was all Nox said, edging back and then striding deeper into the darkness. Wordless, the two Great Souls followed. This time, instead of cutting to the left as he’d done the first time when he’d led Scorio to the Academy, Nox dropped into a side tunnel to the right. This wound around and around then narrowed to such an extent that Scorio wondered how the toad could squeeze his way through until at last it opened into a small cavern.

“Welcome to home.” Nox hopped forward and turned his head from side to side as if suddenly hesitant. Even as Scorio took in the cave, the toad flicked out his tongue, catching a glob of what looked like half-dissolved meat and yanking it into his mouth. He swallowed noisily, then turned to the Great Souls. “Apologies. Home messy.”

“Not a problem, friend Nox,” said Leonis with false heartiness. “You should see Scorio’s chambers. Covered in dead meat knee-deep.”

“Oh?” Nox sounded curious and pleased. “Very nice, best friend Scorio. Females must be attracted.”

“Something like that,” said Scorio, moving forward slowly and taking in the cave. It was simple, with a corner that served as a larder of sorts from which he averted his eyes. But his gaze was drawn to a pool that dominated the center of the cave, its edges rimmed with black stone, its surface gelatinous and glowing a pale, milky white. “So this is where you practice the Delightful Secret Marinating technique?”

Nox hopped up to the pool’s edge. “Yes. This marinating pool. Imperial Ghost secret imperial gel. Gel function as matrix net, hold mana, make mana conductive. Technique take place inside.”

Leonis stepped up to the edge of the pool and stared into the viscous, softly glowing goo. “You’re saying you have to immerse yourself in your imperial gel for the technique to work?”

“Yes.”

Leonis clapped Scorio on the shoulder, hard. “You are far, far more dedicated than I am, favorite friend Scorio. The ten hells love you.”

“For how long?” asked Scorio, staring down at the pool.

“Depends. Mana strength, level of desire. May be one cycle, may be ten.”

“Ten cycles,” said Leonis, disgusted to the point of hilarity. “If you think I’ll be bringing you snacks while you vacation in there, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Scorio tuned him out, not least because if he allowed Leonis’s disgust to filter through his resolve, he might blanch and lose heart. “So how does it work? What is the technique?”

Nox shifted his weight, his eyeless head held high. “Complicated to explain, simple to do. Draw mana in. Find equilibrium, exceed slowly. Imperial gel act as stabilizer, as matrix, help cycle mana, help heal body. Find falling point beyond equilibrium.”

“I don’t understand,” said Scorio. “I need just need to draw more mana than I can burn off?”

Nox shifted irritably, or perhaps it was in frustration. “No. Inside imperial gel, toad draw mana in. Equilibrium where mana taken in same as mana burned. Push beyond. Use imperial gel, break equilibrium, become mana hole. Mana fall toward you, never hit, always miss, circle toad, pull more mana in.”

Scorio was listening so intently he felt a headache coming on. “So I use the imperial gel to help mana come at me but never reach me. And all this mana—where does it go?”

“Mana fall around toad, grow compressed as more mana enter. Stabilized by matrix. Saturate toad. When gel hold no more, toad become mana, Delightful Secret Marinating technique.”

Scorio couldn’t tell if he understood or not, but Nox’s tone betrayed the toad’s growing anxiety—or was it impatience? “How do you draw the mana in the first place?”

“Build reservoir through hunting. Extrude into gel, then as technique used, more mana pulled in by act of missing.”

Scorio glanced sharply at Leonis, who was frowning and rubbing at his chin. “So, to summarize, you get into the gel, extrude your initial load of mana, then pull it back in. You use the gel to pass your point of equilibrium, then use the gel and your technique to have the mana… miss you, somehow… and that missing means it just spirals around you, growing thicker as it pulls in more mana behind it?”

“Yes!” Nox’s excitement was palpable. “Favorite friend Scorio understand!”

“Not really,” muttered Scorio, but then smiled broadly and stood up straighter. “Yes! I mean, I think so. The gel is the key, right? It… facilitates the process of making more mana condense around you?”

“Yes,” croaked Nox.

“Question,” said Leonis. “How does surrounding yourself with super dense mana help you, Scorio? Couldn’t you, I don’t know, just cultivate a bunch of Black Star plants and drink as many elixirs as you needed?”

Scorio hesitated, and for a moment he wasn’t sure if Leonis was correct, but then he turned back to Nox. “You said the gel helps heal your body?”

“Yes,” said Nox solemnly. “Delightful Secret Marinating technique kill toad without imperial gel. Condenses Coal mana, very toxic.”

“Perfect,” said Scorio, clapping his hands once. “That’s it right there. The stronger my elixirs, the more toxic they’d be. I’d not be able to consume enough of them without dying or falling unconscious. But this would allow me to consume as much mana as I needed without poisoning myself. Right, Nox?”

“It is so,” said Nox.

Leonis dropped into a crouch and studied the pool. “All right, fine. But you’ve got no reservoir of mana to ‘extrude.’ At least, I hope you don’t.”

“That’s where my Black Star plants will come in,” said Scorio, and grinned at the sensation of all the pieces slotting into place. “I’ll grow as many as I can over the next seven weeks or so, and make a bunch of tinctures, which I’ll have you pour into the gel once I’m immersed.”

Leonis frowned, clearly searching for another objection.

Scorio turned back sharply to Nox. “I mean, can I use your pool, Nox? Would that damage it or the like?”

“Favorite friend Scorio use imperial gel,” said Nox. “Easy to extrude more.”

“So gross,” said Leonis.

“It’s a system,” said Scorio, feeling fired up, his chest expanding with emotion and fierce joy. “If the Academy thinks it can control us by deciding who gets what kind of pill, well, the Imperial Ghost Toad Delightful Secret Marinating technique is the best way to tell them to go to hell.”

“How much mana will he need?” asked Leonis, turning to the toad. “To make sure the process works?”

“Much mana,” said Nox gravely. “Is why toads spend lives hunting to build reservoir. Must be Ruby strength, better if more.”

“Ruby strength,” croaked Scorio.

“That’s—I wish Lianshi was here—what, sixty-four thousand volts?” Leonis rubbed at the back of his head. “How in damnation are you going to get that much mana, Scorio?”

The number hit him like a punch to the temple. Scorio dropped into a crouch, cupped both hands before his mouth, and stared out at nothing. “Sixty-four thousand. Black Star plants take two weeks to grow, then produce a bead every week. That’s three weeks till the first bead. Twenty-five beads to make an elixir, which if completely unfiltered results in eighty volts. Two batches, so I need thirty-two thousand volts per batch, that’s four hundred plants for each batch.”

“Four hundred,” said Leonis flatly.

“I’ve got a hundred still growing on my original farm,” said Scorio. “I can split each of their seeds in four, that’s four hundred right there.”

Leonis blinked. “How do you know all this?”

“Bought a treatise,” said Scorio, rising to his feet to pace. “Given strong enough mana, I could have four hundred plants in two weeks’ time. That’s four hundred beads by the end of week three, eight hundred by the end of week six. Eight hundred multiplied by eighty, that’s sixty-four thousand volts’ worth of Coal mana.” He paused, blinked again, then gave a decisive nod. “That’s exactly how much I’d need.”

“You’re mad,” said Leonis with something akin to wonder. “Four hundred Black Star plants? Sure, the numbers add up, but how will you find a safe place for them? That kind of concentrated mana production will draw every predator from miles around.”

To which Scorio had no answer. His original farm had proved fortunate in avoiding attention, but even so, it had suffered losses since he’d joined the academy. Four hundred plants? Leonis was right. Unless he camped in the farm every day and night for the next seven or so weeks, but then he’d be expelled from the Academy for failure to show to his classes. And even if he did, how would he fight off everything that would come as a mere Cinder?

“Favorite friend Scorio, Nox has idea.”

“You do? I mean, great! Yes. I mean, what is it?”

“Scorio need two batches Black Star Coal mana.”

“That’s right.”

“After, what happen to plants?”

“After?” Scorio stared at the toad, nonplussed. “I don’t know. Either I’ll have succeeded in my goals or failed.”

“Imperial Ghost Toad Nox make offer: Imperial Ghost Toad Nox guard Black Star plants for two batches, then Black Star plants belong to Nox.”

“Yes,” said Scorio without thinking, not caring if it was a good deal or not.

“Four hundred plants,” said Leonis. “You’re going to… you know what, never mind. You’re in no position to bargain.”

“And he’s letting me use the imperial gel,” added Scorio.

“No, you’re paying for that with the Quantics treatise.”

“No,” said Nox, “Favorite Friend Scorio paying for Delightful Secret Marinating technique with treatise.”

“Oh.” Leonis made a face. “You were going to negotiate something for the gel?”

Nox dipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Savvy toad,” said Leonis.

“It’s a deal.” Scorio didn’t care. He felt as if he were hurling himself headfirst off the edge of a cliff. There wasn’t room to maneuver or quibble. “You guard the plants, and they’re yours once I’ve harvested eight hundred beads from them.”

“Eight hundred beads,” said Leonis. “Look, I’m sorry to be constantly negative about all this, but that’s at maximum toxicity, isn’t it?”

Scorio nodded soberly.

“And you’re counting on a gel made by toads for toads to protect you, who are not, may I add, a toad?”

“Yes.” Scorio stared at Leonis, expressionless but for his raised eyebrows.

“And if the Imperial Ghost Toad imperial gel doesn’t work for humans like it does for them?”

Scorio laughed bleakly. “At that level of toxicity and that dosage amount? I’ll die in minutes.”

“Minutes,” said Leonis, shaking his head. “And that huge variable doesn’t concern you?”

“No,” said Scorio, and inside he felt nothing, no fear, no elation, no concern. “It’s an acceptable risk.”

“Your pursuit of power is… I don’t know the right word. Horrifying? Impressive? Awesome in the literal sense of the word? By the ten hells, Scorio. I’ve never heard of a more far-flung stratagem. It goes beyond desperation into sheer suicidal hope.”

“Fair.” Scorio took a deep breath, turned to Nox, and bowed low. “Thank you, my friend, for your help. We have a bargain. Do you know where I could plant that many Black Stars?”

“Will think. Find safe place. Come with seeds when ready.”

“I will,” said Scorio. “On that, you can count. In fact, I’m going to go harvest them now. You ready, Leonis?”

His large friend stared at him. “You’re asking me if I’m ready to go? Whether I’ve finished my own business here in Nox’s private burrow? Yes, Scorio. I’m ready to go.”

“Good. We’ll see ourselves out.” And with another bow, Scorio strode past his friend toward the burrow’s exit, his darkvision illuminating but a portion of the tunnel before him.

They climbed out in silence, and once back under the burning sun-wire, strode through the ruins in continued silence. Scorio could sense Leonis’s searing disapproval, but he didn’t have time for that just yet.

Instead, he mulled over his plans. Eight weeks till the actual tournament. Which meant he had seven weeks to pull this off. Three-week cycles for the production of the beads. It was going to be incredibly tight. Of course, he could hunt wild Black Stars once the first lot were planted, so as to accumulate more seeds to plant as reserves. This meant that the second batch could conceivably be far greater than the first—

“Scorio.”

Leonis had come to a stop, and now stood, hands on hips, staring flatly at him.

“Hmm?” Scorio paused and looked back. “Yes?”

“Stop a moment. Just come here.”

Reluctant, wanting to continue to his original Black Star farm, Scorio retraced his steps to stand before Leonis.

“I know you want to win,” said Leonis. “I know you want it more than anything else. To prove Praximar wrong, to rub his face in his cheating tricks. To defeat Jova Spike and get her to check her journals for you. But just stop a moment and think: is that worth dying over?”

“Who said I was going to die?”

“I’m talking odds, here, Scorio. The odds of the Black Star not poisoning you to death. The odds of the marinating technique—which I still don’t understand—not killing you, too. Or if they don’t, that channeling this much Coal mana all at once won’t splinter your Heart into ragged chunks, or burn out your mind. And think: even if it all works, who’s to say this will work well enough to guarantee you make Emberling? Who's to say that even if it does, your body won’t be wrecked by the process, so that you’ll enter the Gauntlet crippled?”

Scorio had no answer, but he felt his ire rising as his friend glared at him.

“Stop glowering at me for a second and just think about what I’m saying. We don’t even know if Jova has anything in her journals. We’ve literally no confirmation that she’ll have what you’re hoping for. So you’re gambling on a gamble.”

Scorio pursed his lips and stared down and away.

“I know there are no other good options, but there’s a reason the Academy hasn’t filled its halls with imperial gel pools, right? If this was a shortcut that worked for Great Souls, you don’t think someone would have exploited it already?”

“They don’t need this exploit,” snapped Scorio. “Why go through the trouble of brewing and absorbing eight hundred doses of toxic Coal when you can just take a Fat Cricket or Glittering Sage pill?”

Leonis frowned.

“This is the answer for Great Souls who are all out of options,” said Scorio, taking a step forward. “Great Souls like me. Who aren’t content to accept what the Academy sees fit to dole out. Unlike everyone else, who happily gets in line with their notched badges and accepts elite treasures like their Luminous Ghost dust pouches. I won’t let the Academy crush me. I won’t let it tell me how good I’m allowed to be. I want better, and since I’ve ruined my own chances of getting a House sponsorship, all I’m left with is a vat of Imperial Ghost Toad Imperial Gel.”

Leonis let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just don’t understand why this is worth risking your life over. Such a wild gamble. You could bow out, leave the Academy, and then try for the Rascor Plains. Join one of the lesser outfits, work your way up the ranks. With your talent and determination, you’d be making a name for yourself in a couple of years. All sorts of opportunities might open up for you.”

“Might,” repeated Scorio with emphasis. “And if they don’t? What if I’m turned away everywhere I go for being a Red Lister with a tarnished reputation? A Great Soul who flunked out of the Academy and is a known criminal associate? What if all I find are more people eager to use me?”

To which Leonis had no answer.

Scorio took a deep breath. “I appreciate what you’re trying to say. I’m sorry if I’m being…intense. But I won’t let anyone kick me around. I won’t wait patiently at the back of the line when the line itself is an artificial creation. I’ll be damned if I let Praximar decide my future, and I’ll do whatever it takes to control my own destiny. And if I fail? If I get it wrong? Then I’ll die. And someday, a year, or ten, or a hundred from now, I’ll be reborn and give it another shot.”

“Yeah,” said Leonis dryly. “Fair enough. But what about your friends?”

Which checked Scorio and stalled his flood of ready answers. “What?”

“Your friends. I know we’re not… never mind.” Leonis drew himself up. “We can’t let our desire to protect you and keep you around stop you from doing what you need to do. That’s not what true friends are for. So fine. I gave it my best attempt. If you’re determined to see this… absolutely insane and utterly ridiculous plan through, then I’ll help you in any way I can.”

For a long, drawn-out moment Scorio could only gaze up at his huge friend. Drink in the rough and raw emotion that blazed in Leonis’s dark brown eyes, and feel both proud and humbled to have such a companion by his side.

“Thank you,” he said at last, voice husky.

“Damn you,” said Leonis with a tired grin. “Damn you for wanting more from life than delicious drinks by our soaking pool.”

Scorio reached out and clasped Leonis’s broad forearm, and had his own clasped in turn. “Not saying I’m against that, either. I’ll be doing my fair share of soaking in between the crazy farming I’ve got lined up ahead of me.”

“Fair enough.” Leonis’s grin widened a fraction. “Then come on. Let’s go harvest those seeds already before it gets dark. Last thing I want is to die on my knees grubbing in the dirt in the dark as some heinous monstrosity drops on me from the ruins.”

Scorio laughed. “It’s a deal. Come on. Race you.”

And with a laugh, he took off, heart thudding with excitement and exhilaration, to race with his Heart burning black flames just a few yards ahead of his cursing companion.

Chapter 63

The next two weeks were an exercise in patience and cruel restraint. Scorio’s every waking thought revolved around two things: his growing Black Star farms, and his daily meditation and First Form practice. All other aspects of his life faded into the background; he performed everything asked of him with mechanical efficiency, but it was only when he was able to focus on his new obsessions that he really came alive.

Twice he ventured deep into the ruins and down into the caverns below. He didn’t tell his friends, sure that they would forbid him, but the wild thought that he might secure a sunphire with which to purchase healing medications obsessed him.

But both attempts ended in near-death experiences as he fled vicious monsters, retracing his steps in a panic through the caverns to the surface, and it was with reluctance that he accepted how rare sunphires were, and had to be, to command such exorbitant prices.

He had better luck with his farming. Of the hundred and six original Black Star plants that had survived, eighty-seven of them rendered seeds, which he was able to divide into three hundred and forty quarters with “eyes,” which left him in need of some fifteen plants. Unable to restrain himself, Scorio crept out of the Academy each night via the hidden passages, then loped across Bastion under the cover of darkness to scrounge amidst the ruins for elusive plants.

It was hard to remember just how rare they were; Scorio spent hours combing narrow alleyways, delving into half-collapsed basements, scrounging amidst the edges and upper parts of countless cracks and chasms. Twice he was nearly caught by floating filaments cast into the mana breezes by Coal spiders, each the size of a cart, the tip of each filament an impossibly sticky bulb. He was chased by a half-dozen kitursks that he accidentally disturbed at some ceremonial dance within a dark chamber, and another time discovered a completely new manner of barnacle that released exceedingly toxic Coal mana into the air when he wandered by.

But by the end of the first week, he’d collected sixteen plants, harvested thirteen seeds, which rendered another fifty-two quarters.

That night, weary, cut, and bruised, he’d lain in his bed with his sack of seed quarters resting heavily upon his chest. Three hundred and ninety-two quarters. It felt dangerous, to collect them all so tightly, as if their combined potential for future mana was explosive, could ignite like his own Heart and blast their entire suite apart.

A worthless fortune that any other Great Soul would sneer at. How it galled him to think of the top hundred students, all of them cruising through the Academy with their daily allotment of treasures, while he worked himself to the bone and trained so hard, he coughed up blood. How they’d laugh at his farm, sneer at his Black Star syrup as they swallowed their Fat Crickets and whatever else.

But it was the culmination of his journey so far, started so innocently back in the ruins when he’d decided to match the Academy’s resources with his own wits, and now resulting in such a perilous plan his own best friends had begun to mourn him as if he already had one foot in the grave.

That night he stayed up reminiscing, thinking on his first days with Naomi, his fierce determination to excel under her tutelage, his ill-fated adventure with Dola and the Basilisk crew, his first encounters with Helena and Feiyan.

Each of those moments felt like a miniature experience that was tightly circumscribed by the greater arcs of his soul; each fateful encounter played its own limited part in but one of his lives, his seventh so far, all of which could ultimately amount to nothing but his death, and in death, oblivion, for a time.

Would he come back sooner for having been so frustrated in this reincarnation? Would it take him another century to return? Why so long between each cycle of life? What kept him in the darkness, refusing rebirth, when his companions lapped him time and time again, so that they were born thirty times for every instance of his own return?

Scorio stared into the swarming darkness. He could have dispelled it in a moment by sharpening his vision but didn’t bother. Instead, he thought of Imogen the Woe and Sol, their words to him, their remembrances of him from lives past. What would it be like to have the doors to previous lives blown open upon reaching Imperator? The memories of hundreds of lives suddenly available and at your fingertips? Overwhelming? Mind shattering? Or perhaps by the time you made Imperator such stressors were commonplace?

He thought of Naomi with a guilty pang. Where was she, what was she doing with her time, and was she well? Thought on how he might approach her again, heal the rift between them, but came up blank. She’d retreated past a wall he knew not how to climb, and something told him that brute insistence would only backfire.

But he’d not forget her, nor cease to think of a way to connect. Perhaps Leonis was right, and the only way to bring her back to their side was to approach her in strength, girded with the powers of an Emberling.

Long into the night, he lay thinking, musing, the heavy sack on his chest, until at long last his eyelids drooped, and his feverish, fanciful thoughts gave way to deep and dreamless sleep.

The next morning was the ninth round of the tournament where the losers’ bracket would face off against the new influx of contestants who’d lost the round before. Leonis and Lianshi were eager to go watch, but Scorio excused himself, slipping away with his sack of seeds and making for the basement levels and their secret passages.

Who’d even notice if he was there to watch or not?

Sack slung over one shoulder, he jogged back across the now familiar avenues toward the ruins once more, but slowed and came to a stop at the sight of a procession working its way up one of the massive avenues.

A column, easily some ten people wide, snaked into view, drums banging a martial, challenging accompaniment as they walked under massive white banners. Scorio had never seen their like before, but each bore its own word, the character painted with fierce strokes: Independence. Freedom. Revolution.

The faces of those marching were defiant, furious, alert. Instinct urged Scorio to leap back into the alley from which he’d just emerged, and then to hurry back down its length to circle around.

This was Ward 7, the neighbor to the Academy’s Ward 9. Scorio stood with his back to a wall, staring out at nothing, listening to the pounding drums. What was going on? Nobody in the Academy, not the instructors nor the servants nor the guests or administration had spoken about the escalation in the streets.

Eventually, he stepped away and found another route toward the ruins. Putting the sight from his mind, he plunged into the ruins once more, hewing to the safer routes, and finally reached the monolithic bridge without any misadventures.

Nox was awaiting him, perched high upon his favorite boulder, head cocked to one side as Scorio came close.

“Favorite friend Scorio.”

“Nox. I’ve got the seeds. You found a place to plant them?”

“I have.” The toad sounded impossibly pleased with himself. “Follow.”

Scorio had expected the toad to lead him back out into the wilds of the ruins, but instead, he scrambled into his burrow and down the tunnel. Nonplussed, Scorio followed after, and together they navigated down a ways, then along a broad seam in the rock that finally opened up into a broad cavern that was more a gash in the raw stone than anything else. Only some four feet high, it was as dark and hermetic a space as Scorio had ever seen, lost to the skies and buried some twenty yards beneath the ruins’ surface. Its sloping floor was covered in thick, wet dirt, from which sprouted what looked like a thousand mushrooms that glowed with soft lavender hues.

“Here?” asked Scorio, forced into a squat by the low ceiling.

“Is perfect. Taste mana.”

Scorio summoned his Heart, extended his senses to the ambient mana, and startled. The Coal here was so thick as to be an almost cloying blanket, turgid and heavy to the point of oppressiveness.

“Perfect,” breathed Scorio. “And you’ll defend this point?”

“One entrance.”

“Makes your job easier,” agreed Scorio, unshouldering his sack. “These mushrooms are in the way, though.”

“Tasty,” said Nox, and began to shuffle forward. Wherever he went, his tongue lolled out and swept up a mass of the mushrooms, his body crushing the rest down into the loam.

Scorio watched, shrugged, then got to work planting the quartered seeds in the toad’s wake. Time ceased to have meaning; he simply crawled after, dragging his sack behind him, poking holes into the dirt, and dropping each quarter in after. Back and forth they went, row upon row until at last, they’d planted every one.

“Well,” said Scorio, rising to sit on his heels. “It’ll take two weeks for the plants to grow. I’ll come back then to insert the reeds. A week after that we should have our first batch. You sure you can defend this place? That much physical mana will be a powerful draw.”

“No problem. Now, read Quantic treatise.”

Scorio chuckled. “Sure thing. Let’s head back up to the air, though. Darkvision isn’t the best for reading.”

* * *

Leonis made Emberling a little over two weeks later. Each Eighthday, they’d abscond and train in the old Gauntlet, and halfway through their second jaunt he disappeared after their customary fight with the stone statues, simply vanishing the moment he kicked in the axman’s knee and then pounded its head into fragments against the wall.

Gasping, rolling away from the archer he’d just finished wrestling into submission so Lianshi could stomp its face in, Scorio sat up and looked around the dark chamber.

“Leonis?”

He sharpened his darkvision, scoured the length of the hall, the corners of the room, probing the impenetrable darkness, but the large man was gone.

Lianshi stood, hands on her knees, and then grinned. “He must be in his trial.”

“Now?” Scorio wrapped his arms around his knees. “Halfway through the Gauntlet run?”

Lianshi straightened, swept her dark hair over an angular shoulder, and shrugged. “The trials don’t care. Plus Leonis said he was having trouble igniting, remember? That all this practice was making it nearly impossible to take in enough mana.”

“Sure,” said Scorio, wiping the sweat from his brow. “But…”

“But what?” The question was innocently asked, and then Lianshi understood. “Oh.”

“I’m not jealous.” Stiffly, Scorio rose to his feet. “Just… frustrated.”

“Of course.” Lianshi stepped in and gave him a tight hug, resting her chin on his shoulder. “It’s not fair.”

Scorio stood stiffly for a moment, then hugged her back. “Fair’s got nothing to do with it, though, does it?”

“No.” She stepped back, lips scrunched up into a sideways pout. “Doesn’t stop it from stinging though.”

“No,” sighed Scorio. “No, it doesn’t.”

“How is your, ah, project coming along?”

It was the first time Lianshi had brought up his Black Star plan. On Leonis’s advice, Scorio had avoided discussing it, and he and Lianshi had fallen into something akin to their old camaraderie, though the unspoken plan seemed to hang between them.

“It went well. Reeds are in. Three hundred and eighty-seven plants have grown. Nox is taking his part of the bargain seriously. I’ll collect the first batch next Seventhday.”

“You can’t keep skipping the tournaments,” said Lianshi. “Someone will notice, and you could get expelled.”

“I don’t want to use our Eighthday for farming, though.” Scorio rubbed at the back of his head and stared around the chamber. At all the silent statues, all of whom had killed him at one time or another. “Especially since, well. You know.”

“Since you thought I’d grow upset if you brought it up?” Lianshi sighed, blew a lock of hair out of her face, then shook her head slowly at him. “I am upset. But it’s not like I’d prefer you to be expelled. Let’s harvest the mana together next Eighthday. It’ll take much less time that way, and we can enter the Gauntlet right after.”

Scorio hesitated. “You sure?”

Lianshi smiled ruefully at him, and then socked him in the shoulder. “Yes. Of course. Might as well enjoy your company while you’re around.”

“Hey, I’m not going to—”

“Kidding!” Lianshi laughed, rocking away from him in amusement. “Honestly. I know you’re going to be fine, because if you’re not, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Now you’re just not making any sense.”

“Yeah, I know.” She leaned back against the wall and blew away the same lock of hair that had fallen before her face again. “It’s hard to be both funny and coherent when dealing with you and Leonis. A girl’s got to make sacrifices.”

“Speaking of which.” Scorio rose to his feet with a groan, his numerous bruises and contusions complaining as he did. “Shall we?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” she said, taking his hand and rising as well. “I’ve a new idea I want to try against that ogre. I’m getting sick and tired of his tearing my arms off.”

“Can’t wait to hear about it,” said Scorio, leading the way to the door. “But first, my favorite room.”

* * *

Leonis was strangely somber when they appeared atop their biers once more, sitting with his lips pursed and staring distractedly at his interlaced fingers. Scorio ignited his Heart to help dispel the pain of having his skull crushed by a flying block, and after a few moments sat up, eyes tearing up from the pain, to wince and glance at his friend.

“So?”

Leonis’s frown didn’t disappear. “Guess I’m an Emberling now.”

Lianshi was muttering curses and rubbing at her shoulders as she also sat up, but she caught Leonis’s somber mood. “That bad?”

“What was bad?” asked Scorio, looking from one to the other.

“Wasn’t what I expected,” allowed Leonis with a sigh. “But that’s history now, right?”

“Right,” said Lianshi.

“What is?” Scorio scowled. “If you think you can start an Emberling club and keep me out—”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Leonis somberly, and his uncharacteristic gravity silenced Scorio. “For better or worse. But yes. I’m an Emberling now. Felt the same thing you described, Lianshi. My Heart kept drinking in mana, but no matter how much I poured into it the damn thing wouldn’t saturate. Then the fight began, and I was trying to ignite, and…”

“And your trial began,” said Lianshi softly.

“Yeah.”

“So?” Scorio’s irritation did as much as his burning Heart to rid him of the last of the headache. “Your powers?”

“My powers.” Leonis blew out his cheeks, then frowned and Scorio felt his Heart ignite, a palpable expansion of force that blew past him like some manner of ghost wind. A second later, a stone club appeared in his hand. But a stranger club Scorio had never seen; it was massive, a yard long and uniform in diameter for its whole length. It was hexagonal, with three of its panels inscribed down their length with glowing orange runes.

It had to weigh hundreds of pounds, but Leonis held it easily by the grip that emerged from its base. He turned it about, holding it in both hands, mouth pursed once more as he studied it.

Scorio watched his friend, the silence growing between them, and bit the inside of his cheek. He thumbed his palm and fought the urge to leap off his bier and move over to Leonis, to provoke him into action, into speech. Instead, he cleared his throat and glanced at Lianshi, who seemed content to wait.

Scorio resigned himself to silence, unsure as to what was going on. He had so many questions, but beyond that, a sense of annoyance was growing within him. Placing one hand into the palm of the other, he cracked his knuckles, then did the same for his first hand. Still, Leonis just turned the club around, running his fingers over the light gray and pitted surface.

Scorio sighed loudly, drummed his heels on the bier, and finally, Leonis looked up, his expression turning wry.

“You’ll understand soon enough,” he said, voice deep, resonant. “But yes. This is Nezzar.”

“Nezzar,” said Scorio. “That’s from one of your titles. The Wielder of Nezzar.”

“I think Nezzar was what allowed me to accomplish so much,” said Leonis softly. “In my first life, that is. It’s followed me here, into hell.”

“Is that… a good thing?”

“I don’t know.”

Lianshi’s tone was firm. “It is what you make of it.”

“True.” Leonis sighed, then sat up straight. “True.”

“What do those runes mean?” asked Scorio. “Can you read them?”

“I can,” said Leonis, but made no effort to explain further.

They sat in silence for a spell longer, and then Scorio hopped of his bier. “Well, do you want to try another go at the Gauntlet? See how far we get this time? Maybe with Nezzar, you can reach the ogre that’s been giving Lianshi so much trouble.”

“No, I don’t think so. Go ahead, both of you, if you want.” Leonis was studying his hexagonal club once more. “I’ll wait for you here.”

“I’m good,” said Lianshi. “There’s only so many times I want to be torn apart.”

“Then…” Scorio trailed off. They’d already been through the Gauntlet twice. “Perhaps that’s enough for today. If you guys are sure.”

“I’m sure,” said Lianshi softly.

“Yeah,” said Leonis, though Scorio wasn’t even sure he’d heard the question.

“Go ahead,” said Lianshi. “I can tell you want to. We’ll wait for you.”

Scorio pursed his lips. His irritation warred with his sympathy for Leonis. They’d come here to train. They only had five Eighthdays left.

But Leonis’s expression tugged at him. Conflicted, somber, reflective. No, far more complex than that. Scorio had never seen such depth to his friend’s face. Not sorrow, exactly, nor regret, but somewhere between wounded pride, deep chagrin, and old, old pain.

What by the ten hells happened in the trial?

“No, let’s get back,” said Scorio before realizing he’d decided. “We can take a good soak and then get an early dinner.”

Leonis looked up, bemused. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He stepped up to his friend and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. We should relax, celebrate a little. With your hitting Emberling, Naomi in the wings as a particularly vicious example of the rank, and my sure to hit Emberling before the final Gauntlet run, we’re in great shape.”

Lianshi and Leonis exchanged a look.

“At least he’s confident,” said Lianshi.

“C’mon.” Scorio grinned. “We can stop at that favorite stall of yours and get fire pepper ices on the way back. My treat.”

Leonis snorted. “You’re making me feel like a child.”

“You said it, not me.” Scorio forced a grin. “You coming? Offer won’t last long.”

Leonis raised Nezzar. He held it aloft as if it weighed less than a reed, then opened his hand, and it faded rapidly from view, the runes taking longest to disappear. “Fire pepper ices sound good. Lianshi?”

“No, thank you.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “Last time you convinced me I spent the worst night of my admittedly very, very short life thus far in the bathroom. You indulge.”

“Your loss,” said Leonis, his hearty tone ringing false. “How about I buy you some candied skrellen teeth instead?”

Lianshi stuck her tongue out at him, and Leonis laughed, and for a second Scorio thought they might be transitioning to a lighter mood, but as they filed out between the biers, he glanced back once, and with his darkvision saw Leonis’s somber expression once more.

Whatever had happened to his friend, it would clearly not be easily forgotten.

* * *

True to his word, Scorio joined his friends on the next Seventhday to watch the tournament. He couldn’t deny being excited; after two rounds of the loser’s bracket hashing out who would continue, it was finally time for the winners to have another go at each other. With only thirty-two left, and all of them Emberlings, there were no longer any contenders who hadn’t proved themselves against worthy opponents time and again.

Every fight would be worth watching. Analyzing. Discussing at length. But there was only one fight Scorio wanted to watch. One opponent he wanted to observe. One woman he’d started to see as his nemesis. The obstacle he had to overcome, the impossible standard he had to not only meet but exceed.

Jova Spike.

Despite his own incredible focus on his pursuits, he’d now been at the Academy long enough to absorb the culture, overhear the quiet conversations, notice the subtle trends that warped their cohort. Which students were the natural leaders, who generated enough pull to develop followings, which students were loners, which constantly generated rumors and jealous whispers, which were emulated, hated, loved.

But out of their nearly five hundred members, only one name consistently was spoken with a mixture admiration, awe, reverence, and disdain. The yardstick against which everyone, even the greats like Accardi, Zala, Kuragin, and Chen She, measured themselves.

Jova Spike.

She had only two close friends and didn’t bother with acquaintances. Plenty of people followed her about, ran with her, sat at her dining table, clustered around her in class. Plenty of students went out of their way to do her favors, gift her their personal treasures, seek to earn a moment of her approval.

But through this noise, through this attention and focus, she sailed through with steely focus. Polite, unassuming, reserved, and as searingly intense as the blue tip of a gas fire, she spoke little and laughed only when she was with either Zala or Juniper.

And somehow, despite being the most talented of their whole class, she also trained the hardest. Each night when Scorio and his friends would search for a sparring circle in which to train after hours, they’d often find Jova practicing her forms alone or sparring with her two friends. Once or twice, Scorio had been tempted to ask her if she wanted to train with them, but each time, she’d stared right through him, her gaze passing him by as if he weren’t even there, and each time he’d stepped back, the warmth of the impulse turning cold.

The Houses, it was said, continuously sought to recruit her. They’d locked up every other top contender, but she, the glittering apex to their cohort’s best accomplishments, remained disinterested. It was said, by those who claimed to be in the know, that every few weeks a different House would approach her, ask for a meeting which she politely acquiesced to, and put a new offer to her. Increased the treasures they could provide, the quality of the tutors at hand, the guidance, the knowledge as to what to expect.

And every time she declined, politely, firmly, absolutely.

“But why?” Scorio had asked one morning after their run. He’d jabbed his spoon at Leonis. “Why does she turn down such an obvious advantage?”

Leonis had blinked. “Funny you should ask. She and I were cuddling last night, and I asked her, just randomly you know, ‘Hey Jova, so what’s with this whole—’”

Scorio pretended to throw his spoon at the massive man, who laughed and ducked aside.

“But seriously,” Scorio had said. “If she’s gotten this far on basic Academy offerings—”

“And by basic,” Lianshi had interjected dryly, “you mean a daily allotment of Glittering Sage, Fat Cricket, Luminous Ghost—”

“But think of what Hydra could offer her,” Scorio had said. “How much more powerful she could be. A whole semester of ultimate grooming. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“She was unaffiliated back when I knew her,” said Lianshi casually, spooning up more soup. “Granted this was over eighty years ago, but she’d turned down every offer of sponsorship, affiliation, or group membership that had been sent her way. I made a special note of it, because apparently, I’d been mulling inviting her to join my own outfit and ultimately decided not to for that reason.”

“Huh,” said Scorio. “It’ll never get old, hearing about your past lives.”

“Try reading them,” said Lianshi. “It can be shockingly embarrassing. Apparently, I have a tendency to fall in love with emotionally unavailable older men, then create entire alternate realities about them that inevitably prove to be heartbreakingly wrong. And that’s with my having known about the trend ahead of time.”

Scorio and Leonis just stared at Lianshi.

“What?” she said in annoyance. “You think just because I was once the Nun of the Red, I don’t have feelings?”

“No comment,” said Leonis briskly, turning his attention to his plate.

Lianshi turned to Scorio, eyebrow raised, and he grinned. “I’ll keep an eye out for you this time. Don’t worry. You’ve got Scorio the Abhorred here now to wreck any emotionally unavailable idiot that tries to ruin your day.”

“Oh, joy,” deadpanned Lianshi. “I feel so much better.”

Walking alongside his friends now to the basilica, Scorio mulled over the invisible strands of fate and history that were attached to each of them. Was it possible someone had not only kept track of their exploits but created profiles of them, predictive texts that foresaw how they might react to any given situation? After hundreds of reincarnations, surely there was enough information on their personalities and natures to know them better than they knew themselves?

The ritual of entering the arena had grown commonplace. Scorio, Leonis, and Lianshi found their biers and chatted quietly until Praximar once more began the proceedings. His speeches were almost comically similar, but when Helminth bid them all activate their crystals, Scorio repressed a shudder of excitement.

Any chance to watch Jova in action was a moment to be savored.

Opening his eyes, he found himself once more upon the huge stands of the arena. Overhead clouds streamed by as if in torment, endlessly roiling and presaging a storm that never broke. Below, sixteen sparring circles filled the arena floor, the competitors facing off against each other on each edge.

Ignoring Helminth’s customary outline of the rules, Scorio scanned the rings for some sign of Jova. Whom was she up against? His gaze leaped from one pair to the next, bringing each up into magnified view for a moment before releasing them, and then he found her.

Jova stood, composed, chin lowered, hands by her sides, staring across the ring at Ravenna Accardi.

“You’re kidding me,” Leonis whispered by his side.

Lianshi had taken a moment longer to find them and now exhaled in shock. “Oh, wow. Accardi against Spike? That’s…”

“Number one against number two,” said Leonis. “What a fight! This might prove to be the best match-up of the whole tournament.”

Scorio had no words, no interest in chatting or speculating. He studied Accardi’s face. She had to know she was going to lose, or at best, fight the hardest fight of her life. Her expression under her jet-black bangs was stoic, though, revealing nothing of her emotions. Her piercing blue eyes were locked on her distant foe, her jaw set in determination. Scorio hadn’t watched her fight the last time but knew her powers, just like he knew those of every Emberling.

If anybody had a chance of defeating Jova, it was her.

The first chime sounded. Jova shifted into a runner’s stance, legs bent, torso inclined forward, poised to break into a sprint the second the fight began. Ravenna remained still, poised, alert, but clearly not interested in moving forward to engage her foe.

Second chime.

“I feel bad for all the other contestants,” said Leonis. “Not a soul’s going to watch them fight.”

Third chime.

Scorio’s breath caught as Jova hurled herself forward into an all-out sprint.

Ravenna stomped her foot on the stone ground, which shattered into a yard-wide crater as if made of thin glass. Ravenna gestured, turned her hand palm upwards, and beckoned with a curled finger, and a hunk of stone the size of a closed fist flew up to hover before her.

Time seemed to slow. Scorio leaned forward, studying her magnified face, and saw Ravenna’s intense blue eyes narrow a fraction just before she gestured once more.

The hunk of stone flew forward, lazily at first but rapidly gaining speed, so that just before it hit Jova it was flying so fast it blurred.

But Jova was ready, and threw herself into a dive, ducking under the projectile and coming up running, a seamless, perfect move that barely slowed her down.

Only for Ravenna to gesture and fling a second rock at her.

This one came right on the heels of the first, so that Jova was coming up when it hit. The impact was terrible, catching her right hip and spinning her around, lifting her right off her feet so that she rotated mid-air and crashed down onto her chest.

Ravenna didn’t hesitate. She summoned a third rock, smaller than the first two, and sent it zipping right at her fallen foe.

Jova grimaced, rolled aside, climbed awkwardly to her feet, and began to limp forward. Her hip had been pulverized, or should have been, but somehow, she continued advancing. But with her agility greatly diminished, more and more of the stones Ravenna sent her way connected.

Jova dropped to one knee, rose. She reeled back, a stone catching her in the brow, caught her balance, advanced. Six more rocks hit, each doing ever less damage, until the last. This one she simply leaned into, taking it full on the shoulder as if she were shoving her way through a heavy door. The rock spun off her, tearing a gash in her robe but otherwise leaving no mark.

“Accardi needs to do better,” said Leonis quietly.

As if she’d heard, Ravenna stepped back, shut her eyes, and raised both hands. Jova picked up her pace, managing a rough jog as she closed the distance. The ground beneath their feet seemed to shake, and Ravenna’s face went bone-white from the effort as she tore a chunk of rock four feet across right out of the sparring circle’s floor.

“That’s… that’s better,” Lianshi said. “I didn’t know she could do that.”

“Neither did Jova,” said Leonis, and Scorio saw it was true. The woman had faltered, only to resume running a second before Ravenna flicked her fingers and sent the huge rock flying at Jova.

Like the others, it started flying slowly and picked up speed as it went, but Jova was now close enough that it couldn’t quite build up that lethal velocity the other rocks had enjoyed. But it didn’t need to. It hit Jova like a landslide, lifting her off her feet and blasting her back. Jova flew a good fifteen feet before hitting the ground bonelessly. She pushed herself upright, shook her head as if cleaning it, then turned to glare at Ravenna, eyes narrowing.

“She’s not trying to kill her,” breathed Lianshi as Ravenna tore another huge boulder out of the ground. “She’s going to knock her right out of the ring.”

Jova had realized the same. Problem was, being that far from Ravenna allowed her boulders to pick up ever more speed, negating any benefit that being at a distance might give her.

Jova climbed to her feet, hesitated, and then leaped to the side as Ravenna launched her boulder.

It clipped Jova and sent her spinning backward. She hit the stone ground hard enough to bounce and immediately rose to her feet, furious, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, but otherwise not visibly wounded any further.

“Impossible,” said Scorio. “How can she simply stop taking damage?”

“She doesn’t,” said Lianshi. “Don’t fool yourself. It just takes ever more to hurt her.”

“Same thing,” said Scorio.

“It really isn’t. Especially at higher levels of power. A Dread Blaze could crush her.”

But they both went quiet as Ravenna hurled a third boulder at Jova, then a fourth. Each was going so quickly by the time it reached Jova that she couldn’t dodge in time; twice more she was hurled back, the last one bringing her right to the edge of the arena.

“By the ten hells,” said Leonis. “Accardi’s going to do it.”

The effort was taking a toll on her; just like Massamach, Scorio saw, drawing on her power took ever more physical effort. Her jaw-length black hair was now in disarray, her eyes wide and staring, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly as she gasped for breath. But Scorio could see a gleam in her eyes, a predatory hunger.

Ravenna could obviously taste just how close she was to doing the impossible.

Jova rose to her feet and stood, inches from the arena’s edge. At that distance, the boulder would hit her like a bolt of lightning. Run! Scorio shouted silently at her. Juke left and right! Close the distance!

Instead, Jova took a deep and measured breath, then sat down.

“What is she doing?” Leonis sounded outraged. “That’s not how you dodge boulders!”

Ravenna clawed at the air, and a huge chunk of rock, raw and sharply edged tore itself free of the ground. Easily six or seven feet wide, it was the largest she’d drawn thus far, and the effort caused blood to burst from one nostril.

A deep breath, and then she hurled it at where Jova sat cross-legged.

Heart in his throat, Scorio stared. The rock would pulverize Jova, send her flying into oblivion. The fight was over. She wasn’t even trying to dodge. Had she conceded? Acknowledged the inevitable?

The rock took off slowly, picked up speed, raced across the center of the circle, then blurred as it closed on Jova.

Scorio blinked and thought he’d missed it. “What happened?” The huge boulder had sailed through the spot in which Jova had sat, out into the darkness beyond, which had consumed it utterly.

Of Jova there was no sign.

“Where did she go?” He searched the darkness beyond the circle. Nothing. Ravenna was staring, wide-eyed, so winded she could barely stand.

“She disappeared,” said Lianshi, tone awed. “The rock went right through her.”

“Can she do that?” Leonis sounded outraged. “She can’t do that. Can she do that?”

Scorio waited. All it would take was for Helminth to call the fight for Ravenna, but the instructor stayed silent.

Ravenna, for her part, fought to catch her breath. Wiping the blood from her upper lip, she began to draw back, looking all around her as if expecting to be attacked at any moment.

“Somebody please explain what just happened,” said Leonis, tone plaintive. “Someone? Anyone?”

“No,” said Lianshi, but not to Leonis. More to the world at large, a single expression of disbelief.

“What?” asked Scorio. He kept searching, kept failing to find Jova. “What is it, Lianshi?”

“I… it can’t be. Just… wait. If I’m right…”

Scorio blinked, relinquished the magnified view, and turned to observe the other fights. Had Jova somehow leaped into another circle?

Half the fights were over, and over the course of the next few minutes, they all ended, one by one. Victors raised their fists as Helminth made her announcements, until at last, only Ravenna remained, wary, uncertain, growing ever more furious as she continued to stab looks in every direction.

“What is going on?” muttered Leonis.

Around them, the crowd was stirring, restive. Scorio focused on Ravenna again, saw the frustration breaking through her otherwise impenetrable mask.

And then her expression changed. Her eyes widened, her jaw went slack, and she took a step back.

Scorio blinked, pulled his vision back out so that he wasn’t solely focused on her face, and saw that Jova had appeared.

She stood in the same spot as before, head bowed, hands clenched into fists by her side. Though her clothing was torn, her wounds had disappeared altogether.

“What the…?” whispered Scorio, then heard a collective gasp torn from the lips of nearly a thousand onlookers as Ravenna let out an animal-like cry of panic or fear and tore a rock from the ground.

Spellbound, Scorio could only watch as Ravenna gestured and sent the rock flying—but it flew wide of where Jova stood, missed her by a yard at least.

As if awoken by this attack, Jova raised her head and began marching toward her opponent.

Who continued to back toward the far end of the sparring circle, her brow suddenly beaded with sweat, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly. Again she tore a rock free from the ground, and again she hurled it at Jova.

And again she missed, the rock flying a good three feet over Jova’s head.

“Is she… has Jova taken over her powers?” asked Leonis.

“Can’t be,” said Lianshi, though she sounded anything but certain. “I’ve never heard of anyone being able to do that.”

Jova marched straight toward Ravenna, who labored to throw ever more rocks at her. Most missed; one or two flew right at her and simply bounced off an invisible force, not even causing Jova to stumble.

Ravenna was now right against the edge of the circle. She looked desperate, her mouth hanging open, her back hunched. She glanced to her left and right, as if seeking an escape, and then let out a scream and tore a huge chunk of rock free, five or six feet wide, and with a second cry hurled it at Jova.

And missed.

“What is going on?” asked Leonis again. “Why’s she acting terrified?”

Lianshi’s scorn was evident. “Wouldn’t you be if you were fighting a Tomb Spark?”

Tomb Spark.

“No,” said Scorio, the word escaping his lips before he could control himself. “That can’t be.”

Ravenna let out an anguished cry and threw a smaller rock, this one the size of her fist. It was a wild hurl, but more by luck it seemed to fly right at Jova; it detonated a foot from her as if it had been thrown right at a stone wall.

“Where do you think she went?” asked Lianshi, tone implacable. “Her second trial. And Tomb Spark is when you first get your shroud.”

Shroud.

Words came back to him, summoned from recent memory. The White Queen, speaking to them all as they prepared to assault Imogen the Woe: Her halo allows her to establish preeminence, which none here can contest. Her Ferula is infamous for its destructive power, and her shroud is nigh impervious to any attacks we can muster.

Jova had a shroud?

Jova was a Tomb Spark?

Scorio felt a bout of dizziness wash over him, felt his heart lurch painfully in his chest and begin to pound erratically.

Jova strode forward, impervious, inexorable.

Ravenna stood, shaking her head in abject denial, and then broke into a run, darting away to the left.

Jova angled to intercept and broke into a sprint. The transition from slow strides to all-out running was shocking. A moment later she intercepted Ravenna, who screamed and dropped into a crouch, arms wrapped around her head.

Jova stopped beside her, placed a boot upon the girl’s shoulder, and shoved her out of the ring.

Ravenna fell into the darkness and was gone.

Utter silence had fallen upon the stands. Everyone was gaping. Scorio felt numb; everything was happening too quickly, and all he could think was a single thought, over and over again as Jova turned to stare up at where Helminth stood on her pedestal.

The crowd broke out into rapturous cheers as Jova raised her fist, the sound washing over him like a huge wave, drowning him in its frenzied might.

It’s over, he thought. It’s over. It’s all over.

Chapter 64

“It’s not like it’s never happened before,” Lianshi was saying. The three of them were making their way back to their suite. “Apparently Iulius the Golden reached Flame Vault by the end of the first semester.”

“Iulius the Golden?” Leonis shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“Hasn’t been reborn in some time.” Lianshi shrugged a shoulder. “A lot of people are looking forward to his return. He was a huge presence right up till he stopped being reborn.”

“I bet Praximar wishes I’d disappear in the same way,” muttered Scorio.

“Or,” said Leonis, throwing an arm around Scorio’s shoulders, “maybe he likes being antagonized and driven to distraction by upstart rapscallions such as yourself.”

Scorio snorted. “And here I was thinking he was a sadist all the time. Turns out he’s a masochist.”

“You know the old adage?” Leonis leered down at him. “The masochist says hurt me, and the sadist says no.”

Scorio frowned up at his friend. “You saying I should stop upsetting Praximar?”

“Nothing would make him more upset. What would he do with all his time?”

To which Scorio could only snort and shake his head.

They turned into their hall and walked in silence to their door. Entered, one by one, and then all of them sank onto the cushions that filled one corner. Lianshi stared at Scorio, a single vertical line between her brows.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

“About what?” Scorio pulled a cushion onto his lap and started fiddling with the seam. “That my one in a million chance has just turned to zero?”

“Doesn’t look good, I’ll give you that,” sighed Leonis, lying back luxuriously. “How did she make Tomb Spark? At this point, she’s just showing off.”

“To make Tomb Spark you need to take your hugely magnified reservoir and compress it back to its original size.” Lianshi’s tone was pensive. “Resulting in an ultra-dense pool that can easily be ignited. It’s no longer a question of getting enough mana, or high-quality treasures. Your reservoir is already huge. It’s simply a matter of using your will to condense, and that’s fueled by an understanding of who you are. There are Great Souls who make Emberling in no time and then get stuck there for ages, or conversely, those who take forever to get there and then burn right through to Tomb Spark in no time at all. Just a question of understanding yourself, accepting yourself, and willing yourself to ascend.”

“That’s it?” asked Scorio. “You just need to understand yourself? I mean, I understand myself perfectly already.”

“It’s not easy,” said Lianshi, tone severe. “It’s not enough to just say words to yourself, or take guesses, or even realize the truth. Apparently, you have to accept it at a soul level. Truly understand who you are.”

“Think of it this way,” said Leonis. “I know it’s bad for me to drink copious amounts of flaywine the night before an important fight. I know I should spend that time working on my Forms instead. But the knowledge isn’t enough. I still indulge in my many glorious vices. I haven’t, ah, Tomb-Sparked my way from knowing to being, or what have you.”

“Huh,” said Scorio. “So even realizing who you are isn’t enough. You’ve got to… what? Believe it?”

“Something like that,” said Lianshi. “And that’s the hard part. Though apparently, Jova managed just fine. Guess she’s been doing her homework.”

“Funny,” said Scorio. “I thought she was just paddling water. Focusing on her skills, her forms.”

“What, you didn’t see her every night in the training circles?” asked Leonis.

“I did. I just… I’ve been thinking of her as a static target. My mistake.”

They subsided into silence.

“Nothing’s changed, though,” said Lianshi at last. “We’re going to harvest your farm tomorrow, then train in the Gauntlet. You’re going to make Emberling, and we’re going to give the Gauntlet our all in five weeks’ time.”

Scorio grimaced. “Why bother? Even if I make Emberling, Jova’s a damned Tomb Spark. She’ll enter the Gauntlet not only invulnerable due to her Emberling power, but now with a Tomb Spark shroud. What out there can even hurt her?”

“She’s just one person,” said Lianshi, leaning forward. “We’re a team.”

“She’ll be going in with a team,” Scorio spat back.

“But not a real team. Jova’s practically a loner. You’ve seen her. Throw her together with three other strangers, and you think she’ll get along with them? Whereas we three have been working together from the beginning. Well, almost the beginning. How many times have we tackled the old Gauntlet now?”

Scorio frowned, wanting to resist her logic.

“We’re a team, Scorio. And if we enter the Gauntlet as one, who’s to say we won’t do better overall because of it?”

“Not to be a pessimist,” said Leonis with an apologetic wince, “but if Jova reaches the end of the tournament—which we all know she will—then the rest of her team will be the other three Great Souls who make it into the top four. That’s the whole reward, after all.”

“Three other random Great Souls,” said Lianshi heatedly, “none of which will be Ravenna. They’ll be even less of a team than any other line-up. They’ll have been competitors right up till the last second, and each will no doubt bring a large amount of pride and resentment to the mix. Which Jova will icily ignore as she goes about doing what she does best: winning by herself.”

“So, what are you saying?” asked Scorio, bouncing his knee angrily. “That four Emberlings can compete against a Tomb Spark? She’s just gained immunity from the Curse for a whole ’nother segment of the run.”

“True,” said Lianshi. “And that’s no small thing. Nor is her ability to ignore damage. But I’ve told you a hundred times now: she’s not actually invulnerable. Not like I can be. She seems that way against Emberling level damage, but if she gets hit by something more powerful, it will leave a mark.”

“We need Naomi,” said Leonis. “Now more than ever.”

“What we need,” cut in Scorio, “is for me to make Emberling already. I’m the weak part of the team. I’m going to drag you all down.”

“Hence your ludicrous plan to use… imperial gel? To concentrate Coal mana to Ruby-level intensity?” Lianshi gave a sharp shake of her head. “Which, incidentally, is still an utterly ridiculous plan. But which!” She held up a hand to forestall protests. “I am not going to harp on about. You nurture your Black Star plants, you make Emberling, we convince Naomi to come back, then we give the Gauntlet our all. What else can we do?”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Leonis looked over to Scorio in mock surprise. “She’s actually quite good at these motivational speeches, isn’t she?”

“Not bad,” said Scorio, unable to resist smiling.

“You two are insufferable,” said Lianshi, and threw a small pillow at Leonis. “You want me to find some other group to join?”

“No!” Leonis raised both hands defensively. “Who else would we tease in your absence? Each other? The horror!”

Lianshi stared venomously at Leonis, whose smile wilted as he shrank back dramatically. “Oh, spare me, great and glorious leader.”

“I’m not the leader,” said Lianshi, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “Scorio is.”

“I am not,” said Scorio automatically.

The other two both turned to stare at him.

“I’m not. I, ah, just… I don’t know, I’m the one desperate enough to drag you into my hare-brained schemes. That’s all.”

“A desperate leader, then,” said Lianshi with a sniff. “Even better.”

“I really want to know what Jova did to Ravenna,” said Leonis, interlacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. “That was wild. The way she… cowered? I’d have bet a hundred octs before this that Ravenna would die before she showed fear to another.”

“Her Tomb Spark power,” said Lianshi. “Perhaps it’s fear-based. Maybe that’s why she missed, as well. Perhaps terror ruined her aim.”

“As if Jova wasn’t intimidating enough,” said Leonis.

A chime sounded, clear and lucid and loud.

“Time for class,” said Lianshi, rising smoothly to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go see if Feng feels voluble enough to shed some light on what just happened.”

Scorio reluctantly climbed to his feet and straightened his robes. “Thanks, guys.”

“Hmm?” Leonis paused in the process of retying his belt. “For what? For being your friends? Surely you’re not thanking us for that. That’d mean the act of friendship is one that’s not freely given, meaning we’d have to start tallying who’s giving more—”

“You’re welcome,” said Lianshi, cutting in. “Now come on. Last thing I want is to be late. Remember what Feng said last Seventhday?”

“Only too well.” Leonis gave his sash a tight tug and stepped off the cushions altogether. “Let’s go learn what the gossips are saying.”

* * *

More weeks passed. The routine gave Scorio’s life structure yet was also unbearable. He tried to lose himself in each endeavor, to increase his pace in his runs, to improve his First Form, to wield his will like a weapon during Instructor Hera’s meditation classes.

And he saw definite improvement. Even Instructor Feng pointed it out, noting with dry approval that his technique, his instincts, and his focus had moved to another level.

Despite the praise, despite his every accomplishment, Scorio was aware of nothing but his failings. For every Cinder he dropped without receiving a blow in sparring practice, he was aware of the Emberlings tearing each other apart with powers he couldn’t compete against. For every lap he ran in the mornings, he thought of how Jova could easily outpace him if she but bothered to exert herself. For every sack of Heartstones he delivered to Jelan, he was aware of the Fat Crickets and better that most of the class was consuming without expending any effort. He practiced the First Form until each iteration left him gasping, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding as he wreaked ruin on his invisible opponents. Struggled against Iron mana with his every spare moment until walking around with a low-level headache became normal.

But it was never enough. Nothing was enough. Leonis and Lianshi learned to stop trying to comfort him, to place his gains in context. More and more he strove alone, chasing elusive goals, impossible dreams. And was defied at every turn by his fractured Heart.

Every now and then he caught sight of Praximar. The chancellor would be watching him, a slight curve to his lips, his amusement barely disguised. The sight of the older man reveling in his struggles only drove Scorio to darker and deeper bouts of training. Resentment burned within his core like a midnight bonfire. It warmed him, burned him, kept him focused.

But nothing mattered. His Heart vented nearly half of everything he poured into it. He could sense his reservoir slowly expanding, but it felt like trying to empty a pool with a sieve. The more he flailed, the more frustrated he became.

The first batch of Black Star proved fruitful; he collected almost four hundred beads of the deepest ebon, which he placed in a heavy burlap sack and brought home. Nox had loomed the whole time, fidgeting and restless, driven near to distraction by the presence of so much mana. He’d warned that the farm was drawing lethal attention, but Leonis, Lianshi, and Scorio had worked swiftly, gathered their riches, and then left before the Imperial Ghost Toad could have acted rashly.

More weeks crawled by. Tournament rounds. Training sessions. Classes. Histories and geographies, common fiends, greater monsters, the powers of hell, and those who defied them. Feng’s clinical commentary rang in his ears, Hera’s admonishments that he was pushing himself too hard. Helminth’s sardonic stare haunted his nights, and over it all loomed Jova Spike, uncaring, distant, impersonal, a force of nature.

The semester began to draw to a close. Excitement was thick in the air, and even those who hadn’t pushed themselves redoubled their efforts. Not only was the end of the tournament in sight, but just after it the fateful Gauntlet run. Everyone spoke of nothing else. Those with House sponsorships remained quiet, refusing to share their privileged information as to what to expect, while those not so fortunate discussed how best to tackle the first four rooms.

Once or twice Scorio sought out Naomi. But her room had been truly abandoned, and he saw no hint of her no matter how long he looked. He spent long evenings watching the steam clouds curling up toward the darkening sun-wire, gazing out over the ruins and replaying his past, his decisions, his mistakes, until the wire went dark, and the rains would fall, spiraling across the inside of Bastion’s cylinder, drenching ruins and city alike in heavy rains.

Leonis sought to persuade him to go out every once in a while, to visit Feiyan and Helena, to try some of the more exquisite restaurants, to spend their allotments of octs. Scorio refused every time.

Lianshi was a more constant and quieter presence. She trained rigorously by his side, as driven as he but for her own reasons. Evenings in their suite she’d sit upon a cushion and read one of her journals, slowly turning the pages and often frowning at what she discovered within the pages.

She never offered to share what she read, and nobody dared ask.

Weeks crawled by, and while Scorio felt his body responding, his will strengthening, his command of mana improving, it never felt enough.

Forced to give up on having Naomi’s help in turning the four hundred beads of pure Coal mana into potent syrup, Scorio visited the alchemist again, and silenced the man’s protests with a heavy pouch of the very octs he’d earned from Jelan for weeks’ worth of Heartstones. The payment had been more than generous, and the man had blinked, taken the large burlap sack, and a week later, delivered to Scorio a massive jar filled with a depthless black fluid that radiated terrible and dangerous power.

Scorio, Leonis, and Lianshi had sat, staring at the huge jar of incredibly pure Coal mana syrup, until Leonis had shaken himself and risen to his feet.

“That is a terrible temptation. Hide it well, my friend. People will sense it and come looking.”

From that moment on, Scorio always carried the jar with him, swaddled in thick blankets within a backpack, never letting it out of his sight.

The final round of the winner’s bracket arrived. Eight contestants fought for the coveted four spots that would form the winner’s Gauntlet team. Scorio felt nothing as he stood in the stands; no anticipation, no excitement, no eagerness to witness the displays of martial power.

This time he didn’t even focus on Jova’s fight; he didn’t want to watch, to witness her mastery. Instead, he turned his attention to the other three combats. All were Emberlings, but somehow that just wasn’t impressive any longer. The battles were as brutal as they were brief. Zala, who had clawed her way to the top after an ignominious first Gauntlet run, eked out a victory over an Emberling who could transform his body into living rock and lava; Kuragin fought a ruinous battle against Chen She, winning at great cost and a terrible amount of bloodshed; and Juniper, the radiant blonde, was defeated by Chloe, a fight in which they both circled each other cautiously until at last, they clashed in an explosion of blows which seemed to go Chloe’s way more by luck than anything else.

“Jova, Chloe, Kuragin, and Zala,” said Leonis as they’d walked away at the end of the extended and celebratory ceremony. “That’s a strong team.”

“Not a team, remember?” Lianshi was pinching the bridge of her nose. Scorio felt a wave of sympathy; Praximar’s hour-long speech about the glories the four winners would earn both in the Gauntlet and thereafter had grated terribly.

“Jova is nigh unstoppable, and weirdly terrifying,” said Leonis, ticking off a finger. “Chloe needs to deliver but one punch to turn into a tornado of attacks that will demolish any foe. Kuragin is a monster, pure and simple, while Zala’s butterflies will destroy anything in time.”

“Sounds impressive,” said Lianshi, “but there are some glaring weaknesses in their line-up. Not much by way of actual mobility.”

“Kuragin can move,” protested Leonis.

Scorio walked in silence, listening, feeling numb.

“True, but the more he uses his technique, the greater a threat he becomes to his teammates,” replied Lianshi. “And think about chambers like the balancing floor, or what we’ve dealt with in the old Gauntlet. How would they fare there?”

Now Scorio did speak. “Jova would power through the room of flying cubes with no difficulty.”

“Sure, but what about the scrolling wall? Being invulnerable to most damage won’t save you from falling into an abyss.”

“Kuragin could grab her, help her climb,” said Leonis. “Like Naomi did for Scorio.”

Which caused Lianshi to wince and glance at Scorio. “True. But my point is this: they’re all excellent at fighting. That’s what the tournament rewarded, right? The ability to go toe-to-toe? But neither Chloe nor Zala are especially mobile. And none of them have worked together as a team to compensate for each other’s weaknesses.”

“They’ve got two weeks,” said Scorio. “Maybe one of them will make Tomb Spark and gain some crucial power.”

“Maybe,” said Leonis. “But tomorrow we gather the second batch of Black Star and then you’re going to make Emberling.”

“Yeah,” said Scorio softly. “Yeah.”

* * *

They headed out at First Clay, the sun-wire congealing into a ruddy hue that cast a baleful red light across Bastion’s cylindrical insides. Clad in functional work robes, they immediately began to jog the moment they left the Academy’s gates, winding their way south toward the ruins and the Old Academy, following familiar routes and moving with quiet purpose.

No jesting, no idle raillery. The intensity of the occasion bled from Scorio to the other two, united them in purpose, and even street vendors shrank back from their expressions. In his pack he carried the tincture from the first batch of Black Star beads; contained within a massive jar swaddled in thick blankets, it radiated fell power. No way was he leaving that behind in his quarters on every Great Soul’s day off. Though it weighed him down, he felt immeasurably comforted to know exactly where it was at all times.

They slowed as they passed a crowd in Ward 4. A young woman with a shock of crimson hair that had been hacked short stood atop a pedestal, shouting passionately to all who would listen, and hundreds had stopped to do so.

“Wait,” said Scorio. “I know her. I saw her right after Imogen’s attack. She was calling for our downfall.”

They stopped and drew closer.

“…the ruins close about our homes like hands around our throats, and what do they do? They celebrate tournaments, they boast about the treasures they’re bringing home from the depths of hell, they eat as much as they can, then throw the leftovers into the trash! Bastion itself will soon be destroyed, and do they have a plan? No! Have they come out to talk to us, to answer our demands, to show any sign of real leadership? No!”

“Doesn’t sound good,” rumbled Leonis.

“For decades they strung us along with their Empyreal Prophecy, and look where that got us? Nowhere, just wasted time, wasted homes, entire neighborhoods and wards lost to the ruins endless hunger. And now that the prophecy was revealed to be a hoax, have they even bothered to sell us a new lie? Of course not! They feel safe, contented in their halls of power, while we must scrape and fight and die to feed them and their lifestyles! And can they even defend us, can their vaunted powers keep evil away from Bastion?”

Angry shouts answered her as she scanned the crowd.

“No, they can’t! Imogen the Woe nearly tore this city apart before they bothered to fight. I lost my parents, my brother, my little sister, my home, all of it in one moment, and has anyone come forth to apologize? To take responsibility? For my pain? For yours?”

The angry shouts grew in number, and Scorio saw faces flush in fury.

“Of course not! Why should they bother? We’re rats to be ignored, roaches to be crushed under their feet! We’re nothing to them but a source of amusement in bed or labor or taxes! They hold us in nothing but contempt, and our pain, our tears, our blood, it only makes them laugh!”

Fists were thrust into the air, and the woman looked over the crowd again, her green eyes gleaming, nodding in approval of the rage.

“I tell you this, brothers and sisters, I tell you that we have revolted against the oppressors before! Garannil did so a century ago, but he failed because he thought it had to be peaceful! Well, his failure showed us—”

Then her eyes locked on Scorio and widened.

And in that second he finally recognized her. The last time he’d seen her she’d been lit by eerie blue moss, her face drained of color, her hair verdigrised in the subterranean illumination. Since then she’d chopped most of that hair off, eaten a few square meals, and substituted her dull fatalism for revolutionary fervor.

Nissa.

“Time to go,” Lianshi whispered, edging backward.

“They’re here! Great Souls!” She pointed right at him. Did she not recognize him? “There! Come to listen, to eavesdrop! Or have they come to answer our questions?”

“Time to go,” agreed Leonis, quickly fading away as the crowd turned to glare at them.

“Why have no apologies been issued?” shouted Nissa after them. “Who will pay for the blood that was spilled? When will we be given the right to rule over ourselves? Oh! They run? They run! That is what they always do—they run when confronted—”

Scorio and his friends raced into the closest alleyway as the roar grew behind them, angry and demanding. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to be chased, but turned off into another street before anyone did so.

They ran till they left the ward behind, and only then did they slow.

Lianshi looked at them both, pale-faced. “The hatred,” she whispered. “Did you feel that? She truly loathed us.”

“I know her,” said Scorio, tone wondering. “She’s a Red Lister, like me. Escaped at the same time I did. Nissa. She was…” He trailed off, shocked, unable to put his roiling emotions into words.

“A Red Lister?” Leonis let out a low whistle. “That’s not good. We need to tell someone.”

“No.” The intensity of Scorio’s emotions surprised him. “I mean - we can’t. About her, specifically. She was thrown down there with me. Showed me this list of names…”

The other two were staring at him strangely.

“Look, just let her… I don’t know. Be part of this revolution. If anyone has reason to be upset, it’s her, and…”

“You’re not making sense, Scorio,” said Lianshi. “She’s whipping that crowd into a mob. If she’s a Great Soul, then there’s no telling how dangerous that could get.”

“I know.” He raked his hands through his hair roughly. “It’s just that… what happened to me, it’s the same thing that happened to her. It wasn’t fair. And… I just want her to have a chance, you know? If the revolution gets crushed, she can be crushed with it. But the thought of handing her over to Praximar to be thrown back through the Final Door for another hundred lives is just… I can’t take on that responsibility.”

His friends exchanged a dubious glance, then slowly nodded.

“Regardless,” continued Leonis, “this anger in the street’s been building. Each time we come out, it’s gotten worse.”

Scorio nodded reluctantly. “Ever since the prophecy failed. And then Imogen’s attack. They know they’ve only got a decade left before Bastion is consumed. Doesn’t look like Praximar and the other Autocrators have been very good at working with them.”

Leonis rubbed at his beard. “You heard the man. He’s invited community leaders to attend the tournament celebrations, and the Houses are spending money on repairs and so forth in the city.”

Scorio resisted the urge to spit. “He says that, but I’ve not seen anything like that out here. And since none of the other students ever leave the Graveyards, how would anyone know better?”

“But they have to know this anger is out here,” said Lianshi, hurrying to catch up. “They have to know the people are upset.”

“Sure,” said Scorio. “The question is: do they care?”

“They might if they knew a Red Lister was riling them up,” said Lianshi quietly, but Scorio scowled and marched on. They continued in silence and reached the ruins shortly thereafter to work their way across the blasted urban landscape.

Other than a few deviations due to incipient dangers, they reached the monolithic bridge without trouble. Scorio ran steadily across, feeling no fatigue, his whole body thrumming with intent. This was it. This was the moment he’d been angling for, his sole hope, his outside chance of even being in the running.

As they reached the bridge’s far side, Scorio slowed, sensing that both his companions had done the same. Turning, he frowned at them. “What’s wrong?”

Lianshi was studying the ruins off to the left, while Leonis had turned completely around to stare behind them.

“Something is different,” said Lianshi. “Emberling senses. I can’t tell what, but something is close.”

“Same here,” said Leonis, “but I’m just feeling uneasy. The Coal mana in the area is incredibly dense. Feels like a beacon.”

“Feels like we’re being watched,” said Lianshi.

Scorio didn’t question them. Instead, he strode off the bridge, moving toward Nox’s collapsed mound.

The ground shivered, a slight tremble that caused fallen stone around them to grate in complaint.

“Earthquake?” asked Leonis.

Movement within the burrow. Nox. The toad came bounding out, his movements galvanic, frantic. “Favorite friends! Below! Below! Kushiwillow eating Black Stars!”

Kushiwillow. Scorio had never heard the term, but whatever it was had the Imperial Ghost toad fleeing instead of fighting it off. Scorio bared his teeth, felt his face flush as fury flooded him, and with a cry, he ran forward.

The ground shivered once more.

Nox leaped atop his plinth, cocked his blind head to one side. The toad’s whole body radiated alarm.

“That the kushiwillow?” yelled Leonis, rushing in behind Scorio. “It’s shaking the earth?”

“No,” said Nox, his voice suddenly very small, very quiet, very afraid. “That much worse. Alben Worm. Come for mana. Flee, favorite friends, flee!”

And with that Nox sprang into the air, an incredible leap that carried it clear from the tip of its plinth, across the square, and onto the closest rooftop.

The three of them froze.

“We need to get below,” choked out Scorio. “We need to protect the Black Stars.”

The ground shivered again.

“We need to get out of here, Scorio,” said Lianshi, tone strong, brassy with fear and conviction. “We need to run!”

“No!” Scorio’s voice shook, and his fingers twitched of their own accord. “Below! Now!”

Everything was happening too quickly, all at once. The air felt jellied, the red light from the sun-wire painting the world in blood, the shadows over-thick, the situation sliding so rapidly out of his control that Scorio wanted to scream. He turned toward the burrow, but a hand clasped his shoulder, held him fast.

With a snarl, Scorio wheeled about, went to knock the arm away, but saw Leonis’s expression. The large man was staring, aghast, at the square’s far side, where something was rising out of the ground.

Scorio felt nausea sweep through him as his throat cramped.

It was a massive white worm. It had somehow burrowed its way right out of the rock to rear up a good ten yards into the sky. Arms hung from its snout, pallid, human arms, whose fingers grasped and flexed as if in anticipation.

But it was the almost-human visage at the very tip of the worm’s snout that caught and held Scorio’s attention. Skin as pale as alabaster, eyes a peerless sky blue without iris or pupil, expressive brows, the scalp bald, the face that of an older man, wrinkled and aged.

But there was no snout. The worm’s head was the man’s torso, massive and muscular, and the seams of his mouth carved down his chest to where his waist blended with the worm’s body. A mouth that peeled open like a flap of raw flesh being flensed from the flank of a corpse, revealing the entire chest and abdomen to be the underside of its lower jaw, from which lolled a massive, sensual, and utterly repulsive tongue as thick as Scorio’s thigh.

“Alben Worm,” said Lianshi, tone lifeless. “We need… we need to go.”

She was right. But Scorio couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot. All his being was drawing him to the burrow, to where the kushiwillow was devouring his precious mana beads.

The Alben Worm licked its disgusting tongue about itself, leaving a glistening smear of slime over its pale flesh, and then began to surge forward, the rest of its body emerging from its hole.

“Damn it, Scorio,” shouted Leonis, tugging at his shoulder. “We need to leave, now!”

And then, there was a flicker of movement. A dark shape leaped off a rooftop, blurring through the air as it arced out, a languorous somersault that dropped it square in the Alben Worm’s path, the impact on stone causing a cloud of dust and debris to blast out.

Angular, black-formed, her tail lashing out with its wicked blade point, the Nightmare Lady stared at the approaching fiend.

“Go below!” she shouted, voice cracking out across the square like a whip. “Save your plants, Scorio. I’ll hold it off.”

Madness. Fierce as she was, the Nightmare Lady was dwarfed by the behemoth that was the Alben Worm. Its arms reached for her, the human visage leering spasmodically, blue eyes glowing with hunger.

Scorio hesitated. The Nightmare Lady could hold it back, couldn’t she? Give him just enough time to go below and fight off the kushiwillow? She was nimble, fast; she just had to keep it distracted for—what—five minutes? Leonis and Lianshi would help him turn the tide below, then they’d return, return in time to save Naomi—

Scorio felt a dull and enervating sensation sweep through him. He wanted to hang his head, to allow his arms to fall limp, to exhale and allow the darkness to sweep him away. For in that moment, he knew his Black Star plants were lost to him, that with them went the last of his dreams, his terrible, fanciful hope that there yet remained a chance of victory.

“Lianshi, Leonis,” he heard himself say, voice stern, brooking no denial. “With me.”

And he unshouldered his heavy pack, dropped it to the ground, and ran from the burrow. Turned his back to its beckoning tunnel, and ignited his Heart with a great and furious sweep of his will, so that its pitted and fractured surface incandesced in a black inferno.

Leonis stretched out his hand and Nezzar appeared in his grip, improbably massive, its hexagonal form blunt and crude yet somehow inspiring awe. Lianshi raced out wide, no doubt seeking a more advantageous approach, fleet-footed, black hair streaming behind her.

And the Nightmare Lady? She remained still, frozen in the crouch in which she’d landed, watching as the Alben Worm surged toward her, rearing up like a huge wave to crash down upon where she waited.

Scorio wished for a weapon. That mangled blade he’d discarded weeks ago, a rock. Anything with which to pummel or slash the fiend, but he knew his best hope lay in his mana-infused fists. Even with the might of a Cinder coursing through his veins, however, he doubted he’d be able to hurt such a massive fiend with blows alone. But he’d do what he could.

The worm fell upon the Nightmare Lady like a collapsing tower, its huge mouth peeling open as its tongue speared forth. But the Nightmare Lady had been waiting for just that, and dodged aside at the last moment, her tail coming up and around, the triangular tip scything through the air toward the worm’s human face.

But she’d underestimated the tongue’s speed. It blurred, corrected course, snaked around the Nightmare Lady’s waist, and yanked her toward its huge maw. Her tail strike was thrown off by the sudden jerk, and she was half inside its mouth before she could recover.

Though he kept running, Scorio was stunned—how did something so massive move so fast? Faster even than the Nightmare Lady?

The worm reared up once more, dragging Naomi into its throat even as her tail lashed and lacerated its sides with blind fury. Each cut caused milky white fluid to burst forward, followed by a thicker, more clotted substance like curds or rancid cheese. The Alben Worm didn’t seem to mind; it pulled her in deeper, its lower jaw rising to mold around her body and force her in.

Leonis powered right past Scorio, closing the distance in a flash, and with a roar he leaped high into the air, his Emberling power carrying him up and past the Alben Worm’s head.

And for the first time, Scorio saw his friend swing Nezzar, and witnessed what the weapon could do.

The runes blazed into life, so bright that they left luminous trails seared in the air behind them, and the blunt tip of the hexagonal club impacted the side of the Alben Worm’s head, which exploded away under the blow like a burst bladder. A great cloud of fluid and soft, pale flesh streamed into the air, and the worm keened as it wheeled about, orienting on Leonis as he fell into a crouch beyond it.

Just as Scorio reached its base. His leap was much less impressive, despite his putting all his strength into it, but enough to cause him to reach up and snag the Nightmare Lady’s ankle. He grasped it with both hands, swung on it, and his weight combined with the worm’s shock and pain caused the Nightmare Lady to tear free of its flexible mouth. They both crashed back down to the ground in a welter of thick, creamy saliva, and the Alben Worm’s keen grew enraged as it drew back.

Scorio sensed the mana in the area begin to shift as if invisible storm clouds were forming, but even as he rose to his feet, he felt a burst of confidence. They could do this. Together, united, they could pummel the worm into submission. Force it to flee.

The Nightmare Lady flipped up to her feet, her movements harsh, rapid, and her tail whip cracked out behind her, sending gobbets of slime flying.

“Run,” she said.

Scorio frowned—was she telling him to leave because he was a Cinder, because he was weak, or—?

A great cone of shimmering light formed around them all, with the worm at its center. It was like being trapped in a cyclone of heat haze, one that encapsulated most of the square. Immediately Scorio felt the storm cloud sensation of the mana begin to quicken.

The Alben Worm, a quarter of its entire head—or human torso, or whatever—gone, reared back from where Leonis was advancing. The massive man twirled the huge club about as if it were a baton and came on, his face that of an executioner.

“Damn it,” hissed the Nightmare Lady. “We need to kill it now!”

“That’s what we’re trying to do!” Scorio shouted back over the growing thrum of wind around them. No, not wind—it was Coal mana swirling around them, under the worm’s control. A huge, roiling cyclone with the worm at its center. “What’s it doing?”

“Killing us,” snarled the Nightmare Lady, and she burst forward, running in a zigzag toward the Alben Worm, bent over low, tail following sinuously in her wake.

Leonis roared and leaped, swung Nezzar, but this time not only did the worm sway out of his way, but a large, curved shield of force appeared in his path, blocking his blow and knocking him back. His roar turned into a surprised cry as he bounced off it and dropped. The Nightmare Lady came in low and tore around the worm, leaping over one of its coils as she went and opening its belly with a slash of her tail.

What could he do? Where was Lianshi? There—she’d worked her way behind the worm, was looking as frustrated as he felt.

The Coal mana was whirling faster and faster. But now it was changing. Heating up, growing toxic, like actual clouds of superheated soot. It was becoming hard to breathe, and he felt his skin begin to burn.

The Alben Worm whipped aside, undulating with preternatural speed, and hit the Nightmare Lady with its tail, catching her mid-leap and slamming her across the square. She hit the cone of force that contained the mana storm and bounced off it with bone-jarring force.

Leonis ran forward, swung his club again, trying to clobber the worm’s flank. Nezzar flared brightly but once more was rebuffed by the suddenly materializing shield.

“Lianshi!” Scorio ran out wide, waved to get her attention. “Run to me! I’ll be the bait!”

Would she understand? There wasn’t time to explain further. The mana storm was growing in speed and power, and every passing second made him feel as if he were being flayed alive. Gritting his teeth against the growing pain, he ran forward, right into the worm’s path, waving his arms at it as he went.

“You!” His shout was barely audible over the growing storm’s scream. “Hey! Down here! Come and get me!”

The Alben Worm rose to its full height, seemed to consider Leonis as he battered at the invisible shield that barred his way, and then the bright blue eyes narrowed as it decided Scorio was too easy and tasty a morsel to pass up.

It dove down, so quickly that Scorio felt his heart lurch up into his throat. Even as his instincts bid him leap aside, his knees bending, his whole body trying to lurch away, he saw the maw open, the tongue snaking forth.

This thing had been fast enough to catch the Nightmare Lady. There was no way he could evade it.

But that wasn’t the plan. He drew forth his chalk and raked a line in the stone before him. The tongue slammed into the sudden wall of force, but just before the worm could react Lianshi dove in, spearing forward as if into a pool, and threw herself right into its mouth.

The Alben Worm jerked back in surprise, then snapped back its tongue and closed its mouth, the lower jaw rolling up to seal Lianshi inside.

“No!” screamed the Nightmare Lady, rushing back into the fight.

The worm froze, the soft flesh of its head and neck working, undulating as if a thousand rollers were trying to compress Lianshi.

Trying to and failing.

And in that moment of surprise, of confusion, Leonis darted around the shield, leaped up, and brought Nezzar down upon the Alben Worm’s head with all his strength.

The club blazed to life a moment before it collapsed the human visage and clove through the rest of the upper torso like a booted foot kicking a huge mushroom apart. Nezzar tore right through with such force that it smashed into the stone ground below, shattering and embedding itself inches into the rock.

Massively deformed, the Alben Worm recoiled, its body shaking and twisting, and with a convulsive spasm, it spat Lianshi forth, so that she fell to the ground, drenched in spit but unharmed.

Scorio rushed to her side, helped her up, and felt the mana storm collapse. With a burbling gargle, the Alben Worm fled across the square, weaving drunkenly, and then dove back into its tunnel. A flash of its tail, and it was gone.

Scorio stood swaying, then dropped down next to Lianshi. He studied his hands—they were crimson from thousands of beads of blood. His robes clung to him, soaked by the blood sweat brought about by the mana storm, and his heart beat powerfully, erratically, lurching in his chest.

Leonis planted Nezzar’s head between his feet and bowed over its pommel, his skin damp and crimson. Lianshi was breathing in rapid gasps, her hair slicked into a chaotic affair by the slime, her eyes wide, the blood sweat mixing with the pearlescent goo.

“You all right?” asked Scorio.

Lianshi raised her hands, stared at the strings of slime that fell from them, then up at him as if unable to comprehend his words.

“Your Black Star plants!” said the Nightmare Lady, and raced toward the collapsed burrow. Leaped at the last moment so that she could drop neatly between the fallen pillars and knife into the tunnel below.

Scorio watched her go. He should follow, he knew. But his legs felt jellied, his whole body, no, his entire spirit ached from the mana storm. Each passing second had felt worse—what would have happened to them if Leonis hadn’t collapsed its head?

None of them spoke. Lianshi suddenly scrabbled at her water flask and poured it over her face, then her hands, then with a cry of disgust tore off her upper robe, revealing the wrap she wore around her chest, her bare, muscled midriff, and hurled the sodden robe away.

“Here,” said Scorio, pulling his own upper robe off.

“Thank you,” said Lianshi mechanically, but instead of putting it on, she used it to wipe slime from her arms and hands, used it to squeeze goo from her long, sopping hair.

Movement. The Nightmare Lady emerged from the burrow, moving slowly, reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her sulfurous green eyes burning at a low ebb. “I was too late. The Black Star plants. They’re… they’re gone.”

Chapter 65

Scorio sank down into a crouch and placed his face in his hands.

He heard the others speaking, cautious words, half-hearted queries as they drew close to him, but he couldn’t parse the meaning of the sounds.

He’d known. Known the second he’d turned away from the tunnel below to fight the Alben Worm what he was sacrificing. And in the moment, there had been no question. Friends over power, every time. But now the full import of his loss sank in. His chin was trembling, and he lost his balance, stumbled over to his side to sit.

His friends stood about him, clearly not knowing what to say. Some part of him wanted to make a quip, to tell them it was all right, to not let them feel pity for him.

But that was a quiet voice drowned out in a great wave of numbness. Even the pain from the mana storm was a background sensation, a distant burning that meant nothing. He was out of time. Two weeks till the Gauntlet run. Two weeks till he had to go against Jova, who was now a Tomb Spark, while he was still locked and lost in what felt like the eternal state of being a Cinder.

Which meant he not only had no chance to defeat her, but he wouldn’t even come close. All his bravado. All his defiance. He’d only make himself look ridiculous. How Praximar would love it. Would Jova even notice?

“Scorio,” Naomi said, crouching down before him.

He’d wash out. No House would offer him a position of any kind with his background. No Great Soul organization would be interested in recruiting him with his Red Lister flag. He’d not even be able to enter the underworld, for surely Dola would extract her pound of flesh if he tried.

“Scorio,” said Naomi again, and he saw tears brimming in her eyes. That snapped him out of his fugue, and he blinked, sat up a little straighter.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, voice a husky whisper.

“Do what?” In comparison, his voice was a croak.

“Why didn’t you go fight for your damned plants?” Anger stole into her voice now, and fire flashed in her eyes. “I told you to go. I could have handled the Alben Worm. You could have—”

Lianshi’s voice was cold with absolute authority. “You couldn’t have handled the Worm alone. You’d have died for sure.”

“You don’t know that,” snapped Naomi, looking over to where Lianshi sat.

“Yes, we do.” Leonis straightened painfully and raised Nezzar to prop it over one shoulder. “It took the four of us to drive it away. What could you have done alone?”

Naomi bit her lower lip, face flushing, and then she gave a sharp shake of her head. “Doesn’t matter. You should have done what I said.”

“Why are you here?” Scorio’s voice seemed to float out of some deep void within him.

Naomi frowned. “Why am I here?”

He didn’t repeat himself.

She flushed deeper, looked away. “You’re just a stupid Cinder. You think I’d let you wander around the ruins forever without watching out for you?”

“You said you only joined the Academy to gain power.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded weirdly calm. “That you didn’t care for our friendship.”

Lianshi’s protest was soft. “Scorio.”

“I…” Even the tips of Naomi’s ears had turned red. “Look. You’re an idiot.” She stood up abruptly and turned away. “You all are. And since when did you two make Emberling?”

“Recently,” said Leonis, voice casual.

“Oh. I didn’t know.” She fiddled with the sleeves of her ragged robe and then dropped her hands to her side again, still looking away. “No matter. I’d have… watched over you three… regardless.”

“Thank you,” said Lianshi. She also rose, tossed aside Scorio’s now slimy robe, and moved close to Naomi. “Without your warning, your help…”

Naomi ducked her head, allowing her hair to fall forward and hide her face. “Stupid. This is all stupid. This plan. This hope. You coming out here, again and again, as if the ruins aren’t incredibly dangerous. How many times did I warn you? But you wouldn’t listen. And now? Now… now your plants are mostly gone. And what were you thinking, anyway? Negotiating with an Imperial Ghost Toad?”

“Didn’t have any choice,” said Scorio numbly. Her intensity, her searing words, failed to pierce his numbness. “It was my last hope.”

“I told you to go protect them,” she said, rounding on him suddenly, hands balling into fists. “You should have listened to me!”

“No,” he said, raising his chin and meeting her gaze squarely. “There was never any contest. Not in my mind. I’d lose those plants a thousand times over before I left you alone in a fight like that.”

Naomi’s eyes widened, and she took a step back.

“Same,” said Leonis. “Though technically they weren’t my flowers, and I’m not really all that into flowers in the first place outside of table decorations.”

Lianshi reached out as if to touch Naomi’s arm, then drew her hand back. “We’ve missed you. Spoken of you constantly. Hoped you were doing well. We came out several times to try and find you—”

“And wandered around like idiots, making enough noise to rouse the whole block,” snapped Naomi, flinching away from where Lianshi might have touched her. “I know. It was child’s play to avoid you.”

Nobody spoke. The silence drew out, aching and awkward. Naomi scowled, looked away.

“Thank you,” said Scorio at last.

Naomi flinched again. “For what?”

“For watching out for us. For trying to help. For probably saving our lives. Thank you.”

“It was an idiot plan. Do you think all that mana wouldn’t draw the greatest predators around? This deep into the ruins?”

Scorio stayed silent.

Naomi glared at all of them in turn. “That nothing would sense that much mana collecting so close to the surface? Physical mana? That it wouldn’t draw fiends like the Alben Worm or the kushiwillow out? And for you to have the plants all secrete their beads at once? You didn’t think to stagger the production, to lessen the density of mana produced, to not make so tempting a target?”

“No,” said Scorio softly. “I didn’t think about that.”

Naomi ran her hands through her thick hair in frustration. “And what were you even going to do with all that mana? Make some crazy tincture that would poison you to death?”

“No,” said Scorio again. “Nox—the Imperial Ghost Toad—agreed to allow me to use his imperial gel bath to mimic his Delightful Secret Marinating technique. I was going to turn the beads into syrup and then immerse myself in it. Use the technique to overwhelm my Heart with mana so that I could make Emberling.”

Naomi’s eyes went wide with incredulity and shock. “You’re kidding me.”

“He’s not,” sighed Lianshi. “Trust me. I’ve had this argument with him several times over.”

“Toxic Coal syrup? From the number of plants down there—”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Scorio, cutting her off. “It was a stupid plan, and now it’s over. Without the mana, there’s nothing I can do. There are two weeks left, and with my Heart venting almost half of the mana I draw into it, there’s no way I’ll beat Jova in the Gauntlet run.”

Naomi stared at Scorio, her brows lowered, still looking furious. “It was a stupid plan. It would have killed you. That much toxicity would have overwhelmed whatever defenses the toad had going. The toad draws pure mana from the air, not toxic mana that’s been filtered into plants. There’s a world of a difference.”

Lianshi shifted her weight uneasily. “Nox said the gel would protect him.”

“What by the ten hells does a toad know about what a human needs?” Naomi’s voice could have flayed skin right off the flesh.

Leonis straightened. “Well, seeing as you weren’t around, we didn’t have anyone to ask.”

Naomi froze, then looked away. “Yeah. Well.”

“Like I said.” Slowly, stiffly, Scorio climbed to his feet. “Doesn’t matter now. Nox said we needed Ruby-level mana to make the process work. With only half a batch, I can only reach strong Sapphire. Enough to kill me if I drink it, not enough to activate the technique. So.” He shrugged. “Thank you, though. For everything, Naomi. You’ve always treated me better than I deserved.”

And with that, he turned to start walking back to the Academy.

He made it ten steps before Naomi called out. “Wait.”

He paused, looked down, then slowly turned.

Naomi curled her hair behind an ear anxiously, glanced at the other two, then away. “I, well.” She frowned, then said very quickly and in a low voice, “You can have the Sapphire vials.”

Scorio blinked. “I can what?”

“The Sapphire vials,” snapped Naomi, eyes flashing. “You can have them. For your stupid marinating technique.”

Scorio frowned, took a step toward her. “You need them to make Flame Vault.”

“Well, maybe I don’t, all right?”

Scorio took another step back toward her. “But why not?”

This time her glare had enough force behind it that he thought her eyes nearly burned sulfurous green. “Do you want it or not? If you don’t, just tell me and I’ll go ahead and keep them after all.”

Scorio hesitated. It felt like mountains within him were shifting back into place after they’d all just finished collapsing. His hopes, ashen and dead and gone, resisted being brought to life. He couldn’t risk that pain again, that sense of loss.

Scorio stared at Naomi in confusion. “You’d give them to me? Free of charge?”

“You did save my life just now,” she said, blushing again and looking away. “It’s not exactly free of charge.”

“Yes, but only because you were saving ours.”

“By the ten hells, Scorio!” Her eyes flashed again. “If you insist on interrogating me further—”

“I’ll take them,” he said, speaking quickly. “I’ll take them, thank you.”

Naomi hesitated, mouth still open, then closed it and gave him a curt nod. “Fine. Good. That’s all you had to say from the beginning.”

“Wait,” said Leonis. “So the plan isn’t ruined after all?”

Unexpectedly, despite his seconds-ago resignation and horror, Scorio found a smile creeping onto his lips. “Looks like the plan’s back on the table. In fact, I want to execute it today. No more waiting, no more delays. I’ve the tincture from the first batch here in my pack. Let’s find Nox. It’s time I made Emberling.”

* * *

It took them till First Bronze to track Nox and convince him to return. He’d gone to ground, blended in with the scoria of a distant slope, but to the Emberlings, his attempts at camouflage were easily pierced. Scorio had stared, nonplussed, unable to detect the toad himself, but apparently sensing the hidden was something that just came with the rank, much to Nox’s dismay.

“Favorite friends live,” Nox said weakly as he disinterred himself from the loose cinders and broken flakes of slate. “Heart overflows with joy.”

“Sure it does,” said Leonis dryly. “We’re so happy to see you too, favorite friend Nox.”

The toad turned its sightless head back and forth. “Black Star farm?”

“In the kushiwillow’s belly,” said Scorio. “But we’ve come up with a workaround. If you’re willing, we’ll make use of your imperial gel now.”

“Workaround?” Nox’s concern was obvious. “How will Nox be paid if Black Star farm gone?”

Naomi went to step forward, but Lianshi gripped her arm, held her back. “From what I understand, Master Nox, your payment was contingent on your successfully defending the farm from all attacks. Since you failed in that regard, it doesn’t make sense for you to be paid.”

Nox hesitated. “Imperial gel not free.”

Scorio was about to argue, but Lianshi wasn’t done. “The imperial gel is part of your Delightful Secret Marinating technique, is it not?”

“It…is.”

“Then that is part of what the Quantics treatise was exchanged for.” Lianshi’s smile was hard, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “The Black Star farm was payment for your guard duty, nothing else. You failed in that; you don’t get paid. The rest remains the same.”

Leonis looked over to Scorio and mouthed, She’s good.

Scorio could only nod.

Nox grimaced, rocked from side to side, and then bowed his head. “Favorite friend Lianshi wise.”

Scorio thought he sounded profoundly unhappy with the outcome, but perhaps he wasn’t willing to argue with Naomi bristling before him. Instead, he took a tentative step forward, a second, and then as if reaching a resolution, sprang over them to land a dozen yards beyond them and look back. “Come.”

“Can we trust him?” whispered Naomi as they followed.

“We’re about to find out,” said Scorio.

They made their way back to the square, and then to the collapsed burrow with its entrance to the underworld. Nox led the way, and one by one they dropped in after him, down into the darkness. Scorio sharpened his darkvision and warily followed the toad through the passages into his burrow, unchanged since their last visit.

“Imperial gel ready,” said Nox, moving to stand on the pit’s far side.

Scorio stepped up to the pool of white gel. It reminded him now of the Alben Worm’s blood, an association that caused his gorge to momentarily rise, but he forced it down and wiped his hands on his thighs. “So I just enter?”

The others clustered around them, gazing down into the small pool as well.

“Enter imperial gel. Acclimatize. Extrude mana, then draw mana back in, but cause it to miss. Begin cycle of falling mana.”

Scorio had debated the toad’s opaque instructions at length with his friends, and ultimately decided that his best bet was to improvise when he was inside. Further research into the Imperial Ghost Toads revealed their gels to be mildly psychotropic and of great value in the production of certain pills and elixirs; it was Scorio’s hope that it was the missing element in the vague equation Nox had tried to spell out.

He turned to Naomi. “Got the vials?”

She reached into a small pack she wore over the small of her back and pulled out the two. Their sapphire glow filled the burrow with a rippling, cool light.

Nox opened his mouth and licked his lips, again reminding Scorio of the Alben Worm, but made no further comment.

“Stay focused,” said Lianshi, her tone growing tense. “Remember you can climb out at any point. If you feel it going wrong, just get out.”

“See you soon,” said Leonis.

“I can’t believe I’m helping you do this,” muttered Naomi, taking the large jar of condensed Coal mana from Scorio as he pulled it out of his pack and unwrapped it. “Asinine. If you die—”

Scorio raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

She scowled. “I’ll kill you in your next life.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Then with quick, efficient movements, he undid his belt, dropped his pants, peeled off his socks, and moved to the edge of the pool.

Studied its pearlescent surface. Over a yard in diameter, it looked alien and uninviting. A deep breath. The moment had finally come. Everything had led to this. His last, desperate gamble.

Carefully he sat at the pool’s edge and slid his legs into the gel. It felt cool, oily, but not unpleasant. He pushed off the edge and sank in to his chest, arms raised reflexively, feet finding purchase on the slick stone floor below.

“Better than our pool back home?” asked Leonis, crouching with a grin.

“I’d not go that far,” said Scorio, and purposefully lowered his arms. The gel was causing his skin to tingle, again not an unpleasant sensation. He swirled his arms from side to side; the substance was thick and resistant, like jellied fruit jam. Experimentally he lifted his legs off the ground and found that he could hang suspended in the center of the gel.

“All right. Here I go.” He looked from one face to the next. “You guys are the best. See you soon.”

And before they could utter awkward goodbyes, he took a deep breath and ducked his head under the gel’s surface.

Eyes tightly closed, he felt the cool, creamy substance cover his face, sink into his hair. He pulled his knees up to his chest and allowed himself to simply float, held gently but firmly in place, arms coming in to wrap loosely around his knees.

Scorio summoned his Heart. There it was, pitted and fractured, the dark planes of its obsidian surface grown as familiar as the palm of his hand. With his senses opening, he reached out, but there was no mana around him. The gel acted as a buffer of sorts—he couldn’t even feel the mana that permeated the air of the burrow above. Just a cool void, yet somehow structured, orderly, as if the void were composed of a million tiny cells or hexagons, all perfectly and tightly fitted together, holding him in place and waiting, waiting, for something to happen.

Time seemed to slow. Or perhaps Naomi was just taking forever to pour the mana into the pool, but Scorio’s need to breathe lessened by the moment, and he felt the difference between himself and the gel begin to fade, as if his skin were being permeated, the gel bonding with his spirit. It was supremely relaxing and soothing, like a moist towel being placed on a fevered brow; his Heart felt nurtured, buoyed up, its dusty, cracked marrow eased by the gel’s support. Scorio’s sense of his body grew dimmer by the moment; his sense of self became focused on his Heart, which grew, the details magnified, the fractures all the more distressing for being made so plainly evident.

Was this imperial gel better than their pool back home? Oh yes. Scorio felt a fluttering wave of amusement and appreciation pass through him; it felt like being physically forced into a state of meditation, the gel gently enervating, soothing, and elevating his mind all at once. If there was mana here to focus on, to meditate on, he’d no doubt excel at working on his Heart, on applying all of Instructor Hera’s lessons—

And then the sky opened and poured itself into his void. Blue fire sluiced down into his consciousness, radiant and uplifting, so pure it made his teeth ache, so potent that his very being, his spirit, recoiled as if he were staring too blatantly at the sun-wire in Amber.

The Sapphire mana flooded the gel, and quickly saturated it; the concentration became evenly distributed, and then redoubled as more was poured in, the second vial, the density, the potency ratcheting up.

It was mesmerizing, surreal, beautiful—this was no ambient cloud, no sooty darkness of Coal, no quicksilver of copper, no obdurate defiance of Iron. This was artificial, a perfect blue canvas in every dimension, the Sapphire mana caught and held by the gel’s matrix, perfectly molding itself to his body, quiescent and still.

Rapt with wonder, Scorio went to exert his will upon it when even more mana entered his void; this, however, was crude oil, black and viscous, spoiling the peerless blue like mud splattered across a silk robe. The Coal mana, potent and toxic, oozed into the gel, an endless torrent as Naomi emptied the jar.

The black didn’t mix with the Sapphire; instead, it sank to the bottom of the pool to form a deep, impenetrable layer, distinct from the vivid cerulean blue. Yet the darkness called to Scorio in a way that the Sapphire did not. He knew that toxic, gritty black power. He knew that thick and turgid might. Felt an affinity to its impenetrable depths that he didn’t for the regal blue. Wanted to call to it, to summon it first and foremost to his Heart—and then realized that he could.

“Reach equilibrium,” he heard Nox say in his memory. So, carefully, he manifested his will, shaping it like his paddle, and dipped it down into the layer of blackness to swirl some up and around and into his waiting Heart.

A tendril floated around and around and then insinuated itself into his Heart. But the process felt entirely different; the imperial gel slowed and regulated the entry, removed much of the strain from the endeavor. Once the Coal began to enter his Heart, the gel seemed to ensure that it continued, acting as a perfect conduit for the mana to stream in.

Scorio ignited, and the flames that burst forth were less a conflagration and more of a controlled burn; the gel even regulated the wildness of the fire.

For a while, Scorio focused on finding that equilibrium, admitting just enough mana to keep the flames burning. The gel seemed to limit the amount of mana he vented through the fractures as well, like gauze bound over wounds. Controlling his elation with savage focus, he turned his thoughts to the next step: to cause the mana to grow, to fall around his Heart, and in doing so pull more after it.

The part that had made little to no sense to him.

He observed what was taking place. Once ignited, his Heart burned the mana reserves that had saturated it before catching fire. But the gel made it easy, almost reflexive, to draw more mana into his Heart even as he burned it. A virtuous cycle that would allow him to remain ignited for as long as there was mana in the environment, and something he’d never had the fine control and ability to do before.

Experimentally, Scorio drew on more of the Coal, increasing the rate of burning, and the flames grew correspondingly, the power washing out through his body and invigorating him. But that wasn’t what he wanted; he could float here all day, burn through all the mana, and never expand his Heart to its fullest extent.

Frowning, he slackened the amount being drawn into his Heart, and the flames dampened.

Mana fall around toad, grow compressed as more mana enter. Stabilized by matrix.

What did it mean, for the mana to fall around him? It was already present in the gel. It couldn’t fall around his Heart; the best Scorio could do was whip it about him with his will at ever greater speeds, but what would that accomplish?

As technique used, more mana pulled in by act of missing.

Missing. Falling. Nox had been using the words in ways that didn’t make sense given Scorio’s Heart. The only way Scorio could pull in mana was to direct it into his Heart, as when he saturated it before igniting. The goal was to force ever more mana into himself, straining to maximize his saturation point till he could barely ignite. But once he’d ignited, he could no longer saturate, only increase the rate of burning.

Or was that true?

The gel gave him such fine-tuned control over the mana, made it so pliable and willing, that he decided to experiment. The process of burning initiated the reflexive draw that pulled more mana into his Heart, but perhaps… Scorio frowned, focused completely on the inside of his Heart, became his Heart, identified himself with it, felt the pull as a visceral experience. There. Just as it entered his Heart, he could split it. Send the requisite sliver to keep the burning going, and then pool the rest around the flame, refilling his reservoir.

For a long, aching moment, Scorio just watched as the Coal mana both fueled his burning Heart and began to saturate it at the same time. It was a terrible balancing act, one that he’d never have been able to pull off without the gel.

But then something else happened—the more he pulled into his Heart to saturate, the more the burning pull grew, so that he found it easy to continue saturating. Back in the Academy, under Hera’s guidance, the process became ever harder the more he saturated, like trying to inhale ever more air. But here, with the gel’s guidance, he was able to endlessly draw in mana, using the draw of the burn to power the saturation.

Better yet, the gel was minimizing how much he vented and collecting that which did escape to funnel it back into himself.

Mana was growing incredibly dense within his Heart. The layer of Coal was nearly all gone. His Heart burned on, the flames subtle and constant, and always his reservoir filled, growing ever denser, ever larger.

Watching, bemused, exhilarated, Scorio saw the last of the Coal disappear into his Heart, and then the first of the Sapphire mana flowed into him.

It felt like lighting a thousand lanterns inside a dark cathedral all at once, like diving headfirst into an icy lake, like being jolted back to life from the dead by a stroke of lighting.

Too much. Scorio opened his mouth to scream, but the gel was there, fusing with his flesh, numbing the pain, easing the burn. Healing it over. More Sapphire poured into him, and despite trying to keep the sliver that he directed toward the flames to a minimum, the fire that coruscated around his Heart blossomed into a bonfire of gelid azure.

It was too much, too intense. Scorio strained to control the power, watched as the Sapphire split away to saturate his Heart as well, so much more potent and denser than the Coal. It compressed into something akin to diamond, and still more poured in, forcing his reservoir to widen, deepen, stretching it beyond its limits.

Scorio moaned, the sound muffled, lost to the crackling of the flames, and still, the Sapphire came. And then he saw more Coal filtering into the top of the pool of imperial gel; as he emptied the pool, the draw of his burning Heart, the process he’d begun, facilitated and augmented by the gel, caused the ambient mana in the burrow above to sink in and replenish the mana.

Too much. The Sapphire was almost all absorbed, the terrible damage it should have done to his Heart softened by the gel. His Heart was venting a blue light so blinding he could barely look at it, the flames roaring higher and higher, and still, the mana in his reservoir grew, expanding and growing denser by the moment.

Scorio wanted to scream, to clutch at his head. He felt as if his very soul were splitting, the flesh suit of his body about to be torn asunder by terrible pressures from within. The fabric of his being was fraying, and still more Coal poured into the pool, surrounding him now with its comforting black power.

His reservoir felt vast, endless. If he’d not already been burning his Heart, he’d never have been able to ignite. It would have been like holding a match to the trunk of a centuries-old tree.

More mana poured into him. How could he stop it? Scorio tried to snuff out the flame, but it burned on despite his will, lit now by an environment so mana-rich that it seemed to burn the very air itself.

Scorio screamed. His vision was doubling, and now he felt his real heart stuttering, losing its beat. He was burning up, his Heart growing as it swelled before him, eclipsing everything else, the flames reaching up to the heavens themselves, his reservoir an endless lake of depthless night with an azure core.

His body was thrashing, flailing at the gel, disrupting the orderly layers that the new Coal mana was trying to form. He was drinking it in, could no longer tell which way was up, which down. Scorio fought to eclipse his Heart, but he couldn’t stop the process of engorgement; more and more mana poured into him as if drawn by a void, sucked in by an endless hunger. It was too much. His mind was fracturing. His very sense of self tearing apart—

—then it all fell away.

The imperial gel, the Coal mana, his Heart, the vast reservoir like an ancient ocean—all of it disappeared, the pressure and pain, the mania and fever-bright delirium.

And Scorio found himself standing on a gray slate platform from whose edges arose four free-standing portals, the void beyond starless and infinite.

Three of the doors were sealed shut, but the fourth stood open, and Scorio knew that his first trial awaited him beyond it.

Chapter 66

Feverish, trembling with anticipation, Scorio approached the open portal. He couldn’t see beyond it; like those within the Gauntlet, the space bounded by its arch was opaque, a rippling field of white light.

Frowning, resisting the impulse to plunge straight through and seize his power, Scorio drew back and scrutinized the other three doors. Each was made of a different material; at first glance, they seemed to be bronze, silver, and gold. Turning back to the open one before him, he saw that its border was of smooth silver as well, but upon closer scrutiny realized it was iron.

Iron, bronze, silver, and gold. Emberling, Tomb Spark, Flame Vault, and Dread Blaze. He’d be coming back to this place for each evolution, it seemed. For a moment he wondered if one could force their way through a higher-ranked door, effect a shortcut that would allow him access to far greater powers than was his current remit, but then discarded the idea. Surely a place so steeped in power as this would be immune to such improvident strategies.

A deep breath. Scorio shook out his arms and turned back to the iron arch. Time to seize his heritage. Could one fail a trial? Funny, he’d never thought to ask. But had also never heard of a Cinder remaining as such after reaching this point. Perhaps failure wasn’t an option. Then in what way was this a trial?

One way to find out.

Scorio stepped into the white light, and became himself, or entered into another self, a Scorio who stood fierce and burning with hatred and frustration amidst a deep crowd that encircled gallows erected in the center of a city square.

He inhaled raggedly, the shock of the emotions washing over him, a contextual state of being that he couldn’t grasp. Why was he furious? Outraged? The great gallows, surely, where soldiers in officious garb formed a protective ring about the proceedings, their tower shields, and pikes arranged in tight formation as if in anticipation of the crowd’s attack.

A man was being led up the steps to the gallows platform, hands bound behind his back, clothing soiled and torn. His face—a jolt caused Scorio’s very soul to spasm in recognition, a face he’d never seen before this moment, but which somehow seemed familiar, an older version of his own, different, familial—his brother.

I have a brother, he thought, stunned, then the outrage surged to the fore of his being once more. And he is to be hanged?

An older brother, to be sure, but it was a visage touched by determination and stubborn hatred. He’d been poorly treated, his eye swollen shut, blood dried across his split lip, but he stood tall and proud as the guards led him to the noose.

To the side of the gallows stood a monstrous knight, a behemoth clad in such thickly armored plate that it was a wonder the wooden platform could support him. Some seven feet tall, he appeared an impregnable fortress, the iron of his armor nearly an inch thick and enameled in black and crimson. His helm was cast into a demonic visage, and twin horns swept up to meet at a small sphere above his head. He stood with his gauntleted hand upon the head of a massive ax, the blade looking to have been hewed from an obsidian boulder, its edge jagged but wickedly sharp.

“Stay your hand,” a man whispered at his side, voice earnest, desperate. “This farce must take place, tragic as it is. Do not act hastily, Scorio!”

The man was in his forties, face carved with lines of care, shoulders stooped, but in his eyes, a fierce light shone.

“That’s my brother,” Scorio heard himself say. “You’re saying I should sacrifice him upon the altar of the empire out of—what? A sense of decorum?”

“Eberro played a strong hand and failed,” said the man hurriedly. “But you stand to inherit the fruits of his labor. He would not want all his work to go for naught. If you can find the strength to resist temptation, you can step into his place. Rouse the provinces, foment a true rebellion. You will be followed. But squander your strength here, and the king shall turn his baleful stare full upon us. We’ll be crushed by his legions before you can do more than cry foul.”

Scorio grimaced and turned back to the platform. Eberro had been set beneath the noose, which was being placed about his neck.

The huge and perilous knight spoke, and such was the boom of his voice that it quelled the angry murmurs of the crowd.

“In the name of the king, sovereign light of these lands, lord of the beasts that crawl and birds that fly, I do hereby pronounce sentence upon Eberro of Spurn Harbor, who is found guilty of treason. He has fomented rebellion by seeking to pass spurious laws and undermining the authority of the king. For these trespasses, he is to die by hanging by the neck, as is befitting for all common criminals.”

The murmur rose into outcries of anger, and the crowd surged forward, causing the ring of soldiers to lower their long spears so that their phalanx bristled.

The huge knight appeared unperturbed.

“As the king’s appointed Warmonger in this province, I, Sir Kuragin, do affix my seal to this verdict and find the sentencing just. May this execution serve as a warning to all who desire to challenge the king’s unassailable authority, and think twice over future acts of heresy.”

Kuragin.

The name caused Scorio’s entire body to seize up. For a moment he had been so embodied in the moment, so caught up in the horror and rage of the moment, that he’d forgotten himself, his true self, the Great Soul who underwent a trial.

This isn’t me, or if it is, it’s a me that was. A past life? My first?

But Kuragin. One of the Great Souls from back—home? Was the Academy home? Was this? Wherever this was—Sprung Harbor?

“Scorio,” said the man by his side. “Exert yourself! Control the crowd. Draw back. Eberro must be sacrificed for the greater cause. His martyrdom will fan the flames of revolution!”

The man had him by the sleeve. He was tugging insistently, but beyond him, Scorio could feel the crowd as if it were connected to him, an extension of him. Waiting for his signal, to surge forward, or to retreat.

Eberro, his brother, gazed out over the crowd and finally found him. Their eyes met. Scorio felt a jolt of physical pain flash through his body, a profound sense of love, yearning, and horror.

In his brother’s eyes, he saw loss and resignation. He saw his death coming, an ignominious dance at the end of the rope, seconds from now. But the resignation was a form of peace. Scorio couldn’t put it into words, couldn’t vocalize how he knew, but he saw in the depths of his brother’s eyes a form of anticipation.

From here the flames will spread, he thought he heard. From here the revolution will grow. My life was an attempt to play the game by their rules, to earn votes and pass laws in local councils. My death will show the world the sham that this public forum truly is. My death will turn me into a martyr, turn the indifferent into fanatics, and you shall lead them, little brother. Now lower your eyes. Don’t watch me dance. Pray for me, and then avenge me. Let my end be your beginning.

Scorio’s tears brimmed and ran down his cheeks. Kuragin was saying something, his words booming out over the crowd. Several hundred individuals, all of them partisans, ready to fight, to kill, to shed their blood to protect Eberro. All of them looking to him, the youngest, for a sign, that this was the right time, the moment to birth their cause.

“Don’t do it,” said the man by his side. “Be dispassionate. Use your mind, Scorio! Now is not the time. We’ll be crushed. Instead of a martyr, he’ll be cast as a common criminal. Don’t throw it all away!”

Scorio felt carved from stone, unfeeling, no—numb, riven to the ground by a huge spike of horror and disgust.

His brother watched him yet. Eberro, his elder, who’d sheltered him under his raised protective arm, who’d taught him honesty, righteousness, fairness, and a deep and unforgiving intolerance of tyranny.

I go now. Could he truly hear his brother’s words? Or was he imagining them, creating the words based on what he knew his brother must be thinking?

No matter.

I go now, he heard his brother’s voice say. Avenge me, little brother. Raise our banner high and cast down the cruel.

Scorio took a deep breath. His brother had made his peace. The land was a tinderbox awaiting this very spark.

All Scorio had to do was stand back, arms crossed, and let the king murder his brother.

“No,” he whispered and felt his heart crack asunder, the numbness falling away before a deluge of white-hot rage. “I can’t allow this to happen.”

“We are not ready,” cried the man by his side, voice scandalized. “We are not ready, you waste his life, you kill us all—”

“Then so be it,” said Scorio, his fury endlessly unfurling within his breast like a banner with no end. “I will pay that price, but I can’t—no, I won’t—stand here and watch him die.”

The hangman had stepped back, had his hand on the trapdoor lever. Sir Kuragin had turned to stare at Eberro. The crowd was poised, as if on a peak, ready for anything.

And in that hush, that momentary respite, Scorio heard himself roar, “People of Spurn Harbor, we save our own!”

And he ran forward, cresting through the crowd, shoving his way, but resistance was melting even as he met it. The crowd bellowed with one voice, a massive howl of fury that perfectly captured his own, and like a levee bursting, they pushed forward as one into the line of soldiers.

Sir Kuragin didn’t shout, but instead raised his ax up and behind his head then let loose a cry of delight and leaped off the platform to fall, ax descending, into where the crowd was thickest.

Scorio was a conduit, power and dread flowed through him like a flash flood, a rushing roar that drowned out the crowd, the screams of the dying, the shouts of defiance. Pushing forward, swimming through the press of bodies, he saw the hangman yank on the handle.

The trapdoor fell away, and Eberro dropped.

Scorio was screaming, reaching, but he wasn’t close enough.

His brother hung there, legs kicking, face growing purple.

Pain and madness, horror and denial. The rushing roar grew louder, grew overwhelming, and Scorio felt his heritage, his power, his birthright, erupt within him.

His right arm, flung forth to reach for his brother, changed. Black scales burst from his skin, swept around his forearm, and burnished his hands as his fingertips turned into wicked claws, easily six inches long. His whole body was changing, compacting, layering with denser muscle, thick, heavy scales covering his shoulders, sweeping up his shins, to send huge, horned spikes out from his knees, out of his elbows.

And the power. It was delirium-inducing. The bonds of the earth seemed to lessen, paling before his might, and with a roar that shook the air, he leaped. Exploded up and forward, bounding through the air as if hurled from a trebuchet, up and over the crowd toward the gallows. Sailed through the air, and as he flew, his claws glowed with heat, their bases cherry red, their tips pure white.

He swiped his hand across the thick rope and split it. His brother dropped to the ground below where he lay choking and grabbing at the noose.

Scorio slammed into the gallows itself, caused the vertical construction to rock, and gripped at it, latching on with his huge claws, which immediately began to blacken the wood and set it afire.

Kuragin, massive, untouchable within his armor, looked up from the bloody swathe that surrounded him to stare at Scorio.

And pointed his monstrous ax at him in a challenge.

One that Scorio was all too glad to meet.

The huge knight crouched and then leaped, somehow bursting into the sky despite the hundreds of pounds of metal that weighed him down.

Scorio roared again, the sound reverberating in the air, the sound bestial, frightful, impossibly loud, and he leaped, leaving the gallows to hurl himself at Kuragin, his claws swinging at the armored man even as Kuragin’s body began to change, even as he swung his ax to meet him mid-air.

High above the crowd, they met, the force titanic, and Scorio had the briefest glimpse of the knight’s ax skittering off his scaled left arm even as his right buried itself into the huge breastplate, which parted like butter before the white-hot claws.

And then it was gone, all gone, and he was back in the imperial gel, thrashing and lashing out at a knight that wasn’t there.

Scorio stilled, hung suspended, his Heart raging, the mana reserves almost entirely depleted, but the Delightful Secret Marinating technique was still in effect, and huge gouts of Coal mana were pouring down from the air above.

Enough.

Scorio lurched toward the pool’s edge, grabbed hold of the rim, and hauled himself out. Emerged in a great upheaval of gel, to turn and sit, legs still sunken into the pool, his shoulders heaving as he gasped and set to sucking in air.

People were around him. Crouched by his side, hands on his slick shoulders, asking him questions, telling each other off.

Scorio stared at nothing. In his mind’s eye, he saw Eberro falling to the ground, kicking, alive.

Was that what had happened in his past? What had happened next? How had he gone from that plain Scorio to Scorio the Scourer, Lord of Nagaran, Master of the Black Tower, The Bringer of Ash and Darkness, the Shadow of Spurn Harbor, the Abhorred, Quencher of Hope, and Unmaker of Joy?

What had happened next? Had he fought Kuragin? Had he saved his brother in truth? Had he raised banners against this king?

Heart pounding, he fought to emerge from that dream-like reality. His past. A past now almost a thousand years gone. Everyone he’d seen would be dead now, more than dead, dust blow away in the wind or absorbed by the worms into the soil.

Except for Kuragin.

The realization hit him like a fist to the chest. He’d find that bastard and see what he’d learned during his own Emberling challenge.

“Scorio?”

He blinked, raised his head, focused on Lianshi who crouched before him. She was wiping slime from his cheek with her thumb, her eyes wide and brimming with terrible compassion.

“Whatever you saw,” she whispered, “I grieve for you. I grieve for that old pain. I’m so sorry.”

“You had to make your own choice,” he said, voice a rough croak. “In your own trial.”

She nodded, pain glimmering in her eyes.

“And Leonis.” Scorio looked up, saw his friend’s grim visage. “You, too.”

“Yes,” said Leonis.

“Naomi?”

“This is my first life,” she said, and Scorio saw that she’d retreated to the side of the chamber, where she crouched in the deepest dark. “I had no trial.”

He didn’t understand but could only nod.

“Take your time,” said Lianshi softly. “There’s no rush.”

“How can you tell?” asked Scorio. “That I passed my trial?”

Leonis’s smile was tired. “You disappeared, friend. For ten minutes you were gone, and we but gathered around an empty pool.”

Scorio nodded then turned and gazed down at his hands. So common, so human, familiar, and tanned from the light of the sun-wire.

So unlike the world in which he’d stood, where a single disc of blazing gold hung in the blue sky and the breeze had smelled of salt. A world that had felt so right, so natural, so familiar, that he’d not even noticed the differences from Bastion while he’d been there.

“Friend Scorio well?” Nox shifted his weight.

“Well enough,” said Scorio. It was painful, wresting his mind, his consciousness, his focus, back to this strange cylindrical world. To put the past behind him, to forget the burning cause, his brother’s near martyrdom, the howl of the crowd, the sense of an entire countryside about to erupt into flames.

To return to Bastion, to the imminent Gauntlet run.

To Jova Spike and the truth she knew about him.

Jova Spike. Against whom he’d soon compete with his new powers.

And so thinking, he summoned his Heart. It appeared smoothly in his mind’s eye, still fractured and pitted. Into it, he swept the vestiges of mana that yet hung in the air and sought to ignite its form.

But he couldn’t. More mana was needed. His will, however, felt stronger, more refined. He gathered great sweeps of dark power about him and funneled it into his Heart, more and more till he felt as if he’d drawn in an ocean of ebon might. Only when he thought he was filled to bursting, much of it leaking from the cracks, did he seek to ignite once more.

And almost couldn’t. With a frown, he bent his will to the act, and finally, just as he was about to desist, his Heart lit up with black fire.

And with it an awareness of his new technique. Which required but the desire to awaken, much as one needed to but think of opening one’s eyes for it to be so. Scorio willed his power into existence, and his fingertips changed, distended, and became claws.

Claws which arced up, razor-sharp and growing hotter by the second, so that the very air shimmered about them, superheated and roiling.

“Now that’s a fearsome power,” said Leonis. “Those claws look like they could cut through rock itself.”

“One hand alone?” asked Naomi, perhaps less impressed. “You’ll need to train carefully to maximize—”

Scorio raised his other hand and fed mana into it. Fingertips elongated, grew hard, six inches long, gradating from deep burgundy at the base to cherry red to searing white.

“Both hands,” said Naomi, grudgingly respectful. “That’s much better—”

But Scorio wasn’t done. He willed the mana to spread across his form, taking his time, and as he did so the black scales appeared, emerging through his very skin to wreath his hands and the backs of his forearms all the way up to his shoulders, and there across them to meet at the base of his back. His robes faded away, disappearing into mist, so he was left wearing only an ornate metal belt that held up a layered black cloth that hung to his knees.

“Oh,” said Naomi. “Oh.”

Scorio rose. His body was changing, even where no scales rippled across its surface. At once becoming leaner and more muscled, his shoulders broader, his arms and legs thicker, longer. He’d gained some six inches in height, another six inches of reach not counting his claws. But the power. The sweet, delirious power that burned him from within. It was terrible, not moving, not unleashing it, not giving vent to its destructive power.

He flexed his super-heated claws, each leaving after-images in his dark-vision, which, he realized, had doubled in scope, now encompassing most of what he saw directly before him, with greater detail and depth.

“That’s…” Lianshi’s voice was hushed with awe. “You look…”

Scorio extended his arm, turned it about so that he could admire the scales. Each was diamond-shaped, slightly fluted in the center, rising to ridges along the visible edges. Overlapping with perfection, yet fluid, not constraining his movement at all. He felt clothed in glory, the scales gently warming him. They extended across his shoulder blades but not further down his back; his chest and torso remained bare, as did his thighs.

“Impressive,” said Naomi, rising to her feet. “Let’s see what you can do. I’ll be waiting in the old Gauntlet.”

“He just passed his trial,” protested Lianshi. “That’s not fair—”

“Who said anything about fair?” asked Naomi as she strode by, and in a flicker flash, she was gone, replaced by the chitinous horror that was the Nightmare Lady. “You want fair, give up now.”

And with a backward glance of her sulfurous green eyes, she reached the exit tunnel and leaped lightly out of view.

“You don’t have to do this,” said Lianshi hurriedly, turning back to Scorio. “You’re weak, you just underwent a traumatic experience, a huge physical transformation—”

“It’s all right,” said Scorio, stepping past her. “I want to.”

Lianshi shook her head once, confused, but a moment later she and Leonis followed.

Scorio reached the tunnel that led by torturous ways into the old academy. Despite his now-massive mana reservoir, he could feel it venting furiously through the cracks into the air around them.

He already missed the imperial gel’s phenomenal properties.

Scorio crouched, felt the huge muscles in his legs bunch up, then leaped up into the tunnel.

It was time for a rematch.

Chapter 67

Scorio awoke into a tomb of hammered copper. Steady, deliberate, he climbed into a crouch, leaped for the opening, and immediately felt the difference in having reached Emberling.

Even without igniting his Heart, his body was stronger, its athletic ability vastly increased. He soared up through the square hole to land lightly in a crouch beyond it, the leap near-effortless, his balance perfect as he dropped to the copper ground.

Two green eyes burned in the near distance; the Nightmare Lady was walking toward him, unhurried, her tail lashing eagerly behind her elongated form.

Scorio rose to his full height. He’d run out of mana before reaching the basilica, had been forced to drop his new form. But now he set his will to gathering more Coal into his Heart, gathering it about his fractured core with great, imperious sweeps.

“When I first saw you, I thought you weak,” called out the Nightmare Lady as she drew close. “Weak of body, weak of mind, weak of spirit. That was my undoing. I underestimated you and fell for your trap.”

Scorio didn’t answer. He focused on gathering ever more of the rich Coal mana into his Heart, whose reservoir had suddenly grown so voluminous that he felt like he’d never finish.

“Then I thought you merely cunning; I decided to punish you for your temerity with rigorous training. Harsh beyond what most would tolerate.” The Nightmare Lady stopped before him, perhaps ten yards off. “I was confident you would crumble and cry mercy. Yet you didn’t.”

Scorio breathed slowly, deeply, forcing his mind to calm, his spirit to become tranquil. The more she talked, the longer he had to fill his reservoir.

“But you persisted, and in time risked everything to become a Cinder. Again I revised my opinion. You were cunning, yes, persistent beyond all else, but also wildly reckless. But your gamble paid off, and again you surprised me. Cinder. No mean accomplishment.”

Slowly she lowered herself into a crouch. Her great, segmented tail stilled behind her, its triangular blade hovering over her head, its wicked tip aimed at him.

“Then came the Imperators, and you somehow managed to wrest a readmission to the Academy from that madness. But that was your first mistake. To return to that cesspool, that nest of vipers. I followed you but knew the venture was doomed. And I was proved right.”

Scorio wanted to reply, to argue, but held his peace. What use were words? She wasn’t talking with him, but at him. Let her. He’d focus on drawing in the mana, compacting it, seeking that elusive point of saturation where he could ignite.

“But still you persisted. Impossible. And now this. You stand before me an Emberling. Of equal rank to me. And I tell you true—it rankles. Once I could have slapped you around on a whim. Now? Well. That remains to be seen.”

Beads of sweat prickled on Scorio’s brow. This was untenable. How was he supposed to fight, to defend himself, when it took this long to fill his reservoir? Then again, that was the whole objective of a Cinder, to enlarge their capacity to its utmost limit. But perhaps using the imperial gel and the Delightful Secret Marinating technique had proven… excessive… on that front.

“You need to return to the Academy,” Scorio heard himself say. “We need you to be part of our Gauntlet team.”

Her green, burning eyes narrowed. “To what end? Why should I dance to their music? What would I gain?”

“Jova Spike has promised to tell me of my past if I beat her at the Gauntlet run.”

“Your past is yours.” She placed one hand on the copper floor, the huge column of pale golden light illuminating one side of her, making her black figure appear oily and slick, and leaving the other half near invisible. “I’ve told you. I’m done risking myself for your cause.”

“Is that why you’ve been monitoring me all this time? Why you risked fighting the Alben Worm?”

Her eyes narrowed further, and he saw the tips of her talons sink into the metal. “Don’t mistake my base compassion for a willingness to humiliate myself further.”

“A contest, then,” said Scorio. Still, he poured mana into his Heart, trying to outpace the amount vented so that he could reach capacity. “If I defeat you in combat now, you come. If I don’t, you can go back to wasting your time.”

“Clever,” said the Nightmare Lady. “Alas, I can sense you desperately drinking in mana. How fractured has your Heart become, Scorio? I think you’re out of time. I accept your contest, and it begins… now.”

The Nightmare Lady surged forward, hurling herself with arms and legs right at him, but faster was her tail. Its wicked blade flew at him, tip aimed right at his chest.

No thought. No time to plan. Scorio bent his will to his Heart and commanded it to ignite. With a whoomph it did so, his Heart disappearing behind a veil of pale black flames, then scales erupted across his arms, his robes disappeared as his hands turned into sinuous gauntlets, and terrible power flowed into him, a deluge compared to that which he’d felt as a Cinder.

Scorio snapped his hand up and caught her tail, stopping it cold. He closed his fist just below the base of the blade. Its tip nicked the broad muscle of his chest, the slightest scratch that caused a bead of black blood to swell and roll down.

The strength coursing through the Nightmare Lady’s tail was tremendous; she yanked it back even as she kept coming, seeking to haul him off his feet. So he simply released it, his talons emerging as he did so, six inches long and white-tipped, the sensation of heat radiating down into his palms.

Then she was on him. Her own clawed hands—puny-looking in comparison to his own—lashed at his face, raked at his chest, then furled into a fist to come at his jaw in a mighty cross.

Scorio gave ground, bemused. Had she grown slower? Or always been this slow, and he slower yet? He raised his scaled arms, which deflected her attacks with impunity, blocked each blow with precision, then swayed aside so that her cross missed by an inch.

Stepped back and hopped up, knees to chest as her tail whipped under him. Landed and threw the first blows of his own.

A simple combination. Jab, jab, cross. The blows flew from him, his strength full behind each, and the Nightmare Lady blocked the first and decided to not block again. His knuckles crunched into her black exoskeleton, near-shattering it across her forearm. She tumbled backward, movements haphazard, then threw herself into a sideways roll only to burst up, her tail acting as a spring, hurling herself into the air against all probability and moment to fall upon him with terrible speed.

But Scorio found himself able to track her. He pivoted, saw her tail lancing down at him from the left, the true attack, the screaming demon that fell upon him no more than an attention-grabbing feint.

So he threw himself aside, under the tail, came up on both feet, and hurled himself at her as she landed.

Again the Nightmare Lady gave ground, swaying and dodging, tail flashing out at him, seeking to impale him from every side, from behind, even. Scorio felt his enjoyment grow, his anger with it, and with greater and greater violence, he smashed her blade aside until at last he saw the opportunity and brought his claws to bear.

The white-hot talons sheared through her segmented tail, causing a gout of dark blood to burst forth as the large triangular blade crashed to the ground and tumbled away, the stump of tail still attached to it flexing and flopping from side to side.

The Nightmare Lady leaped back with a cry, her tail lashing and casting sprays of blood with each flex, to drop into a crouch and regard him with something akin to utter hatred.

Scorio didn’t sneer. Instead, he stared at his burning claws and flexed them, causing their white-hot tips to ripple. Then he glanced up at her. “Give in?”

The Nightmare Lady screamed and ran at him, pushing herself to the bleeding edge of her capacities. Her blows came in a flurry, a storm that he less saw and more intuited, weaving and slashing his own claws at in a frenzied parry.

Some of her attacks got through, but any that landed on his scales were deflected. Still, she gouged open three deep, parallel grooves across his chest, cracked her knuckles so hard across his temple that he staggered, then clubbed him around the back of the head with the remnants of her tail.

The blow was prodigious. Scorio lurched forward, right into her killing blow: a taloned thrust into his gut that would have pierced right to his spinal column.

But he was made of sterner stuff now. His head cleared, his wits remained sharp throughout, and he caught both her wrists with his clawed hands, stopping the thrust and imprisoning her other at the same time.

The Nightmare Lady screeched and beat at him with her segmented tail, but Scorio ignored the blows. Hunched his shoulders, tucked in his chin, and applied pressure on her wrists. He felt them creak, the black surfaces bend beneath the pressure. Slowly, inexorably, he forced her down, first into a half-crouch, then to one knee, then both.

Her tail cracked against his back, hammered at his legs, beat at the sides of his head. But Scorio ignored the impacts and stared down into her horrific visage.

“It’s over,” he growled. “Surrender.”

“Never,” she hissed and lunged forward to head-butt him.

The blow would have cracked rock. Scorio fell back, released her arms, and through the explosion of light that filled his vision saw a shadowed form leap at him.

Instinct caused him to sway aside and slam his fist forward. Something heavy fell upon his arm, claws scrabbled at his shoulders, raked at his chest, then clasped his wrist.

Blinking away the pain, Scorio saw that his fist was buried deep in her gut, just as she’d tried to do to him. Steam was rising from the wound as his claws caused her blood to boil.

The Nightmare Lady stared down in something akin to fascination, and then she looked up and met his gaze. “Not bad,” she croaked, releasing his wrist. “But you forgot about one thing.”

Scorio narrowed his eyes. “What thing?”

“Did you hire the circus?”

Scorio blinked, and in that second of confusion, the Nightmare Lady’s claws passed through his throat.

The pain was terrible, sudden, but worse was the sense of his very being gouting out through the wound, great jets of blood and vitality streaming forth, faster than he could countenance. Desperate, he reached up with his free hand, pressed his white-hot claws to the flesh, some mad hope driving him to cauterize it, something—but it was too late.

Scorio blinked, sagged. The Nightmare Lady’s grin was wide, but he met it despite the pain. He wanted to speak but couldn’t, couldn’t do anything but summon his rapidly disappearing strength to bend down and then thrust his embedded fist straight up through her torso, the wicked claws shearing through organs and who knew what else, to close around her heart and shred it.

The Nightmare Lady’s sulfurous green eyes widened, and then she was gone, disappearing right off his arm.

Scorio staggered back again, then fell. Lay there, clicking and gagging, blood pooling around him, waiting for the world to go dark, which it finally, mercifully did.

With a gasp, he awoke upon the bier. Reached up immediately with his hands, which had reverted to their human form—and clasped at his neck. Unbroken skin met his touch, but still, he coughed and fought off the urge of being strangled.

“Easy,” said Leonis by his side. “Ignite. You’ve done this before.”

Scorio summoned his Heart and sought to set it to burning, but the mana reservoir was too low; he willed it to burn, but nothing happened.

Instead, he closed his eyes, massaged at his neck, and worked on breathing smoothly. The pain was terrible, dwarfing the scrapes and cuts that he felt across his body, but slowly it dimmed, and at last, he was able to draw a deep breath without triggering another bout of coughs.

“Guess it didn’t go well,” said Leonis, helping him up to sitting.

“No, it went all right,” rasped Scorio, rubbing at his neck. He gazed over at where Naomi sat hunched over, hair waterfalling before her face. Lianshi was by her side, looking tentative and desiring to be helpful without quite knowing how. “At the very least, she died before I did.”

Leonis’s eyebrows rose. “You’re serious? Well. With these new abilities of yours, it looks like the odds of our doing well in the Gauntlet just rose a notch.”

“Maybe higher than that,” said Scorio. He coughed again to clear his throat, but the pain wouldn’t quite go away. “Naomi agreed to accompany us.”

“She did?” Leonis spun around. “That true, Naomi? You joining us on the Gauntlet run?”

Naomi looked up and glowered at Scorio. “I cut your throat.”

“True.” Scorio smiled sweetly at her. “But I stole your heart.”

“Bastard,” hissed Naomi.

Lianshi raised both hands and stepped back. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I’m joining you all on your Gauntlet run,” said Naomi, angrily sweeping her dark hair over one shoulder. “Made a foolish bet with Scorio, and technically, just technically, lost.”

“You should have learned by now not to bet against me,” said Scorio, getting off his bier.

“Truth,” said Leonis. “And this means we’ll all be entering the Gauntlet as Emberlings. At the very least that puts us in the top third of the contestants.”

“Better than that,” said Lianshi. “I doubt any of them have trained as hard or as extensively together as we have, remember?”

“We’ll destroy the opposition,” said Naomi in a surly voice. “I won’t have it any other way.”

“Agreed,” said Scorio. “Fortunately for us, the run is in two weeks’ time.”

“Why ‘fortunately’?” asked Lianshi.

“Because I need to work on igniting my Heart. It’s taking me forever right now.”

Naomi snorted. “Is that all? There’s a trick to it, you know?”

“Oh?”

“Condense it back to its original size. Or had you forgotten? That’s what’s required to make Tomb Spark.” Her smile was saccharine. “Might as well do that while you’re at it.”

“Jova Spike did,” said Scorio, and he was gratified to see Naomi’s shock.

“She did what?”

“Made Tomb Spark,” said Leonis, tone heavy. “Now she’s not only invulnerable to most damage, but can scare her opponents into losing their minds in some weird way we haven’t quite figured out.”

“And acquired her shroud,” said Lianshi. “On top of everything else.”

“Oh,” said Naomi, then gave a sharp shake of her head. “Never mind, then. Shall we just skip the whole thing?”

“No,” said Scorio. “We’re going to beat her. Somehow. I don’t know how, but we’re going to make it work.”

“In the next two weeks?” Naomi raised an eyebrow. “Good luck.”

“Two weeks in which to master our Emberling abilities,” said Lianshi. “If we all focus on them—if you’re willing to show us what you’ve mastered, Naomi—we’ll be able to enter the Gauntlet even stronger than we are right now.”

Naomi sighed. “Fine. If I haven’t been expelled for missing so many classes. I haven’t been back in… eight weeks?”

To which nobody had a ready answer.

“That’s Praximar’s decision,” said Lianshi at last. “And I can’t begin to guess whether he’d prefer to expel you or let you be part of a Gauntlet run that he hopes will be a source of humiliation and failure.”

“Such a great guy, Praximar,” said Leonis. “Just the best.”

“We’ll talk to him.” Scorio considered his own words, then nodded. “He hates me. Or, better yet, wants me under his heel. I’ve avoided him since our last meeting, but it’s time we spoke. And I think I have the angle that will compel him to be generous.”

“You do?” Naomi crossed her arms, skeptical. “Will wonders ever cease?”

Scorio could only grin. “Just come back with us, and join me when I go talk to him. And let me talk, and don’t try to rip his face off.”

“That’s asking for a lot.”

“Then you should have won our sparring match, hmm?” Scorio strode between the biers, past where she stood. As he drew level with her, he winked, causing her expression to turn thunderous.

“Best of three,” she called out after him.

Scorio laughed but kept on walking.

* * *

Nobody challenged them as they approached Chancellor Praximar’s office. The luxurious hallways were moderately busy, but other than a few subtle glances, Scorio and Naomi made their way without difficulty.

“This isn’t going to go well,” muttered Naomi by his side. “Nor do I want to be here.”

“Relax.” Scorio forced a polite smile to a clerk of some kind who was hurrying past with a stack of folders clutched to their chest. “Don’t remember this floor being this busy last time.”

“End of the semester,” said Naomi. “Half the class is being dismissed, remember? That means a feeding frenzy as every organization worth a damn tries to snap them up. That and all the ceremonies. Great Souls love nothing more than their ceremonies. Praximar lives for them, and the end-of-semester celebration takes an entire Eighthday. Important Great Souls come in from the depths of hell, the winners of the tournament and those who did best at the Gauntlet run are feted—it just goes on and on.”

Scorio looked sidelong at his friend and smirked. “You sound enthused.”

To which she only curled her lip at him in something very akin to a silent snarl.

The chancellor’s office, it turned out, was very busy. Upon approaching the double doors, Scorio saw a dozen people seated at the waiting chairs, many with thick folders or sheaves of papers on their laps, all of them looking impatient. A stand had been set beside the doors, behind which a familiar man stood, scribbling something in a massive ledger.

Scorio’s breath was suddenly loud in his own ears, and he came to an abrupt stop as he stared at the man, an animalistic growl almost starting up at the base of his throat.

“Scorio?” Naomi’s tone had turned tentative. “What’s wrong?”

“That man,” said Scorio in a shaking tone. “He was in the holding cell when Praximar… stole my power.”

It felt utterly insufficient to put it that way, but Scorio didn’t know how else to express it.

“He’s just Praximar’s head servant,” said Naomi, hand on his arm. “Breathe. Your best revenge against him is to destroy the Gauntlet.”

The clerk had sensed Scorio’s stare. He looked up, his face paled, and then he immediately looked back down at his scroll.

“You’re saying I shouldn’t tear his head off here and now?”

“Alas, that would be…” Naomi searched for the right word. “Impolitic. Breathe. Get it together.”

Scorio did just that. He inhaled shakily, forced his hands to relax out of the fists they’d clenched themselves into, and looked away from the man as Naomi stepped up to him instead.

“Excuse me,” she said. “We’re students in this year’s cohort. We’d like a word with the chancellor.”

“I can imagine,” said the clerk, his voice nasal, his disinterest a thin veneer over his own intense emotions. Was that fear? Anger? Distaste? “However, Chancellor Praximar is inundated with pressing affairs. If you’d care to make an appointment, I will see to it that you can have fifteen minutes of his time.”

Scorio repressed a grimace and fought back the urge to grab the man by the neck. Before he could bark out a response, Naomi spoke. “An appointment. All right. When is the next available time slot?”

“Let’s see.” The clerk flipped a few pages, traced his finger down the rows, and then finally glanced up with something akin to sadistic amusement. “Four weeks hence. Your name?”

“That won’t do,” said Scorio, his voice almost a snarl. Now he did step in and glared at the man, who shrank back behind the lectern. “This is urgent.”

“I—ah—then I suggest you take it up with one of your instructors,” said the clerk, his voice rising in volume and pitch. “If they wish to escalate the matter, they’ll have access to the appropriate channels!”

Those seated were openly staring now, but Scorio ignored them all. “How about this?” Scorio leaned forward, pinning the man with his stare. “Stick your head in the door and tell the chancellor that Scorio wishes a quick word. I guarantee he’ll want to see me.”

“And if I don’t?”

Scorio didn’t answer. He simply breathed deeply and began to draw mana into his Heart. He felt the air around him grow fever-warm, and stared at the man so fiercely that sweat appeared across the servant’s brow.

“I—this is most unusual,” said the man at last. “But since you insist.”

“Thank you,” said Naomi.

The clerk slipped out from behind the lectern and up to the double doors. He knocked rapidly, then cracked the door open and slipped inside.

The weighted door swung shut behind him with a click.

Scorio crossed his arms, rested his weight on his heels, and waited.

“Nice stare,” said Naomi, leaning in. “I felt worried for the man.”

“With reason.”

One of the doors opened and the clerk slipped noiselessly back out. He insinuated himself behind the stand and smoothed back his immaculate gray hair. “The chancellor will be pleased to see you after he is finished with his current visitor. If you’ll step aside?”

“Here,” said a gray-haired man in military garb, his tone indignant, as he rose to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for three entire cycles. There’s rioting in the streets, people are dying, and now these students get to cut ahead of me?”

The clerk’s nostrils widened tremendously as the skin over his face seemed to harden and flush. He fixed the gentleman with wide eyes, and said in a deathly whisper, “I do not question the chancellor’s requests, Captain Neffen. I am but an instrument of order, which I seek to implement as best I can, when I can, under conditions that are not always optimal.”

“To hell with optimal conditions,” huffed the old man, but he sat back down. “Damned politicians.”

Scorio and Naomi stepped to one side, and for the next fifteen minutes stood in silence, studying a large painting that adorned the wall, its frame nearly as impressive as the canvas itself, which portrayed the culmination of a great battle in the depths of hell. A heroic figure limned in radiant light stood in the center of the chaos, gazing with bleak sternness at a dark figure that had fallen back against the rocks, a golden sword impaled in his chest. Around them, horrific monsters reared back in dismay, while handsome men and women, many of them gravely wounded, looked ready to cheer.

“The Death of Arch Fiend Marchon,” read Scorio quietly, the words engraved on a bronze plaque. “Anno 323.”

“Want to wager nobody even remembers who Marchon was?” asked Naomi. “I’ve never heard him mentioned, and that’s having sat in several years’ worth of history classes.”

“Arch Fiend.” Scorio rubbed at his chin. “Lianshi mentioned True Fiends, too. What the Imperators are fighting at the Pit?”

“That’s advanced material, though. You’ll not learn anything else about them in our introductory classes.”

“Do you know anything about them?”

Naomi shrugged one shoulder. “Not really. I’m not that invested in what’s happening on the other side of hell. Bastion’s been hell enough by my reckoning.”

The double doors opened, and a delegation of men and women emerged, all of them bearing the golden House Kraken crest on their robes. They had clearly just finished saying their goodbyes and turned as they emerged to walk down the hallway in a tight group, some of their expressions tight with annoyance, others serenely indifferent.

“Student Scorio,” said the clerk with a voice akin to octs being clicked down upon a counter. “Please enter.”

Scorio stared at the man as he walked by, and with Naomi stepped inside Praximar’s office.

Who was standing to one side of the large office, his huge desk illuminated by the bright light of Amber, its surface now busy with piles of documents and rolled-up scrolls. Praximar was at a sideboard, stoppering a cut crystal decanter, and turned with a genial smile to regard the both of them.

“Scorio and Naomi. What a delayed delight. To be honest, I had expected your visit weeks earlier, but I should not have underestimated your obstinacy. Please, be seated.”

Scorio stepped up beside the half-dozen chairs arrayed before the desk, but remained standing. “Chancellor Praximar. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“Oh, no thanks are necessary.” Praximar made his way back to his desk and sat in his chair with obvious relief. “You have been much on my mind, Scorio! A clever ploy, to speak to House Chimera before I could whisper sweet nothings in Selena’s ear. But I fear you’ve cut off your ear to spite your face. You’ve trained hard, I’ve heard, but not yet reached Emberling. That puts you at a disadvantage, does it not?”

“Perhaps,” said Scorio, schooling his features to grim neutrality.

“And Naomi! Now that is a surprise. I’d heard you’d fled our Academy for more suitable climes. You’ve missed a tremendous amount of schooling. I assume you’re here to beg for clemency?”

“I’d rather die than beg,” said Naomi sweetly, “so on that score you’re wrong.”

Praximar’s smile hardened. “That being so, I fear your academic career might be over. It’s imperiled by your truancy.”

“I’ve come to ask your leniency on that front,” said Scorio. “Naomi is to round out my team of four when we attempt the Gauntlet in two weeks’ time. Without her, I’d be at a disadvantage.”

“But only if you lack her presence? How amusing. Your other two companions would be Lianshi and Leonis? Solid choices, if uninspired. No, I’m afraid we must maintain standards here at the Academy. One simply cannot skip nearly a third of the semester and then expect to return as if nothing had been amiss.”

“Are you so sure, Chancellor?” Something in Scorio’s tone, his mild amusement, his confidence, caused Praximar’s eyes to narrow. “After all, it cannot be of great benefit to the Academy if the public learns that natural-born students are so disdainful of its utility that they choose to leave it of their own accord.”

“You apprehend the source of my annoyance,” said Praximar smoothly. “But this is the second time she’s walked away. We are not so forgiving or lenient with our reputation.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to have her wash out?” asked Scorio, running a finger along the top of the chair and then inspecting it for dust. “To have her take part in a compromised team, and fail to make the cut? To wash out with the lower half of the cohort, and to thus be discarded out of hand by the Academy, instead of the other way round?”

Naomi was staring straight ahead, lips pursed, jaw clenched.

“An interesting argument,” murmured Praximar. “But you are far too full of surprises, Scorio. I would not put it past you to reach Emberling before the Gauntlet run, and, with Naomi’s assistance, do sufficiently well to pass the cut-off mark.”

“Perhaps. But I’ve sworn an oath to Jova Spike that I’ll leave the Academy of my own volition if I don’t make it farther into the Gauntlet than she does.”

“Is that so?” Praximar sat up, eyes gleaming. “Well, that was an improvident wager.”

“So I propose the following. Allow Naomi to join my team, and if we fail to do better than Jova Spike, she and I will both allow you to frame our leaving the Academy in whichever terms you wish.”

“You would swear a Heart Oath to this?”

“I would,” said Scorio.

“Naomi?”

“Sure,” she said, voice dry, disinterested. “Another lie won’t make a difference.”

“Intriguing.” Praximar rubbed a finger over his lips. “Though I can’t help but wonder what your game is, Scorio. You cannot be in your right mind if you think you stand a chance against Jova Spike and her team. Foolish bravado, perhaps? Some desperate hope that she’ll suffer an accident early on within the Gauntlet, allowing your more average results to surpass hers?”

“Does it matter?” Scorio held Praximar’s gaze with utter disdain. “You want me out. You want Naomi out. My reputation is already in ruins. None of the four Houses will offer me employment. What better way to round out your victory than having us both agree to whatever tale you choose to spin? A more complete victory I can’t imagine.”

“Yes, which is why I hesitate. You’re a Red Lister, which means amoral desperation, true, but not necessarily rank idiocy.”

Scorio spread his hands wide in mock innocence. “Don’t underestimate the power of human stupidity.”

“Oh, I try very, very hard not to, my boy. But I am always surprised, nonetheless. Very well. I simply cannot fathom how you will best Jova Spike in this competition, Cinder that you are. I’ll have an oath drafted and sent to your quarters for your signature. Naomi may return to the Academy for the duration of the term, with the understanding that the failure of your team to win the entirety of the Gauntlet challenge will place the terms of your discharge completely at my discretion.”

Scorio bowed his head. “I wish you much fun in crafting something suitably depraved. If you’ll excuse us?”

Praximar’s expression hardened. “You are dismissed. Enjoy your last two weeks at the Academy, children. As much as you despise it now, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable lives looking back at these days as an all too short golden age.”

To which Naomi just snorted.

Praximar’s frown deepened, but before he could speak further, Scorio grabbed Naomi’s hand and dragged her out of the chamber.

Out through the double doors, past the seated petitioners, and to the hallway’s end. Only once they turned the corner and entered the stairwell did he let go.

“I need a shower,” said Naomi with a shudder. “Or perhaps a purgative with which to scrub clean my insides. I feel soiled for just having spoken with that man.”

“Good thing you spoke so little,” said Scorio. “One more sentence—or noise, even—and we’d have been out of luck.”

“Pah. He’d have stomached any number of insults if it meant having complete control over our fates. He’s going to spend the next two weeks fantasizing about the lies with which he’ll ruin our futures forever.”

“Hope he enjoys it. Our victory will be all the sweeter for it.”

Naomi stopped descending the steps to stare at him. “I’m all for determination, Scorio, but you’re verging on delusion. We’ll make a good accounting of ourselves. Four Emberlings. I wager we’ll place in the top twenty-five percent of our cohort. But win the entire Gauntlet? You’re mad.”

Scorio stopped and looked back up at her. “I’ve made it this far.”

“Against all odds, yes, and at terrible expense to your Heart. You’re venting easily more than half of everything you draw on now. How long will you last in the Gauntlet? And we’re still just Emberlings. Jova Spike is a Tomb Spark. That means she’s not only stronger and faster than ever before, but she has a damned shroud at her disposal.”

“I know,” said Scorio, face beginning to flush. “These are all facts that I’m well aware of.”

“You know, but you don’t understand.” Naomi sighed, shoulders slumping. “Look. I… I admire you, all right, for having made it this far. You’re like a force of nature. You just don’t know when you’re beat. And yes, I know it’s gotten you to Emberling and all that. But each sacrifice costs you more. And you’ve nothing left to sacrifice now. Nothing left to exchange for more power. All that’s left is the crucible that is the Gauntlet, where you’ll be going up against a Great Soul who has made none of the sacrifices and instead simply accrued ever more power. She’s a Tomb Spark with a whole Heart, while you’re an Emberling with a broken one.”

Scorio tongued his cheek angrily and stared down at the stone steps. “If I’d listened to you, I’d never have made it this far.”

Naomi winced. “All right, true. But you’d not be in so much trouble, either. Praximar is going to destroy us. Your Heart is closer to shattered than whole. This life of ours is a marathon, Scorio, not a sprint. And the Gauntlet will be your reckoning.”

“So you say.” Scorio fought to keep the anger from his voice and failed. “And when it’s all over, if you’re proved right, I’ll let you lash me along with everyone else. Until then, I don’t want to hear it. I just want you to give it your all. Can you do that?”

Naomi sighed. “Fine, Scorio. Yes. I promise. I will.”

“Good. Because we’re wasting time. We could be training.”

And with that, he turned to continue descending the steps. But his Heart felt like ashes, and his mind was a desolate wasteland, bereft of all hope. What chance did he have?

Practically none.

But he had no alternative now, either.

If I fail, he thought, it won’t be for lack of trying. I’ve two weeks left to achieve the impossible. Let’s see if I can pull off one last miracle.

Interlude - Leonis

The Academy was a vertiginous maze of hallways, galleries, balconies, and stairways. There were entire sections that saw little foot traffic, wings whose rooms stood empty and abandoned by the centuries. Leonis had found himself drawn to these disparate floors, these forgotten corners, and had made it a habit to walk them during the long evenings before Scorio’s return, when Lianshi would lose herself in her journals or disappear into the library, and he found himself alone.

Now, overwhelmed by the rush of events, needing some time alone, he returned to his favorite haunt. A small storage chamber high on the fourth floor, long abandoned and ignored. Slipping inside, he smiled ruefully at his own faded footsteps in the dust, and followed them to the sole window which let in the light of Second Bronze.

Errant exploration brings its own rewards. One was discovering that this window could be removed entirely from its ancient casement, and that with the aid of a chair, he could climb out onto a ledge that ran the breadth of the western dome’s base.

It took some effort to squeeze his frame through the window, but then he was out, on the broad stone ledge, all of Bastion laid out before him, the sun-wire so close he felt he could reach up and twang it like the string of an oud. Crimson salamanders startled and scattered, and he chuckled apologetically.

They’d never grown used to his interloping on their domain.

Arms outstretched, he walked the length of the ledge to the far corner, and there sat at last, one leg dangling on either side, to lean back against one of the stubby buttresses and gaze out over the city.

Only here did he feel truly alone, and in that solitude capable of drawing forth his problems and examining them with his full consideration.

A flock of birds flew below him, their forms reduced to crimson flecks by the brassy light. The air was still, heavy, humid; the ragged walls of steam had yet to truly coalesce and burn off beneath the sun-wire, but without a breeze to stir the muggy air, Leonis felt his robes already beginning to stick to his skin.

Interlacing his fingers behind his head, he stared out at nothing, allowing Bastion to blur into a jumble of curving geometric shapes, and drew forth a memory to study.

One that never failed to make his heart pound, his breath to catch.

His mother.

She’d taken up only a few minutes of his Emberling trial. Tall, elegant, stoic, she’d stared down at the sands of the arena with cold calculation.

And he up at her, taking solace in her strength, waiting for some indication as to what he should do.

Her gaze had slid down to consider him, her bearing, her regal posture never changing. “Uphold our family’s honor,” she’d said at last, when his uncle’s challenge was made clear. “You are young, but your father led his first army when he was only two years older than you. Do what must be done, Leonis. You are the Golden King now. Never forget it.”

How the words had thrilled him, terrified him, overwhelmed him all at once.

And then his mother had gazed back down at the spectacle taking place on the sands below, utterly confident in his response.

Leonis frowned, shifted his weight, then brought his hands down to his lap. Studied them in the ruddy light. The Golden King. She’d said that title with such reverence. But in his trial, he’d a sense of his former self: the boy before that moment of truth. A child filled with joy, brimming with good humor and affection for all. Memories of the castle kitchen, the hunting dogs, the simple tricks he would play on everyone who caught his eye, how he relished nothing so much as riding with his father and then watching him feast later that night on the prey they had killed.

The Golden King.

He’d put aside that good humor, his teasing, jovial nature, and gone down to the arena sands. Done what his mother commanded.

And now? What would she say if she were here, in Bastion?

Extending his hand, he summoned Nezzar from the depths of his soul, and the great hexagonal club manifested in his palm. He raised it, a storm of emotions roiling his heart. Such terrible deeds had been done with this weapon. But also acts of liberation, of justice. It was a verdict, an indictment, a promise, and a threat.

The Golden King. Wielder of Nezzar.

Was that who he was?

Or was he Scorio’s lackey, his willing accomplice, the lieutenant to the other Great Soul’s generalship?

What would his mother say, if she could see him now? Would she approve of the love he gave the other man, the unwavering support?

Or would she frown as she’d done as she’d stared down at the sands, and demanded he do better?

Live up to his heritage, be the figure of legend who’d been worthy of having his soul tied to the Archspire, to cease with his light raillery, his foolish jests, and become the leader that his kingdom had so desperately needed?

Leonis the Grim.

With a sigh, he allowed Nezzar to dissipate, and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun-wire on his face. Who was he? Whom did he wish to be? How had he fallen so deeply into Scorio’s journey, and how badly was he neglecting his own?

If in the Gauntlet the choice came down to his own advancement or that of his friend, which should he choose?

Would he be remembered after this life as Leonis the Golden King in truth, or simply as one of Scorio’s loyal friends?

The moment stretched out, and no easy answers presented themselves. He couldn’t deny his affection and fierce loyalty to his friend. But nor could he forget his mother’s stern voice, nor how he’d leaped to obey her, to be worthy of his heritage, his ancestors, his great weapon, and the throne.

Perhaps he’d not have to choose. Perhaps fate would be kind, and he could assist Scorio with an honest and open heart, and have no cause for regrets.

Rising to his feet, he frowned at the curved expanse of Bastion. Fate was never so kind.

Turning back to the open window, he shook his head dolefully. He could only pray that if that moment came, he’d make a decision that he could live with for the rest of his life.

Chapter 68

Kuragin was hard to track down. Sponsored by House Kraken, he seemed to spend every waking minute outside of class inside its exclusive wing, behind the huge, gilded doors emblazoned with twin tentacular horrors. Not that Scorio had time to spend haunting the hallway outside the suite; every moment he wasn’t forced to sit in a class or spar or train, he was in one of the meditation chambers, cavernous rooms whose bleak emptiness contrasted with the powerful mana that suffused them.

But no matter how he put the memory of his Emberling trial from his mind, he couldn’t forget Kuragin’s role in it. The need to know what had happened thereafter, his brother’s fate, the outcome of the incipient revolt, tugged at him. Had the Great Soul sought him out in the dining hall so many weeks ago due to their shared past? Like a cut inside his cheek or a loose tooth, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Stop worrying about the past. And so he took to stalking Kuragin like a patient predator running down its prey.

Except this prey stood at almost seven feet in height and was feared and loathed by most of the cohort. As little as Scorio saw of the tournament winner, he learned plenty; how he was unnecessarily brutal in sparring practice, regardless of how skilled his opponent was. How he’d put another Great Soul into the infirmary over a perceived slight delivered in the mess quarters, which would have resulted in punitive action had it not been for Kraken’s intervention.

“He won’t talk to you,” Leonis groused the evening before their Gauntlet run as Scorio paced back and forth across their common room. “Kuragin has more in common with a lizard than a man. If he senses you want something, he’ll deprive you of it just for the pleasure of making you squirm. Especially after what happened between you.”

“Then maybe I’ll make him talk,” said Scorio.

“You’ll make him talk. Kuragin. Who nearly tore Chen She in half? You and what army?”

Scorio felt a flicker flash of annoyance and raised his fist. It took him far longer than he liked, but eventually, he ignited his Heart and summoned his power. Black scales coiled about his forearm and turned his hand into a gauntlet. His claws distended and began to glow in the dim light.

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” said Leonis. “But Kuragin’s a monster. And he’s been an Emberling for months now. If it comes down to it, he’ll ignite before you do and tear you apart.”

Lianshi, who’d been reading one of her journals in the cushioned corner, finally set down her book. “We’re a day from the Gauntlet run. Everything depends on tomorrow. Why are you so determined to imperil our chances by seeking out trouble?”

“I’m not seeking out trouble,” snapped Scorio, allowing his hand to revert to its human form. “I need to know about my past. About my… my brother.”

Lianshi’s gaze was unforgiving. “Whatever it is you hope to learn, it happened nearly a millennia ago. Another day won’t matter.”

Scorio grimaced and turned away. “You say it doesn’t matter, but I need to know. I need to know who I am, Lianshi. How I became The Abhorred. How that original life led to my becoming a Red Lister here in hell. If I wait till after the Gauntlet run, who knows when I’ll have access to Kuragin like this again?”

“Some access,” said Leonis, voice lazy, sardonic.

Scorio ignored him. “The vision I had… it felt like it happened yesterday. The very thought…” He grimaced. “I need to know. I need to know more about myself. I can’t risk his getting away.”

“Your brother, hey?” Leonis leaned back in his chair. “Nothing gets under our skin, it seems, like family.”

Lianshi’s expression softened. “Your trial involved family, too, Leonis?”

The big man sighed. “It did. Not an easy memory, or even a good one. But a defining one. A choice I had to make.”

“Same here,” said Scorio, coming to a stop, hands on his hips. “But I feel good about the decision I made. I think. I need to know what happened next to be certain.”

“Mine was compelled by necessity.” Leonis’s voice became heavy, and he trained his gaze on his hands where they worked a quill back and forth. “Not a good choice, but the only one I could make.”

Scorio studied his companion’s troubled expression and then gave a sharp shake of his head. “Well, I’ve a question. I didn’t really feel like I had a choice, either. I mean, I technically did, but there was no way I was going to let my brother…” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. Lianshi and Leonis were watching him intently. “Let my brother hang. So I intervened. Kuragin was the one conducting the hanging.”

“Damn,” said Leonis softly. “Why was your brother being executed?”

Scorio felt his innards turn shaky, the power of those old emotions rising again. He moved to the wall and sat on a cushion. “He’d tried to create change. Entered local politics, defied the king. I only caught snatches of it. But he was arrested for his attempts. He was being made an example of. I was in the crowd. My choice was to hold back, let him die a martyr, and lead a much more powerful movement that would rally around his death, or save him and possibly imperil the movement itself.”

“You saved him,” said Leonis without hesitation.

“Of course.”

“Mine…” The big man sighed and leaned back in his chair, causing the wood to creak. “I was at a massive coliseum. Tens of thousands of people in the stands, the nobility and royal family gathered under purple awnings. My uncle was on the sands below. He wore a copy of my father’s armor. The armor of the king. I’d just learned that my father had died on campaign. I was to inherit the throne, but my uncle defied me. Called me weak, called me soft, and began the ceremony before the people of our capital city to anoint himself in my place.”

Neither Scorio nor Lianshi spoke. Leonis’s gaze had turned inward.

“My councilors urged me to allow the spectacle to take place, told me that it was a hollow gesture with no legal standing. That we would have him arrested when he left the coliseum and tried for treason. And I could tell they were correct. But I also knew that I’d lose the respect of the people. I had to decide in that moment what to do: wait and crush him later, or challenge him there and then. My mother…”

Leonis’s voice trailed off, and he frowned. He thought for a moment, then continued briskly.

“So I descended to the sands and challenged him to trial by combat, which was what he’d hoped for.”

“His plan was to trick you into a fight?” Lianshi’s tone was skeptical. “I’d like to see the man who’d think that was a good idea.”

Leonis’s smile was wistful, sad. “I was only twelve.”

Lianshi blanched and jerked back as if struck.

“He was my favorite uncle. But he faced me across the sands and did his level best to kill me before our family, our friends, our people. I slew him, and Nezzar appeared to me, marking me the true king.”

“Damn,” whispered Scorio. “That feels similar to my trial. A question of heart and loyalty over… I don’t quite know how to put it.”

“Calculation,” said Lianshi softly. “Rationality, perhaps. Logic.”

Scorio nodded slowly. “And we both ended up with a close-quarters power. My claws, your Nezzar.”

“What of you, Lianshi?” asked Leonis. “You don’t have to share if you want. But did your trial fit the same mold?”

“It did,” she said and lowered her gaze suddenly to her fingers, which were pulling golden threads from one of the cushions.

“And your ability is also close-quarters,” said Scorio. “True invulnerability. A physical power. So if we’d picked otherwise? Gone with the more… calculated option?”

“Those who make that choice develop ranged powers,” said Lianshi softly. “Such as Hera’s turrets, or Feng’s cone of slowness. Seems to be rarer, though.”

“Ravenna’s ability to hurl rocks,” said Scorio, and a frisson of excitement washed over him. “Which would mean she picked the rational, calculating option in her trial. Which reveals something of her nature.”

“Massamach’s cratering attack,” added Leonis. “Which is strange. Given his size and power, I always felt like he was a more emotional guy, but no. When his moment came, he chose the rational option.”

“Fascinating,” said Scorio, leaning forward. “But why is this kept such a big secret? Why can’t we tell the Cinders?”

“Why?” Lianshi’s smile was lopsided. “Because knowledge as to the nature of the test skews the results. You might decide ahead of time that you want to attack from a distance, and then that will influence your decision in the moment. Resulting in a power that’s not true to your nature.”

“But what would be wrong with that?” asked Scorio. “We’d just have a different means to attack.”

“Think about it,” said Lianshi, tone clinical. “Say you’re temperamentally suited to closing in with the enemy and lashing out with your claws. But your power is the ability to—oh, I don’t know—hurl spheres of light at them from a hundred yards away.”

“Fine, right,” said Scorio with a frown. “But then why is it a trial? If we’re just suited to make one clear choice, then why not simply call it… something like a rite of passage?”

“Because we don’t always make the same choice,” said Lianshi, and inhaled deeply. “Sometimes we make the other choice.”

Scorio narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t make sense. I’d never leave my brother to hang.”

“Perhaps not. But I’ve discovered sections of my journals that were written with a mana technique that I can only read now with my Emberling senses. And it discusses this. Most times I’ve made a certain decision like I did this time. But perhaps one out of every three times I make the other choice, as hard as it is for me to believe.”

Scorio could only shake his head in denial.

“It depends on the life we live leading up to the trial,” she continued. “It’s a lot more formative than we think. Which is why the Academy tries to standardize everything, so that they can predict how we’ll come out. What powers we’ll manifest. But at times the Academy has lost control of the situation. Tragedies have occurred before we make Emberling, accidents that mark us. Warp us. Make us prefer the other approach. I don’t know. I can barely explain it to myself. But it’s clear, written here in my own hand.” And she stared down at the open pages. “We make different choices at times, and that changes the whole course of our lives.”

Scorio stared at her and saw his brother fall through the trapdoor. He tried to imagine a Scorio who would just stand there and watch him die.

“I can believe it,” said Leonis. “When I chose to descend to the sands and kill my uncle, I felt outraged, yes, but also a sense of… I don’t know how to put it. I thought of you both, which felt… very strange in the moment. But thinking of you both made me want to stand up to my uncle, to defy him, his betrayal. I’m not saying I’d have let him go through with the ceremony if I’d not met you both, but…” He shrugged uneasily.

Scorio rubbed at his jaw. “I see. It’s just… strange. To think we’re that variable, or influenced by our surroundings.”

Lianshi watched him, lips pursed, looking somehow helpless.

“What was your trial?” asked Leonis quietly.

She glanced down at her journal, then closed it and set it aside. Brought her knees up to her chin, curled her ebon hair behind an ear, and then wrapped her arms about her shins. “I was…”

She paused, as if running out of determination, then tried again.

“I was a member of a religious organization. A death cult, I think. I was an orphan. Raised in those cold stone halls. We were trained, molded, from a very young age. Shaped to be… I’m not sure, exactly. Embodiments of our god’s virtues and ideals, which revolved around… something like derealization. Ceasing to think of ourselves as individuals, and more like vessels for his… fury. His blessings. We were to exercise his judgments on those who transgressed. And I… well. This night, the one from the trial. A sister of mine—a fellow acolyte, I suppose—came to me with a confession. She had fallen in love with me.”

Lianshi smiled, a twisted, broken expression. “And she wanted me to decide what she should do. We were close, she and I—had entered the church together at the same time, the same age. She trusted me. If I decided she should tell our Mother Superior, she would do so. But if not, she confessed that she was going to try and run away. And wanted me to run away with her.”

Lianshi curled a lock of hair behind her ear once more, the gesture nervous. “But she could also have been testing me on behalf of the church. We were often faced with such tricks. To see how we would act in private, when we thought we were unobserved. If it were such, and I chose to flee, the punishment would be… severe.”

Scorio couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t imagine the world she described. Could only listen, eyes wide.

“My trial was to decide her fate,” said Lianshi softly. “And at the same time, my own. I was a lowly acolyte like her. Turning her in would have elevated me to a position of privilege, granting me rights and lenience’s I could use to escape if I so wished in a year’s time. Running away with her would have been worse than foolish. Any of our older sisters could have hunted us down with ease.”

“What did you decide?” asked Leonis after a long pause.

“This time?” Lianshi’s smile was bleak. “To run away with her. I, too, thought of you both. The idea of betraying her was impossible, no matter how impossible our dream was.”

Scorio nodded slowly. “A heart-led decision.”

Leonis was watching Lianshi carefully, and when she met his gaze and immediately looked away, he frowned. “What is it? You’re not telling us something.”

“She doesn’t have to,” said Scorio immediately. “That’s her past. She can tell us as much or as little as she wants.”

“I think she wants to tell us though,” said Leonis. “Lianshi?”

“I…” She gazed down at her hands again. Took a deep breath, held it, then let it out a whoosh. “The sister that came to me is here, at the Academy. Juniper.”

Scorio felt his breath catch. “Juniper? Have you spoken to her? Does she have the same memories?”

“I haven’t,” said Lianshi quietly. “I haven’t dared. I’m not sure I want to know what she remembers. What I did in her version.”

“Huh,” said Scorio, leaning his head back against the wall. “But it’s like you said. This happened over a millennia ago.”

“And isn’t the fact that she’s here proof that you helped her get away?” asked Leonis.

“No,” said Lianshi. “My turning her in could have set her on a different path that led to her becoming important enough to be recruited in the demon war.”

“But she’s smiled at you,” said Scorio. “Seems friendly.”

Lianshi shrugged one shoulder uncomfortably. “But in my journals, I’ve read of the times I betrayed her. It’s in me. I have the capacity for that cold calculation. Who’s to say I didn’t the first time, given how I was raised, without friends and companions like you both?”

Scorio and Leonis sat quietly for a while.

“It’s your choice, of course,” said Scorio at last. “But I want to face Kuragin nonetheless. I want to know what he remembers. For better or worse.”

“I can understand that. And perhaps… in time, I’ll speak to Juniper.” Lianshi ran her fingers over the cover of her journal. “But for now, I want to stay on this fresh path I’m on, with you both, with Naomi. I was so excited to read these journals at first, but it’s becoming more and more daunting to do so. To read of the decisions I made, the mistakes, to learn of regrets, to see myself become someone I can’t even recognize. I’m thinking of putting them all away for a while and perhaps coming back to them, later.”

“I can see that,” said Leonis gravely. “When I learned that I’d been reincarnated over a hundred and twenty times, I felt almost a sense of fatalism. As in, what could I really do differently this time around? But I’ve found the best remedy to that is to simply not think about it at all, and focus on the moment, on being myself, on being true to what I feel and experience and care about now.”

“Fair enough,” said Scorio. “But I can’t let go of my past. I’m going to find Kuragin.”

Both of his friends stared at him.

“What, now?” asked Lianshi.

“Sure. He can’t sleep in the Kraken wing. I’m going to go knock on his door.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” said Leonis.

To which Scorio could only crack a grin. “Since when has that ever stopped me?”

They followed him, of course, as he strode out of the Aureate Hall and over to Kuragin’s area, Resplendent Hall. Scorio had been down its length only once, seeking to catch Kuragin two days before, but had been foiled by the slam of the Great Soul’s front door.

Not this time.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped up to the huge bronze portal, recessed like his own, and slammed his fist on it several times.

“Terrible idea,” whispered Leonis, glancing nervously both ways. “We’re past hours, tomorrow’s the run. We’ll be accused of interfering with Kuragin’s chances.”

“Just a friendly talk,” said Scorio. And pounded on the door again.

Which yanked open, and then there he was, towering over Scorio, the figure of his latest obsession, his elusive target, a man he’d sought so earnestly that seeing him now, right before him, was almost startling.

Kuragin’s snarl was near bestial. “What do you want, Scorio?”

Scorio stared up at the larger man. “We need to talk.”

“Wrong. You need to talk. I don’t. Now get out of here before I lose my patience.”

And Kuragin went to close the door.

Scorio stuck his boot in the way and stopped it from shutting altogether.

“Scorio,” hissed Lianshi.

“We need to talk,” said Scorio again. “And I think you know why.”

Kuragin’s dark eyes narrowed. “Put your foot in the way again and I’ll crush it.”

“You can try. Or you can just answer a few questions. This can be over in a moment.”

Kuragin seemed to consider, raising his chin and moving ever so subtly forward, crowding Scorio back. Or trying to. Scorio didn’t move.

“I owe you nothing and have even less of a desire to help you.”

Scorio met his stare full-on. “Just some questions, Kuragin. There’s got to be a way to convince you. Something you want.”

“What’s going on?” A voice from deeper in the room, and then one of Kuragin’s roommates stepped into partial view: Famissa, the woman with long black hair and tanned skin who’d worked with Scorio during his first week back at the Academy. “Scorio?”

“None of your business, Fam,” growled Kuragin.

“Fine,” said Scorio, “I’ll talk your language. Let’s duel for it.”

Lianshi groaned.

“Duel?” Kuragin seemed to be considering the idea. “And my prize?”

“What do you want?”

The larger man considered. “Win or lose, you refuse any healing beyond your own body’s abilities before tomorrow’s run.”

“Kuragin,” protested Famissa. “That’s obscene.”

“And a terrible idea,” said Leonis, stepping in beside Scorio to match Kuragin’s bulk with his own. “One, I’m guessing, that doesn’t apply to you?”

“Course not,” said Kuragin, baring his teeth in an expression that could barely be called a smile. “I’m not the one disturbing Scorio’s precious rest.”

“Then I think we’re done here,” said Leonis, turning away. “Let’s go, Scorio.”

“Run along, little boy,” said Kuragin. “You’ll never learn what happened to your brother.”

His words were like a slap. Scorio felt his cheeks burn, and closed his fists tightly enough to cause his knuckles to crack. His whole body tensed as a familiar fiery feeling swept through his veins, causing his muscles to quiver with barely restrained fury.

“Terms accepted,” he heard himself say.

“By the ten hells and every fiend who ever fornicated,” groaned Leonis. “Scorio!”

“Then let’s go,” said Kuragin, pushing forward, forcing Scorio back, who barely deigned to give way. “Fam, come as a witness.”

“This is asinine and cruel,” said Famissa, grabbing an overrobe from a door side hook even as she followed.

“Agreed,” said Lianshi. “Scorio, you are the greatest fool that ever walked in hell.”

Scorio ignored their words. One truth resonated in his mind, the only truth that mattered: Kuragin knew about his brother. Unprompted, he’d mentioned him, which meant his own trial had revealed something of their shared past.

A past that was a dark shroud, an abscess, a void. A life torn away from him by the process of reincarnation, and which his trial had shone but the briefest amount of light on.

The need to know was voracious. The same need that had compelled him to make that foolish bet with Jova. An all-consuming desire to know about himself. The self that had earned his titles.

The Scorio that had been Red Listed.

They strode down the hallway, down staircases, and across other corridors in silence, until at last, their group stepped into a large training chamber, complete with a sparring circle and two rows of raised seating.

Kuragin moved into the center of the ring first, his manner easy, his smile subtle but infuriatingly confident.

“Bold of you to challenge me like this,” he said. “Me, who passed undefeated through the tournament, whereas you lost in the—what—tenth round? I don’t even remember.”

“I’m looking forward to my education,” said Scorio, stepping up onto the white surface of the circle. “Don’t hold back now.” And he summoned his Heart and began sweeping Coal mana into his reservoir.

“I never do.”

“What are the terms?” demanded Leonis loudly. “This isn’t to be an all-out brawl. First to three clear hits?”

“No,” said Kuragin, never taking his gaze from Scorio. “The first to submit or fall out of the ring loses. Nice and simple.”

“Scorio,” hissed Lianshi. “Quit this madness. We’re running the Gauntlet tomorrow.”

“Agreed on all counts,” said Famissa, standing beside her, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Not to mention that you’d probably both be expelled for this unsanctioned fight if anyone found out.”

“Nobody will find out,” said Kuragin softly. “Right, Scorio?”

“Right,” said Scorio, heart pounding, pounding in his chest. Kuragin stood before him, but he was more than his physical self; he was a portal to the past, a means to decode the cipher of his history. All he had to do was force the man to submit. Still, he swept Coal mana into his immense reservoir, dumping sweep after sweep into his Heart’s core.

“Then let’s begin this farce,” said Kuragin, rolling his head about his neck. “Since Fam’s watching, I’ll not brutalize you too badly. She’s squeamish about these things.”

Scorio lowered himself into a combat crouch. Kuragin wouldn’t know that Scorio had made Emberling; he’d not used his powers in any public training session, had told nobody outside his intimate circle. Even Praximar hadn’t figured it out.

No wonder the other Great Soul thought him mad.

A deep breath, and Kuragin began to shift. He quickly assumed his monstrous form, shoulders broadening, his neck shortening, his splitting mouth open to become a fanged maw. His eyes became burning yellow pits, his musculature exaggerated to the point of deformity.

Just as before his hands turned into cruel, powerful claws, massive and serrated, while a thick carapace covered his back, the shell a mottled crimson and black, sweeping over his head to form a horned helm, down his back, across the fronts of his thighs and shins and along his shoulders, the sides of his biceps, and forearms.

Finally, his huge tail dropped into view, the same ridged club that Kuragin had used to batter Chen She into oblivion.

“Ready,” rasped Kuragin, his amusement obvious, his eyes burning with sadistic anticipation. “Do your worst, little Cinder.”

Scorio had been drawing Coal mana into his reservoir this whole time, and only now was he beginning to feel close to full. But he didn’t ignite. Instead, he began to circle out wide, causing Kuragin to pivot patiently. How did you even get close to such a fiend? His size belied his speed; despite his mass and heavy shielding, Kuragin had kept pace with Chen She, his reactions startling, his killer instinct unwavering.

This would have been a death match for Scorio as a Cinder. Even with his hidden Emberling power, it was still fraught with peril.

“Come on now,” growled Kuragin, swiping his clubbed tail from side to side. “Don’t make me chase you. There are ladies watching.”

“Damn your eyes, Kuragin,” said Lianshi coldly.

“All right.” Scorio took a deep breath. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

This elicited a deep, reverberating chuckle from Kuragin’s barrel chest just as Scorio threw himself forward.

The benefit of stalking Kuragin these past few weeks was that he’d seen him spar several times against other Emberlings. Kuragin always met a charge head-on, seeking to blast past his foe and bring his tail to bear if his claws failed to end the fight right away.

Which was what he did now. The moment Scorio ran at him, Kuragin ceased to chuckle and bellowed his challenge, breaking into a charge as he came right at him.

It was madness and death to meet him head-on; the logical, intelligent thing to do was throw himself aside at the last moment, which was exactly what Kuragin was waiting for.

So instead, Scorio shouted his defiance right back and met Kuragin head-on.

He had the pleasure of seeing the burning yellow eyes narrow in confusion, saw a flicker flash of hesitation as Kuragin pulled back on his attack. It was one thing to mess around in private and hold a violent duel, quite another for an Emberling to accidentally kill a Cinder.

Still, Kuragin’s idea of holding back was enough to shatter bone.

The end of the fight right there.

But that’s exactly when Scorio ignited his Heart. With a great whoomph, it blazed forth with ghostly black fire, and Scorio tore his technique up from his core, caused his body to change in the blink of an eye. Black scales erupted over his arms and shoulders just as he raised his forearm to block Kuragin’s sideswipe cold.

The blow, even restrained, was tremendous. But though Kuragin’s huge claws cracked and tore at the black scales, they failed to penetrate. Instead, they buffeted Scorio nearly off his feet. Both Great Souls turned, Kuragin’s eyes widening in shock, but it was already too late.

Scorio blocked the slash with his left as he punched his burning white claws of his right into Kuragin’s unprotected gut.

No time to celebrate. Scorio tore his claws free, ducked under Kuragin’s other swipe, and leaped back out of danger.

All of it had happened in a second or less. A furious collision, a flurry of blows, then both warriors stood staring at each other.

Kuragin’s vast shoulders were heaving. His stomach was a mass of deep, cauterized wounds that showed viscera and seams of fat.

“You… bastard,” gasped the monstrous man, fighting for his breath as if he’d just finished sprinting their morning race. “You’re… an Emberling.”

Scorio didn’t even allow himself a response. He kept his focus trained on the huge man’s hips, his shoulders.

The massive maw writhed back into a silent snarl, Kuragin’s outrage and fury near curdling the air. With great effort he straightened, pulling at the burned seams that lacerated his core. “Doesn’t matter if you cheat. I’ll crush you regardless.”

“Cheating, is it?” asked Leonis from the sideline. “You were fine fighting him as a Cinder, but now that it’s an even fight you’re complaining?”

Kuragin took a deep breath and hopped forward, an awkward, sideways shuffle that was completely counter-intuitive if you forgot about his tail. But Scorio had seen him use this exact maneuver twice; he crouched lower, ready, and when Kuragin leaped at him, windmilling his claws up and around, he wasn’t fooled.

It was the tail that was coming for him, and sure enough, even as he swayed away from the descending claws, the huge, clubbed head whipped out, faster than it should have been able to move, coming down and across to shatter arms, cave in his chest, and collapse his hips.

There was no blocking it. The radius of its swing was too wide to be neatly dodged. So instead Scorio roared and punched it square, curling his claws down and away so that his heavily scaled knuckles impacted the club right as it came screaming down toward his head.

The pain was shattering. It felt like he’d punched a live bolt of lightning. White light flashed up through his arm, numbing it entirely, and his hand felt liquid and wrong.

But if the pain was shattering, the clubbed tail actually shattered; huge chunks of bone or chitin or whatever flew in every direction. Kuragin overbalanced, staggered in alarm, then turned away reflexively so that Scorio’s follow-up attack scored deep, smoking cuts down the length of his heavy carapace.

But now, Kuragin was on the back foot. Scorio cradled his numb arm to his chest and came after him, his left tearing chunks from the monster’s carapace, shredding the huge shell, driving him back as he flailed his tail about uselessly and kept his claws raised before his face.

Again and again, Kuragin sought to regain the initiative, but Scorio was upon him like a vengeful storm. Again and again, he slashed and raked his burning claws across the other student, forcing him to keep his guard up and retreat blindly—right up to when he tripped and fell off the edge of the ring to crash the ground below.

“Victory to Scorio,” said Leonis, voice blank with awe. “By the ten hells, he did it.”

Chapter 69

“He cheated!” roared Kuragin as he sat up, hand pressed to his wounded gut. “Let’s have a rematch, wounded as I am—I’ll tear him to ribbons!”

Scorio dropped into a crouch at the sparring circle’s edge as his Heart guttered out. He didn’t want to look at his wounded arm; it still felt numb, though a creeping, smoldering ache was starting to build up deep within his wrist. “One fight, Kuragin. We made a deal. Uphold your end of the bargain.”

Kuragin was still in his monstrous form, but his carapace made sitting awkward; he could barely prop himself up. With a snarl, he released the form and reverted to his human shape, though the deep lacerations in his stomach remained.

“They’re right,” said Famissa, tone somewhere between reluctant and stunned. She was staring at Scorio, eyes wide. “When did you make Emberling?”

He raked his hair out of his eyes and managed a weak grin. “Oh, not too long ago. Just in time for this fight, actually. So, Kuragin. You going to honor your end of the deal?”

The large man studied his gut, hissed in anger or perhaps pain, and chose to remain seated. “Fine. Underhand as it was. Shouldn’t have expected any better from a Red Lister.”

Scorio let the insult roll off him. “Very generous of you. Now, tell me about your Trial. Everything that pertained to me and mine.”

At which point Kuragin sneered. “Oh, that’ll be my pleasure. Seeing as it was you that betrayed your brother and caused him to be executed.”

Scorio raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I saved him from that execution. If you’re trying to hurt my feelings with this revelation, you’re going to have to do better.”

Kuragin blinked. “You saved him? No. You’re the one who betrayed him so that my forces could capture him.”

“What? No. He was arrested for trying to pass radical laws in our province and apprehended for defying the king. What are you talking about?”

“Oh,” said Kuragin, understanding spreading across his features. “Oh, that’s rich. So you don’t know, after all.”

“You’re trying my patience,” said Scorio. “Hurry up and explain yourself.”

“Sure, you rescued your brother from that provincial execution. But that was old history when my trial took place. There I was, in the king’s castle, your brother on a leash. And with the knowledge that it was you who had betrayed him, allowed us to ambush him and bring him in for justice.”

Scorio stared at him in bafflement, then shook his head. “No. That doesn’t make sense. I’d not have betrayed my brother.”

“But you did. He no longer served your purpose, apparently, so you discarded him out of hand. Had him neatly removed. I remember feeling grudging respect for your cold-blooded efficiency. But I didn’t mind being used in your stratagem, not if it netted us the leader of the rebellion.”

Scorio frowned down at the large man. He couldn’t square what Kuragin was saying with his own memories. The fierce loyalty and admiration he’d felt for his brother. His willingness to risk death, risk even the rebellion, to save him. Why would he have betrayed Eberro? It made no sense.

Kuragin was drinking up his confusion and discomfort. “Oh yes. How easily you discarded him out of hand. This I know, this was branded in my mind as the truth of my situation. I swear it on my soul and hope of rebirth that I tell no lies.”

“There had to be more to it,” protested Scorio. “That makes… I mean…”

“And Eberro. I had him on a leash. He was a broken man. What you’d done had broken him, sure enough as if you’d strapped him to the wheel yourself. But there was within him a spark of anger, of outrage, that I still could use to my own ends…” And there Kuragin suddenly cut himself off.

“Explain,” said Scorio coldly.

“That’s my trial and pertains to you not at all.”

“Was my brother part of it? Yes? Then tell me what you did, or I’ll finish what I started in the circle.”

Kuragin bared his teeth. “Come on down here, pretty boy, and I’ll choke you with your own guts.”

“You’ll have to dig out my guts in the process,” said Leonis, and Nezzar appeared in his hand. He propped it nonchalantly on his shoulder and then raised an eyebrow.

“And mine, awful as this expression is,” said Lianshi, moving to stand beside Leonis.

Kuragin scowled. “Fam?”

“You swore to tell the whole truth as it pertained to Scorio and his brother,” she replied. “Sorry, Kuragin.”

He scowled and spat bloody phlegm. “Fine. Though this isn’t over, Scorio. You’ll pay for this. I no longer agreed with the king. Your brother was a means to end his rule. I was to present Eberro to him in court. If I weakened his bonds and secreted a knife upon his person, I knew your brother would take care of the king when given the chance. But it would mean the end of my own reputation, the collapse of my standing in the kingdom. Or I could have executed your brother as expected, further proving my efficacy, then waited for a future opportunity when my loyalty would allow for a cleaner kill.”

“Given your brutish power,” said Scorio, “I can guess what you chose.”

Kuragin sneered. “Don’t be so sanctimonious, fool. Better a king killer than a fratricide.”

The words hit Scorio like a blow to the chin. He jerked his head back and narrowed his eyes. “I’m no fratricide.”

“You betrayed your brother. That’s incontrovertible.”

“If I did, I…” But Scorio couldn’t finish the sentence. It made no sense to him. To betray his own brother?

“He wasn’t radical enough for you,” sneered Kuragin. “He wasn’t willing to commit the same atrocities. He was splitting your forces, weakening you in the field. Trying to make allies with the wrong people and wasting time. So you had him removed from the board.” Kuragin gave him a mock complimentary nod. “Most impressive for rabble-rousing scum.”

“That’s quite enough,” said Leonis, drawing himself up. “You have anything else you need to reveal to Scorio? On your honor, speak truthfully or be condemned by your own cowardice.”

And there was something to Leonis’s tone, to his bearing, to the full reverberation of his voice so that for the briefest moment Scorio caught a glimpse of the king he must once have been. But then Kuragin spat again and slowly climbed to his feet.

“That’s the full tale, and watch your tongue, Leonis. Insult my honor again and I’ll tear it out by the roots.”

“Good. Scorio? Let’s go.” And with that Leonis turned to leave the training chamber.

Scorio wanted to remain perched on the training circle’s edge for eternity, trapped like a fly in amber, a prisoner to his own uncertainty and doubts. Instead, he hopped down, nodded absently to Famissa who looked like she wished she could say more, and followed his friends out of the room and down the hall. They made their way silently back to their chambers, and only when Lianshi pressed the door firmly closed did he blink and come back to himself.

“There you all are,” said Naomi, looking worried and cross. “I was about to head out and scour the hallways for you.” Then she paused, peered closer to Scorio’s face, and frowned. “What happened? Scorio, your arm!”

He glanced down at it uneasily. His wrist and knuckles had begun to throb as if a large spike had been driven into his forearm, and he didn’t want to study how mangled his fingers looked.

“Scorio learned more of his past,” said Leonis heavily. “He paid a price, and it wasn’t to his liking.”

“No,” said Lianshi with fierce emphasis. “More like it lacks the context to make sense.”

Naomi leaned in. “He cornered Kuragin?”

“You could say that,” said Leonis.

Scorio walked past Naomi and down the stone path to the steaming azure pool. Climbing up the steps to the wooden platform, he slowly sank into a cross-legged sitting position to stare out over the waters.

He could hear his friends speaking in muted tones from the common room, but he tuned them out. He’d betrayed his brother? Who’d proven insufficiently… what? Zealous? Extreme? Brutal in their war against the king? Could he do such a thing? Kuragin confirmed that he’d previously rescued his brother from the first execution. Did that mean his emotions and beliefs from his own trial had been authentic, real to what had actually happened? It felt real.

Footsteps. He didn’t look around but could tell that it was Naomi approaching. She hesitated at the base of the steps, then climbed up and sat down beside him.

Scorio frowned, glanced down at his swelling wrist and disjointed fingers, then squinted back over the waters as if toward some distant horizon.

“Let me see your arm,” she said with quiet authority.

Wincing, he held it out to her, and she hissed at the sight of it. “You’ve broken your wrist, looks like. What did you do, punch a wall?”

“Something like that.”

“I’d wrap it and set it, but you’re going to have to spend as much time in your new form as you can to heal up. Even then, you’re going to be in bad shape for tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Bitterness washed over Scorio, but he refused to complain.

“I spent a few years at the Academy before quitting it for the ruins,” she said. “You know this. And that I overheard and learned things during that time.”

He waited, silent.

“It was always a source of constant conversation, the trials, once people made Emberling and beyond. Were the memories real? How could they be if they were branching? Surely one set of choices were what had happened, and thus the rest had to be… lies? Fabrications? Alternate versions from alternate realities?”

Scorio looked sidelong at her, wary. “You’re saying that future trials build off the decision of the first?”

“Yes. If you make one decision to reach Emberling, your next trial will follow the consequences of that decision. But in some lives, Great Souls choose with their hearts, in others with their minds. And each choice causes cascading versions. There are a potential sixteen versions of your past life that you’ll relive by the time you make Dread Blaze.”

“So what are you saying?”

Naomi sighed and looked out over the pool as well. “The Academy official position is that you accept your current life’s version of your past as the one that is real for you now. It’s recommended that Cinders learn none of this, and some go so far as to recommend not even keeping journals about your trials, so as to not… cause conflict with your future selves.”

“So Lianshi? She might have records of her other choices in her journals?”

“I imagine so.” Naomi sighed. “But what use does it do her? The Lianshi of today chose what she chose because it felt right, and that makes it her current reality. Learning what her previous selves chose will only confuse or ruin her current choices.”

“But Kuragin’s trial touched on my own life. Doesn’t his experience confirm what I truly chose? Since he had his trial first?”

Naomi sighed. “It might. Or perhaps, in a previous life of his, one where you weren’t incarnated, his initial trial turned out differently, and it was you that was betrayed. Nobody can say with certainty.”

Scorio pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is giving me a headache.”

“Which is why we’re counseled to not take what we experience literally, though of course, that’s easier said than done.”

Scorio sighed and dropped his hand to his lap. “What about you? If you don’t mind my asking? Your trial can’t have referenced a first life.”

“No, it didn’t.” Naomi’s expression turned bleak as she looked away. “I… I didn’t have a trial. I didn’t go to the place with four doors. I simply manifested my power.”

“You what?” Scorio stared at her. “No trial? Does the Academy know?”

“I’m sure they do, though not from me. Way I figure it? I came into my power the old-fashioned way. The way you must have during your first life. The doors, the trials… they’re artificial. I think they were created here in hell, but I’ve no way of knowing. Perhaps to make sure you Great Souls always ascend, given your lack of memories.”

“That’s wild,” said Scorio softly. “Huh. I guess it makes sense. Then who made the doors?”

“Nobody knows. Just like no one knows who made the Archspire, or the biers, or the Gauntlet, or created the wards that guard certain areas or hide important books in the library. We just inherit them.”

Scorio blinked at her. “I thought… I mean, that can’t be right. Somebody has to have made them.”

“Someone did.” Naomi sighed and looked out over the pool. “But I’ve never heard of anybody today who can make magical items like that. Alchemists can make pills and elixirs, even regular folk can use mana traps to generate mana light, but that’s about the extent of it. Whoever made those wonders died and never came back.”

Scorio frowned and stared off into the middle distance, deep in thought. “Huh.”

Naomi sighed. “But anyways. Was it worth it, what you learned? Worth the ruined arm?”

“I don’t know.” Scorio stared at the swollen knuckles, the puffy wrist. “The answer wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but… I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

“I can’t pretend to empathize. My past is all clear to me, every aching moment. But I think I can understand. The need to…” She trailed off, seeking the right words. “To know who you were. Where you come from. But none of that is who you are. And the Scorio of today must enter the Gauntlet now with a broken arm. That was a high price for all of us.”

He had no words.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and levered herself up to standing. “You’d best ignite your Heart and assume your scaled form. Any healing you can muster will be to our advantage tomorrow.”

“Right,” he said softly.

Naomi slipped away, leaving him to his dark thoughts. Had he betrayed his brother? Even if he hadn’t, did he have the capacity for such an act? Scorio the Abhorred. Scorio the Quencher of Hope. What if he had earned those names fairly? What if, within him, were the seeds for eventual destruction and ruin?

He shuddered and forced the thoughts away. Summoned his Heart instead, and began the laborious process of sweeping Coal mana into its reservoir. Everything, every effort, every sacrifice, every risk, had been made for tomorrow’s run. And on the eve of his greatest trial, he’d imperiled his already minute chances out of a desperate desire to learn more about his past.

Bitterness, anger, and resolve curled within him. With bloody-minded determination, he packed his vast reservoir full, and then ignited his Heart. A moment later black scales emerged over his broken wrist, down the lengths of his arms, across his shoulders. His very body changed, growing taller, leaner at the waist, broader at the chest. Vitality coursed through him, and he felt that strength roil in his broken wrist as if personally affronted by the damage. The pain began to recede.

Setting his jaw, Scorio stared out across the azure waters and waited.

Chapter 70

Scorio had never seen the basilica so packed. The balconies teemed with spectators, ranging from dour dignitaries to wealthy nobles from the four Houses to the privileged and lucky commoners Praximar had invited to attend. Every torch was lit, so that the undergrowth that had spread amidst the peripheral biers and the thick ivy that climbed the walls was cast into sharp relief, making the scene all the more surreal.

Flocks of birds flew in confused vortices from one balcony to the other, seeking refuge from the sound and activity and finding none. Great Souls mingled across the floor, while the far stage was crowded with the elite from all four Houses, their ceremonial regalia glinting in the light.

The very air felt crisp, electric, charged with expectation and nerves. Moving forward with his companions, all of them dressed in ceremonial robes crafted for this very occasion, Scorio felt a rising sense of wonder. Couldn’t stop his eyes from ranging over the packed throngs, the House tutors who advised their sponsored students with last-second advice, the older Great Souls who mingled with the Cinders and Emberlings, wishing them luck with cynical smiles and gruff encouragement.

All of this was for them. The five hundred souls who’d been rebirthed into this world, given a new lease on life and a chance to defend Bastion and their kind from the predations of hell. The energy, the resources, the time, the expertise, the sheer scale of the expenditure spent on grooming them, training them, preparing them for this one moment was stunning.

Humbling, almost.

Or it would have been if Scorio hadn’t seen the other side of the curtain. The realities behind the performance, the rage simmering in the streets.

But studying the faces of his fellow cohort-mates, he saw how taken in they were. Some smiled foolishly, charmed and awed by the spectacle. Others fought to present a tough exterior, feigning indifference to the pageantry. A rare few were truly focused, their gazes stabbing through the crowd into some invisible middle distance as they mentally prepared themselves for what was to come.

A massacre.

Every member of their cohort would soon die. Some sooner, some later, but pain and death were the sole universal constants that united them all. But few of his fellow classmates appeared worried; they’d been swept along by the momentum of it all, saw their imminent death as natural, part of the process.

As did Scorio.

If anything, the scores of times he’d died in the old Gauntlet had prepared him for this in more ways than one. Not only had it helped hone his skills, allowed him to catch up with his more privileged classmates, but it had stolen the sting of death from the process. Time and again, he’d died, clutching at his slithering entrails as they slid free, stabbed, clubbed, beheaded, or lacerated to such an extent that he was claimed by the blood loss.

He’d paid a toll. Had walked a fine line between spiritual destruction and personal growth, but he’d paid the price unflinchingly.

All for this, this day, this moment, this chance to show the Academy, Praximar, Jova Spike, that he could not only compete with the best of them but defeat them all.

Were it not for his broken wrist, he’d feel positively combative.

Instead, he pressed the swollen and aching limb to his chest. He’d wanted to lower it by his side, but doing so increased the pressure and pain.

No matter. Victory in the Gauntlet came down as much to teamwork and determination as it did personal talent.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

“Look at them,” said Naomi, her upper lip curling into a sneer. “So excited to sell themselves to the highest bidder.”

“To continue their education,” said Lianshi. “Nobody wants to be cast out of the Academy. Even the poorest performing Cinder dreams of making it just far enough to be invited back.”

“To what end?” Naomi glared at her contemptuously. “So that they may excel further, earn greater attention and resources, and be yoked to a golden harness?”

“Sure,” said Lianshi. “What alternative is there?”

To which Naomi had no ready response.

“Lianshi!” A bright call from a few biers over, and Scorio saw Juniper raise a hand in a wave. “Good luck!”

Lianshi’s face paled, then flushed, and then she ducked her head only to raise her chin and brush her hair back, all in such rapid succession that if Scorio had blinked he’d have missed it.

“Thanks!” Lianshi gave a tentative wave back. “You, too!”

“You talk to her?” asked Leonis, his voice a low rumble as they finally reached their biers.

“I did. Um.” Lianshi looked so unsure of herself that Scorio was about to tell Leonis to leave the matter alone, but then she continued. “I, ah, well, we were in line together at the quartermaster’s to collect our new robes. And she just turned and stared at me and said we needed to talk. I wanted to die, but I agreed, and then we stepped aside once we’d been given our robes and sat down to drink tea though I don’t think I took a sip the whole time we spoke—”

“Deep breath, Lianshi,” said Naomi, tone long-suffering.

Lianshi did just that and gave Naomi a tight-lipped smile. “Right. Sorry. But yes. We spoke. Compared trials, ultimately. And… well. She’s amazing. She forgave me.”

“Forgave you?” asked Leonis, brows knitting together. “For what?”

“For what I did to her, or might have done, or probably did.” Lianshi placed her hands on the jeweled edge of her bier and stared down at her fingers. “One way or another, I clearly had the capacity to betray her. So she forgave me, and I cried, and it was wonderful and awful and…” She took a deep shuddering breath, then looked up with a painfully raw smile. “So yes. We talked.”

“Good for you,” said Naomi, and bumped her shoulder against Lianshi’s own. “Well done.”

“Juniper didn’t really give me much of a choice,” said Lianshi, voice small.

“Still. You could have run. You didn’t. Well done.”

Lianshi blushed and looked away.

The crowd rippled, a presage of an approaching presence, and Scorio saw Kuragin’s shaggy head looming over those who walked with him. For a wild moment, Scorio thought the group was coming his way, but their angle of approach was wrong, they were simply passing by. Amidst the crowd, he caught sight of Jova Spike walking arm in arm with Zala, Chloe a step beside, chatting with another woman.

The great, oceanic murmur that filled the basilica seemed to fade away, and Scorio felt his stomach knot, his breath still.

Kuragin, sensing his stare, turned and met his gaze from over all the heads. Grinned with cruel mirth, and then drew his thumb across his neck.

But Scorio wasn’t watching him.

Instead, he studied how Jova walked, measured her self-assurance, her poise, her utter, inviolable confidence. Even in her ceremonial robes of white and gold, she looked dangerous, other, more mature, more everything. She’d ringed her eyes with the same dark kohl, had her dusty black hair raked over to hang down over one shoulder, the other side shorn near to the skin.

A Tomb Spark. The only one in their whole class. There’d been rank speculation that a half-dozen others might make it, but none of them had.

Jova walked by, and Scorio was sure she’d not even look his way. That he was so beneath her notice that she might even have forgotten their bet. But at the last moment, her gaze slid across to fix him where he stood, unhesitating, unsurprised, as if she’d known he’d be there and had no doubt that he’d be watching her.

Scorio clenched his jaw, clenched his healthy fist, and raised his chin. For one searing second their gazes met, and in the depths of her dark eyes, he saw an emotion he couldn’t read. But then she was gone, swept on by, moving to their biers along with their host of hangers-on.

“Easy,” said Leonis, resting his elbow on Scorio’s shoulder so that he could lean on him. “Stay focused.”

“If I were any more focused, I’d catch on fire,” Scorio muttered, which made Leonis chuckle.

“Remember,” said Naomi, rounding on them so that they formed a small huddle. “We’re looking to win the highest team average. That’s our true strength. If Scorio can beat Jova, all well and good, but if he’s part of the team that makes it the farthest, collectively, then he has a real chance of earning a reprieve regardless.”

“You hear that, Scorio?” Lianshi poked him in the gut. “Team score. No stupid heroics.”

“But I’m a stupid hero,” said Scorio, half-distracted. “What can I do?”

Leonis snorted again, then pushed off Scorio and slapped him gently upside the head. “You’re many things, my friend, but that’s not one of them.”

“Remarkably,” continued Naomi, as if she’d not been interrupted, “we’re the only team here to have had over twenty Gauntlet runs. Everyone else has had but the one. They’re anxious, nervous, overwhelmed, even, by what they now face. Whereas we’ve done this enough times to make it feel almost routine.”

“Different Gauntlet,” said Leonis.

“Same principles. And the one we ran was tougher.” Naomi stared at each of them in turn. “You’re unrecognizable from the Cinders or Chars I first met. Each of you has overcome incredible obstacles to reach this moment—”

“Hey, she’s pretty good at this motivational thing,” said Leonis, then raised his hands defensively as Naomi took a threatening step toward him. “No, no, I’m just saying, it’s kind of shocking, given how negative you usually are—”

“Leonis,” warned Lianshi. “You’re actively lowering your chances of doing well by asking Naomi to break one of your bones before the Gauntlet starts.”

“Don’t compliment the Nightmare Lady,” said Leonis with a grin. “Got it.”

Both women rolled their eyes.

Praximar was mounting the distant stage, dressed so resplendently that he looked like a mobile treasury. Behind him came the instructors, the final chief dignitaries, and other important-looking people.

“We’re almost out of time,” said Scorio, cutting into the banter. “But I just want to say one thing before this begins.” He paused, and suddenly the words were gone, stolen from him as he looked up at Leonis’s bluff, honest face, at Lianshi’s open expression, at Naomi’s suspicious stare. A great emotion began to arise within his chest, like a drowning swimmer trying to reach the surface. He felt his eyes prickle, his face flush, and a tremor shook his jaw till he clenched it tight.

“No need for words,” said Leonis, tone soft, wrapping one arm around Scorio’s shoulders and gathering Lianshi in with the other. “We know what you’re going to say, and you’ve no need to say it.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done with my full heart. I’m so proud of you all. What we’ve accomplished. What we’ve become.”

“A killer team,” said Naomi, tone harsh. “Top competitors, whether anybody recognizes it or not.”

Scorio inhaled sharply and bowed his head. It was too much. The words were there, just out of reach, words of gratitude and love. His heart thudded in his chest; his breath caught tremulously in his throat. He wanted to tell these three how much they meant to him. How they had changed everything for the better, made all this possible. The sheer force of his gratitude was overwhelming.

But in the end, he only managed a couple of words, simple but so raw with emotion that they said it all. “Thank you.”

Leonis pursed his lips and gave a sharp nod. Lianshi’s own eyes filled with tears as sympathy and affection suffused her expression, and he felt Naomi squeeze his shoulder painfully hard.

Then Praximar began to speak, and the moment passed, the four of them separating to turn and stare at the distant stage.

“Greetings, friends, colleagues, and distinguished visitors.” Praximar’s voice, as always, rolled out over the entirety of the basilica with practiced ease. “Though I have been chancellor of the Academy for more years than I care to remember—and if you recall the exact number, pray, don’t remind me—I never cease to feel a terrible excitement when this day comes. A day in many respects like all others, but in one, singular manner utterly unique. For though the ten layers of hell go about their infernal business as always, here, in Bastion, we gather to celebrate the labors of five hundred adamantine souls. We gather to honor their efforts, their talents, and to witness the culmination of everything they have learned. We gather, dear friends, to pay witness to greatness in the making.”

Praximar lowered his arms and beamed out over the crowd. “Now, many of you may think the results of this final, grand test to be predetermined. But it is never so. As everyone is aware, the upper fifty percent of the class will proceed to greater training, but this does not mean those who are currently Cinders or who fared poorly in the tournament are without hope. For each year comes with its crop of surprises, men and women who rise to the occasion, seize their luck, wrest every ounce of advantage from their circumstances, and pass those whom all others had deemed assured of winning through.”

A murmur passed through the cohort, some looking reassured, others frowning.

“Yet in the whole, those who have dedicated their days and nights to training, to bettering themselves, to developing their powers will have their reward today. The spoils of victory more often than not go to those who train the hardest, and the harder you train, the luckier, you’ll find, you become. So I salute every moment you spent laboring through the long cycles of the day and into the night. Each drop of sweat, each moment when you pressed on, thinking you had nothing left. That fight when you summoned your last reserves to wrest an unlikely victory against a superior foe. The hours you spent studying when your body cried for sleep, the long, timeless moments sunk deep in meditation—meditation that no doubt often seemed nothing but a fruitless, frustrating task with no reward.”

He scanned the crowd, expression grave, nodding slowly as if in agreement with his own words. “You have labored greatly, and your instructors speak of each one of you with admiration and respect. Your work, students, your efforts, are noted, seen, and appreciated. For outside these halls a war is being waged, a millennia-old conflict that is finally drawing to a close. Our Imperators inhabit the tenth layer of hell, and with dauntless courage now face the Pit itself. And though their battles take place in dimensions we cannot fathom, in realms we cannot understand, still, it is being waged, and we are closer to victory than we have ever been. Closer, my friends, to finally seeing the Infernarch rise from the ashes of the Pit, and lead us all to the one place we’ve yearned for but never known: home.”

More murmurs, mostly from the balconies.

“And this is a war into which you will be stepping. Your efforts here at times may even have seemed academic, a game: work hard, win the next round, earn another reward. All to what end? Patronage, a good position in one of the Houses, the esteem of your peers and instructors. The vague hope of one day being a hero akin to the mighty legends whose example inspires us even today. But soon, dear friends, you shall step out into hell, lift up your own arms, and take part in that eternal war. Perhaps amongst your number today stands the Great Soul who shall push the war to its terminus point. Perhaps amongst your number stand brave men and women who shall one day be studied by future students. You are all legends in the making, and today, this day, is perhaps but the first great moment in your own, personal story.”

Even Scorio felt a frisson of excitement at these words; he fought it, scowled, but felt his spirit rise.

“Bastard’s damn good at this,” he muttered, earning a scowl from Lianshi and a wry shake of Leonis’s head.

“But let us come to the matter at hand. Each one of you will activate your crystals at the same time. Think on your teammates as you do so, and you shall be transported to the Gauntlet in unison. Remember that there is great glory in your individual accomplishments, but that your team score is of great importance as well, speaking, as it will, to your ability to elevate your peers, fight intelligently as a group, and indicate your own potential as a team player for the organizations that fight deep in the bitter wars of hell. Strive to do your best! Leave nothing behind, no ability untapped, no ounce of resolve unused. This Gauntlet run is your second, and while you are assured to do better than your first, you do not compete against your old record, but against each other! Strive to best them! Win that glory, win that honor, and wrest the admiration and astonishment from the Houses that have come to witness your deeds today! For you represent the best of us, the final arrow in our depleted quiver, our hope for an end to war, to freedom from hell, and to epitomize the peak that our exalted kind can reach. You are Great Souls, and on behalf of the Academy, I demand that you show us your worth!”

Praximar’s voice fairly rang off the balconies and domed ceiling above, and elicited wild cheers from the spectators, a great cry that echoed like waves from the ocean, crashing about Scorio and causing his pulse to race, his breath to catch.

Praximar, who had raised his hands again at this last, stepped back so that Helminth could take his place. Her voice, steady, forceful, wry, brought Scorio back to earth from the soaring heights to which Praximar had sent him. And in that moment, his heart pounding, his mind fired with exhilaration and ambition, Scorio couldn’t find it in him to hate the chancellor. Instead, he felt a steely determination to show the older man how mistaken he was about him, to excel in such manner that Praximar would have no choice but to bow his head as he accepted being proved so terribly wrong.

“All right, Great Souls of the class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three: you know what to do. Keep your teammates in mind, activate your crystals, and prepare yourself for your second Gauntlet run.”

Everyone began moving to the foot of their biers, Scorio amongst them. Helminth continued talking as he placed his palm over the great crystal.

“Remember what you have been taught. Self-control, patience, and a flexible mind will get you further than a headlong flight into the unknown. Further, the Gauntlet will show the final moments of the Great Soul who makes it the farthest to those who reach the same chamber. That means if you see no one else but your teammates before you die, either you’ve made it the farthest thus far or you’re dying way behind the victor.”

Scorio hopped up onto the bier. He exchanged glances with his friends one last time before lying back, and then stared up at the interior of the distant dome, his hands resting on his chest.

Now that the moment had come, he could hardly think. His mind was a great blank canvas, devoid at the last of intentions, anger, determination, ferocity, anger. He felt himself a vessel, empty, calm, even numb, perhaps. His wounded fist ached distantly, as if the intensity of the moment lay between him and the pain like a pane of glass.

Helminth was still speaking, but her words faded behind the rush that filled his ears. Back to the Gauntlet. Back to the very first experience he recalled. Back to that terrible hall of beaten copper with its horrors and pain.

Scorio took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He was ready.

Chapter 71

Scorio awoke into a tomb of hammered copper. His breath echoed harshly within the stark confines, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and drinking in the faint, blood orange glow that seeped into the air from a rectangular hole in the ceiling.

So alien, that amber-red light. So unlike the pale, washed-out gold to which he’d grown accustomed.

One chance, he told himself, lying still upon the cold catafalque. No repeats on this run.

He hopped up smoothly to his feet and crouched. For a second his first memory returned to him: how he’d leaped several times to reach the opening, panic blossoming in his chest. How alien this had all been, how terrifying.

But things had changed.

Even without igniting his Heart, his body was now that of an Emberling; with a smooth, propulsive leap he soared out through the opening to land neatly just beyond it, and gaze once more at the great beam of luminous amber that split the darkness in the distance and rose to a great height before losing itself into darkness. It shone like the sun-wire, richly golden and pitiless, inhuman in its scale and without detail or depth.

Off to his sides, he saw his companions leap out of their respective tombs, each landing quietly and with poise; together they arose as one, converging as they walked toward the distant steps.

“Like a dream,” said Lianshi softly. “A half-forgotten nightmare.”

Leonis was already gathering his freed mane of hair back behind his head. “Feels all too real to me.”

Across the plain of feverish, apocalyptic bronze, past the closed tomb entrances, to the huge steps up which they climbed.

“Simple sidestep,” said Naomi, distending and growing into her Nightmare Lady form.

“We know.” Leonis bound his hair with a torn strip from his sleeve and then rolled his shoulders.

“Your hand?” asked Lianshi.

“Fine.” Scorio held the aching limb to his chest. The pain was all too real, but he put it from his mind.

“Then let’s go.” Naomi began to lope ahead, her gaunt frame hunched over, tail whipping sinuously behind her. “I’m eager to see how many we kill before we fall.”

They all broke into a jog, and with the smooth coordination earned from scores of attempts on the old Gauntlet, punched into the bright, choleric space between the huge walls, into that veil of burning light.

Scorio emerged on the far side into a dimly lit, low-ceilinged hallway. Without hesitation, he stepped aside, and a fraction of a second later a ponderous bolt ricocheted off the iron wall behind him.

The Nightmare Lady had done the same, and together they moved forward, turning to watch as Lianshi and Leonis emerged and avoided their bolts with ease.

Scorio pursed his lips and stared at the patch of dirt where Asha had died. There was no mark, no old bloodstains, nothing to indicate she’d died gasping there on the dirt. Reflexively he began sweeping Coal mana into his fractured Heart.

Wherever she was, he wished her luck.

“One room down,” said Leonis cheerfully. “Now, for the part I’ve been looking forward to.”

Scorio glanced about the rusted walls, the low ceiling, and then followed the Nightmare Lady to the far door. “I almost feel sorry for those little bastards.”

Scorio felt Leonis’s Heart ignite, a ghostly expansion of force that washed over him like an invisible tide. And with his Emberling senses now, that tide felt more complex, alive with detail he’d missed before as a Cinder. He didn’t have enough experience to read it, but the detail was there. Leonis extended his hand, and Nezzar materialized within his grip. Its hexagonal body and burning runes seemed more real than the room about them, and it pushed at Scorio’s senses as if it burned with a light he couldn’t yet see.

“Don’t feel sorry for them,” said Leonis, and smacked Nezzar’s ridged head into his palm. “We’ve a reckoning, those little killers and I. This time I’m no lowly Char.”

“Then by all means,” said Scorio, mock-bowing and extending his good hand. “Be the first to enter.”

“Gladly,” said Leonis, and wrenched the door open, ready to step through, only to be arrested when the Nightmare Lady took hold of his shoulder. “What?”

“Don’t make assumptions. I’ve never heard of rooms changing, but there’s always a first time.”

Leonis glowered and then gave a grudging nod. “Very well.”

Together, the pair of them faced the dark doorway and stepped through.

Lianshi met Scorio’s eyes, her own wide, her manner nervous, and they followed right after.

The room beyond was pitch dark but for the thirty, fist-sized circular holes clustered high above with their columns of dusty white light. As before, each column terminated in a perfect circle of illumination the size of a dinner plate, forming a compact island of light in an ocean of dark.

The sight caused the corner of Scorio’s mouth to twitch into a wry smile. He ignited his Heart, saw the translucent flames wreath his spider-cracked core, then sharpened his darkvision.

Immediately the impenetrable, velvety night became insubstantial, and with his Emberling’s widened field of vision, he quickly caught sight of the four fiends. Saw once more their great, bald heads with liver spots mottled across their scalps, ragged holes for noses, and wide, thick-lipped mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth. The four small fiends glared at them with eyes that were little more than beady black gems, and were already creeping toward them, two to a side.

“Hello, you sorry bastards,” rumbled Leonis, swinging Nezzar about with practiced ease that spoke to a lost lifetime of wielding the club. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

The four fiends paused, taken aback at being so easily detected, and then rushed at them, fangs bared.

And Leonis moved to engage them all.

Nezzar swung through the air in a terrible arc that shattered limbs, sheared through the upper portions of skulls, and crushed all that it touched. Three swings were all it took. Three mighty swings that destroyed the fiends as if they were paper constructions, their bones seemingly as delicate as dried twigs, their black blood spattering in great waves across the floor and walls.

“Damn,” said Lianshi.

Leonis came to a stop, Nezzar extended out to one side, blood sluicing off it as if repelled by the stone, so that almost immediately it was immaculately clean once more, the searing trails left by the burning runes in the dark fading from Scorio’s vision slowly.

“Good work,” said the Nightmare Lady, moving forward with purpose.

Leonis grunted and stared at the crumpled bodies with a complex expression. “I’m the damned Golden King, Wielder of Nezzar, Leonis the Grim—and you better believe I’m going to show this Gauntlet and my ancestors both what I’m made of.” He paused as he drew himself up. “I’ve spent all this time replaying that fight. My death. In my mind it loomed large, but now…?”

“Revenge is never wholly satisfying, my father used to say.” The Nightmare Lady reached the far door and turned back. “But it does have a certain savor. Enjoy it, then put it from your mind. The next chamber is potentially lethal.”

“Potentially?” Lianshi pushed off the iron wall with obvious reluctance. “It was plenty lethal to me the last time.”

“But you’re an Emberling now,” said the Nightmare Lady. “That makes all the difference.”

Together they crossed the chamber, passing through the island of burning white light, and paused before the door.

“One second,” said Scorio. His Heart had burned itself out. “Need to gather some more mana.”

“Take your time,” said Leonis, propping Nezzar upon his shoulder. “We’re in no rush.”

Still, the pause rankled, so Scorio set to refilling his reservoir as quickly as he could. Swept great waves of Coal into his reservoir, packed it in deep, and only when he felt close to saturation did he nod.

One by one they passed into the next chamber. That short, irregularly illuminated hallway ending some twenty yards away in a blank wall. Where Lianshi had died, slashed to ribbons, to bleed out and leave him alone.

Scorio glanced sidelong at Lianshi. She stood, pale-faced, shoulders squared, jaw clenched. Impulsively he reached out with his good hand and took hold of hers, gave it a squeeze. She startled, smiled at him, then turned back to the hall.

The same path of fine gravel led from their door through the six bands of alternating light and darkness. Each band, Scorio now knew, was its own hurdle, the site of exploding blades. Across from them a pair of steps rose to a landing. The illumination was stark, forming six glowing outlines of nested trapezoids.

“Speed and control,” said the Nightmare Lady, stepping down off the platform onto one of the stone shoulders. “Relax, as much as you can, and trust your instincts. Allow yourself to react. You can’t consciously prepare for where the blades will come from, but your Emberling body will guide you if you allow it. Trust it.”

“That’s exactly the kind of advice I hate,” said Leonis, stepping down onto the opposite shoulder. “Care to show us how it’s done?”

The Nightmare Lady’s tail curled, the blade pressing itself between her shoulder blades. “With pleasure. Watch and learn, children.”

“We’re all Emberlings now,” muttered Lianshi. “When is she going to drop the act?”

“When we surpass her, I guess,” said Scorio, but his answer was distracted; he watched, intently, as the Nightmare Lady crouched then burst forward at a run.

She passed the first series of incised whorls in the wall and the blades burst forth. To Scorio’s surprise, they weren’t nearly as blindingly fast as they’d been the first time; he saw them emerge, a horizontal slash and a rising oblique cut, and the Nightmare Lady leaped between them both with neat, clean skill.

And went right into the second. Again the blades flashed forth, and again she evaded them, twisting with admirable skill. She passed through the third, the fourth, the fifth with no difficulty, then paused to regain her balance. Faced the sixth and last set of blades, and with a sharp cry of defiance dove forth again, to slide just under the scything attack and emerge unharmed on the far side.

“Damn,” said Leonis. Nezzar faded from his grip, and he rubbed both his palms on his hips. “She makes it look easy.”

“Relax,” called Naomi, dropping her nightmarish form and allowing her Heart to gutter out. “Trust your instincts. Let your reflexes guide you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Leonis, lowering himself into a crouch. “I’m built for love, not this nimble nonsense.”

“Luck,” called Lianshi, and then Leonis took off, a lumbering run that propelled him right into the first set of blades. They burst forth, and Leonis let out a concerned cry as he contorted himself, hopped his feet up so the blades passed beneath him. Staggered as he landed on the far side and drew himself up short.

“One down,” he said, wiping at his brow.

Lianshi raised a clenched fist. “Good work!”

Again Leonis charged forward, and again the blades flashed forth. Had they really slowed down so much? The first time they’d been impossible to track, but now Scorio could watch them emerge with just enough warning to see how they’d slash forth.

Leonis could obviously see the same, and though he was far clumsier than the Nightmare Lady, he dodged them as best he could, avoiding any major wounds but suffering from some five or so lacerations by the time he reached the far end, one of which was worryingly deep across the side of his thigh.

“Damn it,” hissed the large man, tearing the lower half of one of his flowing pant legs away to form a tourniquet. “Damn it to hell.”

“Here I go!” Without further warning, Lianshi darted forth, her face a mask of barely controlled panic. Scorio felt her Heart ignite as she ran and could only marvel at her grace. Where the Nightmare Lady had been all lethal control, Lianshi was a leaf being wafted by a breeze, dancing between branches of a tree as it fell and touching none of them. Almost effortlessly she ran and leaped, past the first, the second, the third.

Scorio was grinning, admiring her poise and dexterity when her foot slipped as she emerged through the fourth. With a cry she flailed her arms, then plunged headfirst into the fifth set of blades, all control lost.

The great slashing filaments of metal flew forth, right at her sides and neck. Scorio felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach clench and knot, was about to cry out, when the blades slammed into Lianshi and knocked her to the side.

Leaving not a mark.

Terrified, she scrambled to her feet and rushed past the sixth set of blades as they burst out to slam into her again, knocking her away but again failing to cut her skin. With a cry, she collapsed beside Leonis, who immediately helped her rise.

“Nice power,” said the massive man as Scorio felt his panic subside.

“Thanks,” said Lianshi shakily. She rose, clawed her hair away from her face, then stared morosely at the dark incisions in the walls. “I hate this room.”

Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “You partial to the others?”

“You know what I mean,” said Lianshi irritably. “You ready, Scorio?”

“Yes. Here I come.” A deep breath. He held it, his heart pounding like a fist upon a skintight drum, and then exhaled. With a flex of his will, he ignited his Heart, felt his vitality and strength increase immeasurably, and then summoned his power. Black scales flowed over his arms, across his shoulders, and his form changed further, growing leaner, taller, more graceful and lethal.

For a second, he considered shredding the emerging blades with his white-tipped claws, but then discarded the idea.

Clutching his wounded arm to his chest he crouched, focused himself, and then ran forth.

The first set of blades flickered out, but he saw them coming, swayed aside, and raised his left leg so his foot wouldn’t be shorn off. The second forced him into a diving roll, and he came up at full speed, mostly in control, to hurl himself through the third, twisting to the side again as he leaped high, the blades whispering out in a crosscut beneath him.

He landed heavily, his balance made ungainly by his wounded arm, and lurched through the fourth. Not enough control; he saw the blades scything forth, but didn’t have the balance to evade them. With a cry of rage, he slammed his claws down and into the slender wires, mangling them and causing a great screech and shower of sparks to emerge from the incisions as he bent and crushed them out of shape.

To stand there, gasping, and stare at the ruined trap.

“That’s one way to do it,” said Leonis matter-of-factly.

“How did he move that fast?” Scorio heard Lianshi whisper.

“Stay focused.” Naomi was clearly unimpressed. “Two more to go. Gather yourself.”

Nodding, Scorio turned to the remaining traps. A deep breath. His Heart was about to gutter out. A crouch, then he burst forth again. Evaded the fourth set, ducking low, then threw himself into a dive that carried him between two horizontal slashes to come up in a roll next to his friends, turn, and slam his back against the far wall.

“Yes!” Leonis pumped his fist into the air. “Third room down, with only one wound dealt to the lumbering idiot.”

“You did amazingly well,” said Lianshi, bending down to scrutinize his wound. “Don’t denigrate yourself.”

“Everyone remember the plan for the next room?” asked Naomi, turning toward the door.

“Stay alive?” asked Scorio, catching his breath and straightening up. Once more he set to filling his Heart, and he could vaguely sense the others doing the same.

“That, yes,” said Naomi. “There was more to it, however.”

Lianshi squared up to the door. “I’m ready.”

“On my mark,” said Scorio, moving up beside Naomi who shifted back into her Nightmare Lady form. Leonis and Lianshi took the lead. “One. Two… three!”

The four of them broke into a run, bolting toward the door and pouring themselves into it to emerge in the far chamber. Scorio ignited his Heart as he burst through, felt the speed and strength pour into him, and redoubled his efforts.

He caught a flash of the porous gray walls, as if carved through the heart of a mass of ashen coral. The smooth wooden floor. Recessed lights in the ceiling above, providing ambient illumination.

The four of them sprinted forward, two abreast, and immediately the corridor began to slope downward, doing so far faster than it had with Scorio’s original wounded crawl. In a flash, they’d reached the midpoint, and the hallway tilted up to a forty-five-degree angle.

None of them slowed; Emberling power fueled their limbs, charged their bodies with burning might. They powered up the growing slope as the far edge rose the curving wall toward the distant door.

But the slope grew precipitous almost immediately; the sheer violence of its rising nearly pressed Scorio down upon its gleaming surface through centrifugal force. Leonis let out a cry of alarm as his feet went out from under him, and a second later Lianshi fell to all fours.

Immediately Scorio shifted into his scaled form and slammed his burning claws into the wooden floor. The Nightmare Lady did the same, further anchoring herself with her bladed tail. Lianshi slid down, trying to arrest her fall, feet connecting with Scorio’s scaled shoulders; Leonis did the same, a little less adroitly.

No encouragement needed to be yelled. Both of them gathered themselves then leaped off their companions, a final, desperate lunge for the door that had appeared above them as the floor swung up to meet its lower edge.

Scorio braced against Lianshi’s jump, but the pressure was slight; a second later he was climbing up, sinking his talons into the ground as he hauled himself up the near-vertical surface, the Nightmare Lady skittering up past him, the sharp nails of her feet digging in with equal efficacy as her talons, and together they hauled themselves through the black doorway, and into the next chamber.

Chapter 72

Scorio crawled out through the iron wall to collapse upon massive flagstones of dark stone. For a moment he simply lay there, gasping for breath, but then he heaved himself upright with his good hand, immediately sweeping Coal into his Heart once more as his scales retreated under his skin and the translucent flames guttered out.

They’d entered a large hexagonal chamber, the walls adorned with ancient carvings depicting garlands, heroic figures doing battle against fiends, all of it worn and eroded by the passage of time.

In the center of the room, their foe stood on all fours, a beast as large as a cart, horned and bristle maned. Its head was vaguely porcine, its snout flanked on each side by three tusks that swept down from the edge of its jawline.

Gasping, catching his breath, Scorio rose to his feet. The beast was studying them, a dim intelligence in its rheumy eyes. It was repulsive. Its face glistened, its skin swollen as if it had been basted in honey and recently pulled from an oven. Its forelegs looked more like arms, hugely muscled but dwarfed by the prodigious shoulders and massively deep chest.

It sneezed, gave its huge head a vicious shake, and then clawed at the ground, scoring deep grooves in the hexagonal stones.

Nightmare Lady was up, sweeping out wide, tail lashing behind her. Leonis summoned Nezzar from the air and moved to take the center, swinging the club about him as he moved so that it warped the air and made it moan.

This was the beast that killed Jova the first time round. How had she gotten this far as a Char?

Scorio inhaled deeply and focused on drawing more mana into his Heart. Steeled himself against the constant frustration that came from watching more than half of everything he drew upon vent itself from the cracks.

With a violent squeal, the boar fiend flung itself forward, its prodigious strength such that it didn’t run so much as spring forward, again and again, each leap covering ten feet at a bound.

Come on, come on! Scorio swept ever more Coal into his reservoir, cursing its depth and stubborn refusal to ignite.

Lianshi let out a cry and sprinted past Leonis, right at the incoming boar. The move was so counterintuitive, the sight of her rangy form so absurd compared to the horrific bulk of the fiend, that Scorio let out a cry of alarm, started to run forward. But then she stopped, crossed her arms before her face, and turned away.

The boar crashed into her at full tilt, tossing its heads as it did so. Tusks slammed into Lianshi’s side, but instead of sending her flying, the whole beast slammed to a standstill before her gleaming form. Tusks shattered; the beast’s mass rippled up to swell its neck at the sudden arrest of its momentum. It stepped back, blinking its eyes dazedly, to stare in confusion at Lianshi who was slowly lowering her arms.

Unhurt.

But that had been all the distraction the Nightmare Lady had needed. She appeared for a moment above the boar, knees tucked into her chest, chin lowered, somersaulting right over its broad shoulders, spinning so that her tail whipped down and around, its triangular blade passing over the the beast’s back.

Then Leonis was there, doing a stutter-step run that culminated in his swinging Nezzar two-handed up and into the boar’s chin, rotating from the hips, the runes bleeding behind into the air as the club’s tip crashed into the fiend’s jaw.

Its head snapped up, the architecture of its face shifting and collapsing upon itself, tender skin splitting, the last of its tusks shattering.

The Nightmare Lady landed on the far side, arrested her slide by slamming her claws into the stone, then hauled herself back at the boar’s flank even as it reared up onto its rear legs in agony.

Scorio lost sight of her then, saw Leonis swing Nezzar again, the club impacting the boar’s shoulder. It looked like he was attacking a boulder, but even from where he stood Scorio heard the distinct crack of bone snapping, and the huge forelimb suddenly fell limp.

But the fiend was impossibly strong. Even with black blood sheeting down its chest and past its ribs, with its head looking like a stepped-on peach, and its shoulder collapsed, it wheeled on the Nightmare Lady and slammed its head into her chest.

Her reflexes were sharp; even as the blow came, the Nightmare Lady sprang away, but not quite in time; the shattered remnants of a tusk caught her by the hip, and turned her agile escape into a cartwheeling fall through the air.

Leonis fell back, swung Nezzar before him in a warning sweep, the air moaning once more, then hurled himself aside as the boar fiend reared up and crashed down upon where he’d stood with all the force and fury of a cresting storm wave.

Scorio’s reservoir reached saturation. He inhaled gratefully, willed his Heart to incandesce, and as the boar fiend cast around, eyes blood-shot, black blood and snot leaking from between its jaws and the deep funnel-like holes in its snout, Scorio stepped to the fore.

“Hey,” he called out, raising his good hand to gesture at the huge pig. “Over here, ugly. It’s my turn.”

The beast swayed, propping its weight up on its sole good leg, then let out a whinnying cry and bounded at him, several thousand pounds of muscle and ruined tusks.

Scorio exerted his will, and black scales swept out across his arms, white-hot talons spring from the tips of his fingers, and wicked power suffused his body. Feeling elastic, limber, barely constrained by the ties of gravity, Scorio crouched, waited till the last moment, then sprang forth to meet the boar.

But first, he feinted, raised his clawed hand high as if he were going for the fiend’s eyes, then ducked down and threw himself into a slide, twisting to hit the stones on his back and pass under the charging boar’s head.

A flash of its broad chest passing overhead, into which he sank his talons with a vicious slash. Hide and muscles parted at his touch, the swathe of pectoral muscle coming undone with a stench of burned flesh.

Momentum carried the boar on, but with its chest ruined, it couldn’t bring its remaining foreleg to bear; with a cry it crashed down to the flagstones, slamming into the stone with enough force to wrench its heads sideways, causing it to turn as it slid so that it ended up perpendicular to where Scorio rose to his feet.

“Mine!” cried out the Nightmare Lady. She leaped atop its uppermost shoulder as it heaved, and slammed her tail blade down to impale it through the throat.

Its guttural roar grew wet, turned into a gargle, then with a final shiver, it lay still.

Scorio immediately released his scaled form and rose into a crouch, arms resting on his knees. “Everyone all right?”

“Fine,” said Lianshi, with a grimace. “Though I’m covered in pig spit.”

“Fine,” said Leonis, sitting off to the side, Nezzar set down beside him as he tended the now crimson bandage wrapped around his thigh. “That was… close.”

“Fine,” said the Nightmare Lady, leaping off the boar. But when she landed, she staggered before catching her balance.

“It hit you hard,” said Scorio, tone sober. “You sure?”

“Fine,” said the Nightmare Lady, her sulfurous green eyes narrowing. “Just a glancing blow.”

But the wound across her prominent pelvic cradle was torn and welling black blood.

“I’m sorry, everyone,” said Scorio. “It took me too long to get into the fight. My Heart…”

Leonis climbed to his feet. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve soundly crushed every obstacle thus far. It makes sense that we’d start to take a few nicks and cuts.”

“We’re supposed to crush every obstacle of this section,” said Naomi as she shrank down to her human form. “The first five rooms are Char killers. As Emberlings, we’re performing a little worse than expected.”

“Next five are designed to defeat Cinders,” said Lianshi, giving up on the slime that caked her robes. “Should be interesting.”

It was a question Scorio had put off asking for as long as he could, but now he couldn’t hold it back. “How far do you think Jova will go?”

“As a Tomb Spark?” Naomi turned to consider him, hand pressed to the wound on her hip. “She should pass the first fifteen rooms without too much difficulty. I’d guess eighteen rooms or so?”

“I didn’t need to hear that,” said Leonis, releasing Nezzar so that it faded from view. “We’re only five in. Can we work on keeping our morale up?”

“Come on, you big complainer,” said Lianshi, giving him a mock-shove as she passed him by. “Let’s see what the next room contains. Should be some kind of trap, right?”

“Right,” said Scorio, rising to his feet as well. “Just let me collect my Coal mana again.”

They moved to stand before the black door that had appeared in one of the hexagon’s walls, and there waited till Scorio gave them all a firm nod.

“I’ll go first,” said Lianshi. “I’ll activate my gift to foil whatever trap awaits us.” She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and Scorio felt her Heart incandesce a moment before she stepped through.

Naomi, pale-faced, shifted up into her Nightmare Lady form and stepped through right after. Scorio ignited his Heart as Leonis summoned Nezzar back, and with a grim nod to his friend stepped forward.

Through the black door, through that jolt of nothingness, to step out into a complex, cramped room filled with movement and violence. Scorio immediately pressed himself back against the wall, his chest tightening as he took in the chaos and complexity of the small—room? chamber?—before them.

The walls were animated, divided into huge blocks of gray stone that ground slowly toward each other, extruding themselves, growing into rectangles that would suddenly and without warning slam forward to crash against their opposite. A crooked path shifted constantly between these slamming blocks, the far wall only some twenty feet away, but the means to get there constantly slamming shut at different points, with the blocks then slowly receding toward their native wall to only reverse course and slam back out again.

“By the ten hells,” said Leonis. “How are we supposed to navigate that?”

“It’s just a variation,” called the Nightmare Lady over the cacophony. “Like the room with sliding blades.”

“Or the chamber with the small, flying blocks,” shouted Lianshi from her far side. “We just need to get across.”

Scorio studied the shifting segments of wall. One slammed against its partner right before him, perhaps a foot from where he stood pressed against the wall, the sudden draft of air ruffling his hair, the sound concussive. The blocks were only five feet tall; the ceiling easily some twenty feet in height all told. For a couple of seconds, the blocks remained pressed together, then began to withdraw.

“We could leap atop the blocks,” he called out. “Perhaps go from block to block as they smash together.”

But his idea was immediately ruined by the sight of a pair of blocks smashing together at the height of some five feet off the ground. A few moments later, he saw two segments crash right up against the ceiling.

“It’s a three-dimensional maze,” shouted Lianshi. “We need to think both vertically as well as horizontally. Move up and down.”

“But how?” Leonis’s shout was easily the most intelligible. “There’s no pattern!”

Mesmerized, Scorio watched as one block reversed its withdrawal and extended blindingly fast across the chamber to smash into its still retreating neighbor. They weren’t mirror reflections; sometimes they smashed at each other, other times one would pursue its retreating partner with terrible force.

“Reflexes and speed,” called out the Nightmare Lady. “Watch.”

And with a bound she ran forward, tail whipping behind her. Ran past the first set of blocks as they ground away like waves retreating from a shore, then leaped as a second set of blocks rushed to crush her. Lianshi let out a scream, but the Nightmare Lady’s leap carried her high, to land on the same blocks that would have killed her. She scampered forward, ducked under the third blocks as they slammed overhead, then threw herself back as the fourth wave crashed, both before and above her, together at the same time.

Scorio watched, feeling almost dizzy, as the Nightmare Lady caught herself, leaped high as the third blocks came roaring toward each other again, landed atop them, and then tripped.

It was her left leg that gave out under her. Her wounded hip.

She fell to the ground, and again Lianshi cried out in alarm. The Nightmare Lady pushed up from the ground with such force that she rose to her feet, then flung herself forward just as the fourth row of blocks smashed together again.

“Did she make it?” Lianshi’s question was wild with horror. The fourth row of blocks remained pressed together. “Did she get through?”

Scorio stared, unable to breathe, but when the blocks peeled apart to retreat, he saw Naomi crouched against the far wall, heaving for breath, her hip dark with blood.

The strength went out of his knees, and he heaved a huge sigh.

“She did it!” Lianshi gave a little punch up into the air and hopped off both feet. “She did it!”

“How by the ever-true fiend that lay with its mother will I get across that?” Leonis was scowling at the huge blocks. “Think I can batter them aside with Nezzar?”

“Worth a try,” said Scorio.

“Let’s see.” Leonis extended his hand, and his hexagonal club appeared a moment later, runes burning bright. They waited till the first row of blocks crashed together before them, and then he brought the club down with all his force upon an upper edge.

Cracks fragmented out, chips of stone fell, and the club bounced off with a dull, reverberating boom.

“Gah,” said Leonis, releasing the club with one hand and shaking it out. “That would take me a year to destroy.”

“Guess we’re not meant to brute force our way through.” Lianshi rose to her tiptoes, lowered back down, and then shook out her arms. “Here I go.”

Scorio wanted to stop her, to ask, “Are you sure?” But he bit back the words, gave her an encouraging nod, and watched as she readied herself.

In that moment, she was infinitely precious to him. He drank in the sight of her determined face, her wide cheekbones, her set mouth, the lock of black hair that had slipped forth to hang down past her mouth.

And then she ran forward, leaping past the first set of blocks as they withdrew. Continued right past the second set, an all-out sprint without finesse or any attempts at acrobatics.

Which was why the third set of blocks slammed together as she ran, crushing her between them.

Or trying to.

They compacted her tightly, but with a hideous groan that rose to a screech they came to a stop, some twelve or so inches apart, Lianshi pressed tightly between them. Alive. Her form shimmered with a subtle iridescence, then the blocks withdrew, she collapsed forward, stumbled past the fourth set, and crashed down next to Naomi.

“Lianshi!” Leonis’s boom carried over the crashing blocks overhead. “You all right?”

“Fine!” She sat up, raked her hair from her face, then gave them a nervous smile. “Just… catching my breath.”

“Damn useful power,” muttered Leonis. “I’m getting more envious with each passing second.”

“We’ve got this,” said Scorio. “You want to go next, or me?”

“You go.” Leonis reached down to give his bandage another tug. “I’m… yeah. You go.”

“All right.” Scorio ignited his Heart, summoned his scales, and then waited for the first blocks to crash together. They were withdrawing slowly, grinding away against the ground. Then, with terrible speed, they smashed together, blasting him with air once more. The moment they parted, he ran through.

Each block was about five feet deep. He crossed the first in two steps, but then threw himself back as the second set crashed together. No time to wait for them to part; he vaulted up with his one good hand, leaped forward, but saw the third set rush toward each other at his height.

Time seemed to slow. With supreme effort, he contorted his body, arching around to change his forward dive into a shoulder slam as he collided with the front face of the third block. The ones below him began to part, and with a grunt he leaped up onto the third blocks, his head brushing the ceiling, some fifteen feet above the ground.

The blocks began to withdraw from under him. He eyed the fourth set of blocks, saw that the ones five feet off the ground below him were about to part, and dove down on instinct.

The blocks parted just before he hit the seam. He speared through and crashed into Naomi, who caught him as best she could, which meant not at all, and they both slammed against the far wall and then collapsed to the ground.

Scorio immediately jerked his legs in before the fourth blocks could crush them, and pressed his back to the wall, dismissing his scaled form. Naomi sat up beside him, scowling, but gave him a grudging nod as Lianshi squealed and leaned over to hug him tight.

“You can do it, Leonis!” she cried, turning back to their companion. He seemed so close, only twenty feet away, but the crashing blocks did nothing to hide his fear.

“C’mon,” muttered Scorio, willing his friend to succeed. “You can do this.”

Leonis dismissed Nezzar, rubbed his palms together, ran his hand over his beard, then hunched. For a moment, Scorio lost sight of him, the blocks closing between them, but then he heard Leonis roar his defiance.

“He’s going for it!” cried Lianshi, scrambling up to her feet.

The blocks parted, and Leonis appeared in a dead sprint, eyes wide, pounding toward them as fast as he could go.

Time slowed. The first set of blocks crashed together behind him. The second set did the same. The third set parted just in time for him to rush through, and then he ran past the fourth set as they continued their retreat.

With a cry, he slammed into the wall, nearly bouncing off it, then turned to stare, glassy-eyed, at the blocks smashed together all at once like teeth being gnashed in fury.

“I did it,” he gasped, stunned, and then collected himself. “I did it!”

“You just ran right through?” Naomi’s incredulity was palpable. “That was your plan? Just… run?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” asked Leonis, smile shaky, then Lianshi grabbed him around the neck and hugged him tightly.

“It did work!” she said. “Brilliant!”

Naomi sniffed and turned to the door that had materialized beside them. “Scorio, you ready?”

“One moment,” he said, and exhaled. He closed his eyes and set to re-saturating his Heart. Again. Once more he felt a glimmer of bitterness, but he banished it and worked on the Coal mana in the room. Ignored the Copper, elusive and mercurial as it was. When his reservoir finally felt packed again, he gave another nod. “Let’s go.”

Naomi nodded curtly, touched her wounded hip in an almost absent-minded manner, and stretched up into her Nightmare Lady form. Tail coiled close behind her to avoid the ever-smashing blocks, she pressed through the archway into the blackness beyond, and was gone.

“Room six defeated,” said Leonis, catching his breath, a sheen of sweat gleaming on his brow. “Onto room seven.” And with that, he went through.

“We’re doing great,” said Lianshi, reaching out to squeeze Scorio’s arm, her smile nervous, encouraging. “We’re doing really, really well.”

“Don’t say that,” Scorio wanted to protest, her words somehow making him certain that tragedy awaited them in the next room. But then she stepped through the archway and was gone.

Deep breaths. A final glance at the smashing blocks, and then he, too, stepped through and into the seventh chamber.

Chapter 73

The stench in the next room was acrid, a pungent, burning smell that immediately caused Scorio to recoil and wrap his good arm over his mouth and nose. Eyes watering, he realized that he’d stepped through and onto a narrow ledge; beyond it, a forest of narrow stone stilts arose from a swirling pool of faintly luminous green liquid some fifty feet below, fumes rising noxiously from the eddying surface.

“Gah,” he protested into his sleeve, turning to glance at his friends. Lianshi was equally dismayed, but the Nightmare Lady seemed unperturbed. “Now they’re throwing stinky rooms at us? That’s just underhand.”

“Look,” said the Nightmare Lady, pointing a curved talon.

Scorio saw a cluster of leathery beasts hanging upside down from the rafters that crossed the ceiling, each perhaps three feet long, their wicked talons punched into the wood, their heads hidden behind their black wings.

“Great.” Scorio winced as he lowered his arm. “So we have to navigate over these poles to the far side of the room while fending off those creatures?”

“Ravenna would deal with them right from here,” said Lianshi, as Leonis stepped through and immediately gagged. “But we’ve no long-ranged attacks.”

“That’s what we get for all being heart-centered fools,” said Scorio, turning to examine the stilts. They were a uniform six inches or so across, rose to uneven heights, some clustered closely together, others standing in splendid isolation. “Look, see there? If you follow where the poles are closely gathered, they form a kind of winding path.”

“Making it twice as long to cross the room,” said the Nightmare Lady.

“More room for error.” Leonis had summoned Nezzar and propped it now on his shoulder. “If one of those… bats? Whatever they are, knock us off our pole, there’s a chance to grab at another.”

“They’ll have more time to knock us off, if we take the long way,” said the Nightmare Lady again.

“Or we could just focus on killing them,” said Scorio. “Then cross slowly and safely.”

Lianshi grimaced through the haze at where the beasts hung. “You’re assuming they only attack with their claws. What if they can, I don’t know, spit acid at us or the like?”

“Then this will be the room in which we die,” said Leonis with faux cheerfulness. “But I say we move slowly, carefully, and try to kill them as we go. If we find that to be a bad plan, then we just cross the room as quickly as possible.”

The Nightmare Lady stretched, reaching for the ceiling, then winced and recoiled down protectively over her wounded hip. “I’ll cross first. Draw their attention. You three make your way over when you see them focused on me.”

Scorio wanted to protest, but she was the most adept at this kind of terrain. “Fine. But no heroics. You find yourself overwhelmed, either make for the door or retreat to us.”

“How steady are these stilts?” Leonis reached out with Nezzar and tapped the closest one. The column shivered slightly but didn’t sway; immediately, however, the bat-like monsters stirred. “Steady enough.”

“Let’s go,” said Lianshi. “My eyes are starting to burn.”

The Nightmare Lady pointed. “I’ll go wide to the left. You head to the right along the denser area.”

“All right. Good luck out there.” Scorio paused, a second from igniting his Heart, and watched the Nightmare Lady as she moved as far down the ledge as she could before nimbly leaping out to the first pole.

She landed neatly, and several things happened at once.

For one, the pole immediately began to sink rapidly, forcing the Nightmare Lady to leap again. The second was the explosion of screeches that came from the bat-like creatures, who unfurled their wings and dropped into the air, revealing not furry, rat-like bodies, but rather bloated, baby-like torsos, their heads bulbous, eyes almost hidden between fat folds of flesh, their skin pitted, their mouths distending as they shrieked.

“Go!” shouted Scorio, igniting his Heart and leaping for the first pole, embracing his power so that his form warped mid-jump. He landed nimbly atop the narrow pole, and only his expectation that it would sink allowed him to keep his balance. The winged baby—monster—things swooped down at the Nightmare Lady, buffeting at her and lashing out with their claws. Out of the corner of his eye, Scorio saw her whip her tail at them as she scampered across the poles, leaping from one to the next with her incredible agility.

Scorio focused on his own path. Even in his enhanced form, the way was treacherous. Fortunately, the poles began to rise the moment he stepped off them, giving his companions a means to follow, but he hurried on, occasionally being forced to leap more than a yard from one narrow pole to the next, painfully aware of the huge drop into the green, glowing fluid below.

The Nightmare Lady screamed. Scorio glanced over, and saw her fall, only to catch hold of the pole as if it were a tree trunk, her talons sinking into the ancient stone. It continued its descent, but she simply leaped from it to the next, grabbing its body in a similar fashion. The winged monsters, prevented from getting at her by the profusion of poles, vented their frustration with more shrieks and then flew at the three of them.

“Here they come!” shouted Scorio and moved quicker, taking more daring leaps, striving to not use the more obvious poles to save them for his friends. Heart hammering, he lurched from one to the next, then ducked as the first fiend flew down at him.

Reflexively he flailed at it with his good arm, and nearly overbalanced as his claws connected; the impact nearly knocked him over, such was his surprise at striking true. The baby monster burst into green liquid, as if its bloated body were little more than a thin skin stretched to breaking over its oozing innards.

A blanket of white, enervating light settled over his shoulder, arm, and side, and he felt his robes burning away, felt his flesh begin to smolder and sear. With a cry he yanked his upper robe off, his movements clumsy with his bad arm, his whole body swaying atop his sinking pillar, but then he had the acid-soaked garment off and tossed it away, to drop flapping and burning to the pool far below.

“Scorio, jump!” shouted Lianshi, and with a jerk, he saw that he’d already dropped some ten feet. Around him were the pitted and scored sides of the pillars. Panicked, he leaped at the closest one, sank his claws into its surface, and wrapped his legs around it at the same time.

Immediately it began to sink.

Desperate, he wrapped his wounded arm about it, his hand useless but the arm itself still functioning, and sought to lurch up, stab his claws in deeper, climb higher.

Overhead the baby monsters screeched, flapped their wings, and dove again and again at his friends. They clearly wished to come to his aid, but ignoring the fiends for even a moment would be lethal.

Then, from the side, he saw the Nightmare Lady come leaping toward him, looking like some demented, monstrous squirrel as she navigated the poles with ease. Scorio was already some twenty feet down, and with a grunt he surged up again, reaching with his claws before slamming them home and pulling himself up.

Not enough. He’d never climb faster than he was dropping at his rate, but then the Nightmare Lady was there, her hand closing about his upper arm, hauling him off the pillar and scrambling up the next pole as it began to descend.

They reached the pillar’s top, which was still below its original level. The Nightmare Lady leaped to the next, set to scaling it again, her strength seeming indefatigable. A roar of pain from Leonis. Up they climbed, then she reached the pillar’s top again and from it leaped, twisting her body to hurl Scorio so that he flew and crashed against the far wall to drop with a thud to the ledge.

The pain in his wounded wrist throbbed and his good arm and side stung badly from the acid burns, but he ignored it all to rise to his knees and stare back out over the poles.

Leonis had slipped, now lying across the top of a pole, Nezzar gone, Lianshi helping him rise as she ignored talons scraping across her back uselessly.

Then the Nightmare Lady was there, bursting up from below to beat the baby fiends away with the flat of her blade, its reach such that the resultant acid explosion failed to fall upon them.

Together they hauled Leonis up, and Scorio watched, breath stilled, as they navigated the rest of the way over and finally made the ledge.

Upon doing so, the remaining bat babies screeched petulant disgust and winged away. The last of the poles returned to their original height, and all was still.

“You’re a lifesaver, Naomi,” gasped Leonis, sinking against the wall.

The Nightmare Lady made no answer. She, too, sank into a crouch, and Scorio saw with alarm that her thigh gleamed with black blood. Her hip wound had torn open even wider.

“Damn,” he said. “Leonis, your robe.”

Without questioning the big man pulled it off. Scorio and Lianshi set to tearing it and tightly binding the Nightmare Lady’s waist, but the wound was placed in too awkward an angle to be effectively staunched.

“We’d best hurry,” said the Nightmare Lady, voice subdued. “I’m losing strength.”

“Damn it,” said Scorio, frustration and anger coursing through him. “Fine. One moment as I gather my strength.”

Never had he felt such rage at his own limitations. Every second he took sweeping more Coal into his Heart cost the Nightmare Lady more blood. Finally, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

Leonis rose, summoned Nezzar, but Lianshi touched his shoulder. “Let me. I can withstand any immediate accidents on the other side, remember?”

The big man nodded grudging acceptance and stepped aside.

A deep breath, then Lianshi passed through the dark doorway and was gone.

“I’m next,” growled Leonis, and followed a moment after.

Scorio felt a pang of despair at the sight of the ridiculous robe bandage wrapped around the Nightmare Lady’s angular hips. “Hang in there.” Before she could protest, he stepped through.

Darkness, nothingness, and then he emerged from a central column of crude iron into the well-lit crossroads between four hallways. The column was the center of the hub; each hallway was narrow, dark, still.

No—a flickering green light was approaching, bobbing, eerie and murky. He sharpened his darkvision and saw a figure approaching them down the hallway’s length; a large man, easily the size of Leonis, bare-chested but for a leather strap that crossed over his pectorals to hold a baldric in place over his shoulder. Armored plates ran down each arm, and he held a dagger in one blocky fist and a spear in the other.

But it was his head that held Scorio’s attention: a green crystal had been slammed through his skull, punching through the upper half of his face, destroying it utterly, and emerging from the back. Leather straps cruelly bound twin tusks to either side of his head, an aspect that appeared almost ceremonial, and his thin lips were pulled wide into a distended sneer.

“One in each hallway,” said Leonis, tone terse. “All approaching.”

Glances to each side proved him right; identical men were closing in on the hub and its column, unhurried, their leers provocative, the green crystals rammed through their skulls glowing with eerie light.

The Nightmare Lady emerged, and immediately Scorio felt reassured by her presence.

“Foes coming down each hallway,” he said quickly. “Don’t know what the crystals do.”

“I’m on it!” said Lianshi and darted down the hallway before her.

“Damnit, Lianshi!” cursed Leonis, rushing after her, Nezzar appearing in his hand.

The Nightmare Lady grabbed Scorio by the shoulder and thrust him into the same hall, then turned to guard its entrance as she slowly retreated backward.

Green light flared, illuminating the crude hallway luridly. Lianshi let out a cry that was more surprise than pain, and Scorio saw her standing, arms crossed before her face, her form iridescent, as the beam of light that had burst from the fiend’s cranial crystal died away.

Leonis let out a guttural roar, shoved past her, and stabbed Nezzar forward like a blade, hammering its blunt end at the man’s visage.

But then the three others appeared at the mouth of the tunnel, and each of their three crystals began to burn brightly.

“Watch out!” shouted Scorio, summoning his scaled form and knocking the Nightmare Lady aside.

She was surprisingly light; caught off-balance, she stumbled aside, and then he pressed his forearms together before his face, hunched behind his arms, and closed his eyes as the world burst into viridian light.

The pain was astonishing. It felt as if molten metal had been poured over his bare skin. He cried out, staggered back, but then the light faded away, leaving motes of afterimages dancing in his eyes as he gasped.

Movement. The Nightmare Lady flung herself forward, claws raking, tail stabbing. The three men weren’t defenseless, however; they quickly gave ground, stabbed at her with their spears, tried to retreat to the central hub.

The sound of fighting came from behind Scorio, but he ignored it, shoved aside the stunning, all-consuming pain that suffused his arms, and let out a desperate cry as he ran forward to help the Nightmare Lady.

She’d used her tail to behead two of the spears, clasped the third just behind the blade, and yanked its wielder forward to punch his crystal right out the back of his head. The other two fiends pressed in, discarding their spears to bring their curved knives to bear. In the confines of the tunnel, a knife fight would be disastrous. Scorio barreled past the Nightmare Lady as she turned to deal with the threat, and ignoring the outrageous pain in his good arm—if it even qualified as such any longer—he swept his claws across the blades, knocking them aside, then barreled the two large men back into the iron hub.

What followed must have taken place in only a couple of seconds. They formed a triangle, tightly pressed together, claws and knifes flickering and stabbing, Scorio using his bad arm as a wretched shield, simply waving it before each knife thrust to deflect the wicked points as he raked and slashed with his talons, each hit causing the flesh to bubble and cauterize.

Heavy gasping, his weight on his heels, then back on the balls of his feet, a side shift as he dodged a thrust, a wild parry with his arm, though somehow the blade cut through his scales. A grunt as he ducked, then a surge as he pushed forward, under the man’s arm to slam his talons into his armpit, through ribs, and into something soft and spongy.

Movement, a black, segmented snake shot past his shoulder to bury its triangular head deep in the lower half of the other man’s face, punching through teeth and the back of his throat to burst out in a welter of gore and slam into the central column.

Both men went down, one with a scream, the second a gurgle, then Scorio collapsed against the wall, turning so that he’d not hit it with his arms, and slid to the ground.

“You all right?” asked the Nightmare Lady, her tail chopping at the fallen men again and again as she crouched before him, her focus total, her tail seemingly animated by a malevolent will of its own.

“Fine,” he said. “Though that may be…” He paused, blinked. Tried again. “May be aspirational thinking.”

“Your arms,” hissed the Nightmare Lady, taking him by the wrists and turning them about, so that the backs of his hands touched, and he could see the outside of his forearms. The black scales were melted, reduced to gray slag here and there, exposing burned flesh in ragged spots.

Scorio stared at the damage numbly. The pain was huge but somehow removed, as if it existed in another dimension, was locked behind a door deep within his soul. “Not good.”

“Not good,” agreed the Nightmare Lady, then set his arms down to press her taloned fingers gently against his side where a deep gash had slid past his guard. “This is deep but not fatal. We’ll bind you up.”

“The other two?”

“Fine,” rumbled Leonis, stepping out of the tunnel, Nezzar propped on his shoulder, immaculate of whatever gore may have stained it a second ago. “But you’re looking in rough shape, my friend.”

“Might skip my dancing lessons tonight,” Scorio said and forced a grin. “I’m fine, otherwise.”

“Ouch,” winced Lianshi, crouching beside him and reaching out hesitantly with her fingertips to his arms. “Can you work your hands?”

“Not this one,” he said, gesturing at his bad hand, its swollen wrist, the sausage-like fingers. “But this one? Let’s see.” And he raised his formerly good arm and worked the fingers slowly. “There. Good as new.”

The Nightmare Lady’s green eyes narrowed. “You’ll be playing it safe from now on.”

“Agreed,” said Lianshi. She’d not taken more than a scratch to the cheek, and though she appeared nervous she was thus far performing the best of them all. “We’ll take point from now on.”

“We’re only on the—what—eighth room?” Scorio wanted to spit. “I can’t already be out of the game.”

“You’re not,” said the Nightmare Lady, and with a wince, she rose and stretched her taloned hand out to him. Her robe bandage, he saw, had fallen away, and her wound was ragged and wide. How was she ignoring that pain? “Come on, before we all fall apart.”

He took her hand, stood, and then hissed at the stabbing pain in his side. Inhaled deeply, straightened his back, and did his best to put his wounds out of his mind. “The door?”

“In the column,” said Lianshi, stepping past him to where a black portal had appeared in the iron curvature. “Everyone ready?”

“A moment,” said Scorio, letting his scaled form drop away and focusing his mind on gathering mana once more. For a spell they stood thus in silence, everyone gathering their strength, and then he nodded to her. “Ready.”

“That was more than a Cinder challenge,” muttered Leonis as he rolled his head about his neck, causing it to crack several times.

“No,” said Naomi, who’d eschewed her Nightmare Lady form for a moment. “Think about it. None of us died. But that would have crushed a group of Cinders. We’re still on track.”

“Fine. Then I for one am growing less enthused about entering the Emberling rooms,” said Leonis.

“Me too,” said Lianshi, then took a deep breath. “Here I go!”

And she stepped through the archway, into the darkness beyond.

Chapter 74

The room beyond was large, square, pitch dark, but otherwise empty. Standing close to the entry wall, Scorio scoured the confines for signs of danger. The floor was made of large, neatly joined flagstones, which also lined the lower half of the walls. The upper half of the walls and ceiling were featureless. The far wall seemed a good distance away, perhaps… fifty yards? Maybe more?

“No obvious danger,” said Lianshi, voice quiet in the grim hush of the dark room. “Now that I hate.”

They stood in silence, scrutinizing the space, till Leonis let out a grunt. “The far wall,” he said. “Look. Four niches.”

Leaning forward, narrowing his eyes as he focused his darkvision, Scorio saw that his friend was right. Four small alcoves were carved out of the wall, equally spaced, at head height. No taller than a foot, they looked somehow both innocuous and ominous at the same time.

“Great. Completely enigmatic and obviously very dangerous.” Leonis rubbed at his jaw. “Thoughts, anyone?”

“The size of the room makes me want to run across it,” said Lianshi cautiously. “At least, I can’t imagine crossing it slowly.”

“Lianshi, you should go first,” said the Nightmare Lady. “Whatever happens, you can resist it at least once.”

“True. Argh. At this rate, if I ever earn a title like the White Queen or The Woe, it’ll be The Test Subject.”

She rubbed her hands together, crouched, then ran forward, out into the broad, featureless room.

Scorio watched, intent, and saw a dark shape flitter forth from one of the alcoves. “Watch out!”

Lianshi’s body immediately took on its translucent sheen, but she was able to duck the projectile, some sort of rapidly revolving shape that blurred just past her head. She ran on, glancing behind her, her invincibility lasting a few seconds longer.

But the blurred shape didn’t hit the wall. It instead slowed, came to a stop a few yards shy of it, curved around, then whipped back toward her in a tight, perfect parabola.

“Behind you!” bellowed Leonis just as her iridescence winked out.

Lianshi threw herself into a forward dive just as a second shape flew forth. The first buzzed right through where she’d been a moment ago.

“We have to go!” cried Scorio, realizing that soon she’d be facing four of those attacks alone. He ran out, going wide, aware that the second blurring shape was stopping, dipping low, picking up speed as it skimmed along the ground back to where Lianshi crouched on all fours. “Up, Lianshi, it’s coming!”

But the first was wheeling back around even as a third shape flew forth. This one thrummed through the air right at Leonis.

Even with his broadened Emberling darkvision, it was nearly impossible to keep all the attacks in sight; Scorio ran but kept glancing around, trying to keep track of the three flying shapes, expecting a fourth at any second. It was like swinging a bull’s-eye lantern from side to side, its illumination partial, incredibly helpful, but also making the darkness around its light even more terrifying in comparison.

Leonis summoned Nezzar and swung it two-handed from his shoulder, the huge club connecting with the blurring shape just before it hit him. There was a burst of light and the shape detonated into fragments.

“Scorio!”

He couldn’t tell who’d screamed his name—Lianshi? But he dove as she’d done, down and into a forward roll, and something whirred over his head. He came up sprinting even as he nearly blacked out from the pain in his arms, and raced drunkenly toward the room’s far side, glancing back over his shoulder to see the fourth shape pause at the rear wall and come back for him.

The first two were bedeviling Lianshi and the Nightmare Lady, who destroyed one of them with a whipcrack of her tail.

On he ran, the shape coming in low, and with a wild cry, he leaped up at the last moment, felt the shape brush against his calf as it passed, splitting skin and muscle, and then it was gone.

He fell, stumbled, caught his balance, and ran the rest of the way to the far wall, touching its side and stepping up onto the ledge at roughly the same time the others did.

“Damn,” gasped Leonis, releasing Nezzar and sweeping his hand back through his sweat-matted locks. “No more sprinting!”

“Gah!” Lianshi slid down the wall and leaned her head back. “Too close. That would have been a massacre with Cinder-level darkvision.”

“Almost was, even with ours,” said Leonis. “Scorio? You all right?”

“Another cut,” he said, studying his leg. A laceration across the belly of his calf. How had it cut the back of his leg, but not gone through the rest of it? “It’s fine.”

“You’re going to fall apart at his rate,” said Lianshi, pushing off the wall to crawl over and tear the lower half of his pant leg off. She bound it around the wound tightly, then rapped his knee. “Stop getting hurt.”

“Easy for you to say, Miss Test Subject,” he said with a tired grin.

“I’m just getting this far because you all are doing the heavy lifting.” She pushed herself to standing and turned to the next dark door. “All right, room number ten. Some kind of elite fight, I’m guessing. I vote we take a good ten minutes to gather our strength then press on.”

“Seconded,” said Leonis, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.

“Thirded,” said Naomi, who’d shrunk back to her human form, and lay down on her back where she draped an arm over her face. “Maybe make that an hour.”

“How are you holding up?” asked Lianshi, moving alongside her.

“Blood loss, is all.” Naomi didn’t shift her arm. “Feeling a little light-headed. And it hurts, obviously. And my leg is starting to act up on me. But otherwise doing great.”

“She must be worse off than we thought if she’s being funny,” said Leonis, tone grave. “Perhaps we shouldn’t wait that long.”

“Five minutes.” Scorio rested his badly burned arms gently atop his knees. “Just a moment to catch our breath. Then the next fight.”

Again they rested, the silence broken only by their breathing, and when Scorio realized how tempted he was to doze he forced himself to stand. “And that’s plenty of time. Up, everyone. We’ve random horrors to slaughter.”

“I miss our apartment,” said Lianshi. “Our bathing pool. My bed.”

“I miss the ruins,” said Naomi, slowly climbing to her feet, voice a little slurred. “How hospitable and lovely they are. The charming wildlife.”

“All right, now we really need to hurry,” said Leonis, staring at her in concern.

“What?” protested Naomi. “I’m… I’m being funny.”

“Exactly,” said Leonis.

“I’ll go first,” said Lianshi. “But this will most likely be a big fight like the end of the Char series. Don’t take long coming after me.”

“We won’t,” said Scorio, pouring Coal mana into his reservoir again. “Play it safe till we’re all there.”

She nodded, gathered her hair, flipped it behind one shoulder, then strode through the archway, chin lowered.

“I’m next,” said Leonis, tone weary, almost mechanical, and with Nezzar appearing in his hand, its runes burning brightly, he strode after her.

“You go last,” said the Nightmare Lady, who towered over him again, tail whipping from side to side. “Bad off as I am, you’re worse.”

“How about we go together?” And before she could protest, Scorio stepped into the darkness.

After the stark spaces they had fought through with their bleak illumination, the next chamber was startling. A mass of plinths filled the round chamber, each bedecked with an identical golden statue, slender and with articulated joints, a curved blade in each hand. The lighting was rich, roseate, seeming to come through invisible drapes so that some areas were suffused with warm illumination, others gradating to velvet shadow. The ceiling was high above them, barely visible, and the ground between the plinths covered in layered carpets that muffled their steps.

They all stood, frozen against the iron segment of curving wall through which they’d stepped. Too many statues, though Scorio in alarm. We can’t fight that many.

There had to be nearly fifty of them on the plinths of assorted height. They stood in different poses, some attacking, others in deep, defensive crouches, some lightly balanced on the balls of their feet as if in readiness, others in postures of all-out runs.

None of them moved. All of them gleamed like sunken treasure espied through murky water.

Each and every one of them was identical: perhaps five feet tall, their forms vaguely feminine, their heads topped with an ornate diadem in which rubies were embedded. A central emerald was placed in their brow, but their eyes were lost to curling latticework that swept down from their temples to flank their noses, the dark spaces between the filigree revealing their heads to be hollow.

And they weren’t entirely made of gold, either; their joints shone with steel parts, from their shoulders to their segmented fingers about the hilts of their blades. They stood like dancers awaiting the first strains of music that would sweep them to life, into a balletic performance that could only result in blood.

“Thoughts?” asked Leonis, breaking the silence.

“Reminds me of the Old Gauntlet,” said Scorio. “Where only a few would come to life, or as many as the number of contestants.”

“Yes.” Naomi had crossed in her Nightmare Lady form. “I think you’re right. This would be a surprise to any who hadn’t done what we’d done.”

“Then…?” Lianshi sighed. “I guess I’ll walk through and wait to get attacked?”

“Take point,” said Scorio, “but don’t go so far that we can’t come to your aid.”

“Sure.” Lianshi pushed away from the wall and passed, hesitatingly, between the first plinths. The golden statues, ornate and imperial, lithe and strangely horrifying, remained utterly still.

Scorio watched, breath bated, as Lianshi did a slow loop about the plinths closest to them, her gaze flickering from side to side, her breathing light, rapid, superficial.

“A little deeper, then,” said Scorio when she returned. “We’ll all press in a bit with you.”

Which they did; leaving the wall, they took a dozen steps into the large room, and then waited as Lianshi did another lap, a broad curve which brought her close to the center of the room.

“There!” shouted the Nightmare Lady, pointing off to the side. Scorio barely had time to catch an uncoiling of limbs, one of the statues bending its knees slightly before it flicked itself up into a preposterous leap like that of a grasshopper, sudden, blurringly fast. Lianshi spun, searching for the opponent, but raised her iridescent shield regardless, and that saved her life.

The statue dropped down soundlessly behind her, the carpets absorbing the sound of its golden feet, and stabbed Lianshi in the side with one blade as it hewed the other across her neck.

Lianshi recoiled, unhurt, and the golden face registered no emotion at its attack’s failure. Instead, it leaped again, a sudden, mechanical burst of flight that carried it somersaulting into the air to land deeper in the room amidst the other plinths and statues.

Scorio rushed up beside Lianshi, breathing deeply, the pain in his side throbbing, his arms feeling like their flesh had been replaced with live coals. Leonis held Nezzar at the ready, while the Nightmare Lady leaped atop a tall plinth close by and hung off the immobile statue, peering in the direction their foe had gone.

“I can probably see her,” she said. “But she’s standing still. There are several empty plinths. All she needs to do is stand on one and she’ll blend in.”

“Great,” said Leonis. “Given how fast it moves, how are we going to catch it?”

“Here’s an idea,” said Scorio, stepping to a low plinth with its accompanying statue. He placed his hand on its shoulder, painfully aware of the twin blades, and shoved.

The statue was surprisingly light; it rocked back, easily knocked off-balance, then fell to the carpeted ground, form stiff, maintaining its posture.

“I approve,” said the Nightmare Lady, and shoved the statue on her own plinth. It fell easily and lay upturned against the neighboring plinth, legs extending into the air.

“Careful,” said Lianshi. “We don’t know that one of these won’t animate as well.”

“Then let me do the work,” said the Nightmare Lady, and with a whipcrack of her tail knocked the next statue clean of its pedestal. “You watch for the next attack.”

Scorio held his Heart at saturation, every once in a while sweeping in more mana to replenish his reserves, and watched for signs of movement as the Nightmare Lady set to toppling statues.

None of them moved to defend themselves. Soon over a dozen lay haphazardly strewn over the carpeted floor, somehow pathetic for their awkward and vulnerable postures.

“Let’s move deeper,” said the Nightmare Lady, breathing deeply. Which was odd; this amount of activity shouldn’t have winded her already. “Don’t want to leave you all behind.”

They stepped toward the center of the chamber, and the Nightmare Lady knocked statues off as they went. Still nothing, and Scorio began to fear that the statues could animate at random; what rule stated that it would always be the same one that attacked them? He searched the air above them for a hint of a falling figure and saw nothing.

Another clang rang out as the Nightmare Lady’s tail impacted a statue’s chest, knocking it clean off the plinth. “This room should have been dark. That would have made these surprise attacks all the more dangerous against Cinders.”

“Still plenty dangerous,” said Lianshi, eyes scouring the dark space above them. “I never saw those attacks coming.”

The Nightmare Lady turned to her, her monstrous expression taking on a mocking cast, even as she swayed on the uneven carpeting. “And how much damage did that attack do—”

Then she stiffened as a curved blade emerged smoothly through her chest, its steel length marbled with black blood.

Scorio ignited his Heart faster than he’d ever done, not even thinking about the act. His angle of approach was wrong; the plinth and the Nightmare Lady were between him and the assassin, so he ran out wide to come around the pedestal even as he heard Leonis’s roar and Lianshi’s cry of anguish.

The golden statuette had stepped back, its movements wary, head turning rapidly in minute shifts from side to side. It flexed its knees and Scorio leaped, clawed hand snaking out as the assassin leaped for the skies.

He was just in time—his fingers closed around its slender ankle, more by luck than design, and he felt his arm nearly torn from his shoulder by the force of the leap. Still, he hung on, and the statuette crashed back down to the ground, suddenly writhing and lashing out like a tipped-over praying mantis.

Scorio lost his grip on its leg, but then Leonis was there, charging into view, to bring Nezzar down with punitive force on the statuette’s flailing limbs.

Gold warped, distended. The statuette made no sound, sought instead to slash at Leonis who clobbered it straight in the chest, caving in the hollow cuirass.

The damage didn’t affect the statuette; it slashed again, this time at Leonis’s ankles, forcing him to hop back.

Scorio lunged, timing his attack just right, and brought both sets of glowing claws down upon the assassin’s regal, disinterested features. The gold melted as his claws punched through, and with a wrench, he tore the head clean off.

Immediately the statuette collapsed and lay still.

“Watch out for other attacks!” barked Leonis, turning in a rapid circle, but no other foes moved to engage them.

“Naomi,” hissed Scorio, rising to his feet to hurry to where she lay, head on Lianshi’s lap, shrinking down into her human form.

“Damn,” said Naomi, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “Stabbed in the back while lecturing. Not… not the best…”

Lianshi’s eyes glimmered with tears. Leonis stood guard over them, leaving Scorio to drop to his knees beside her. He wanted to take her hand, but his own would have slashed her to ribbons. Instead, he clenched his jaw and studied her waxen features.

“We’ve made it ten rooms in,” said Naomi, voice growing fainter. “You need at least another five, Scorio. Lianshi. Leonis. Make sure… make sure he…”

“We will,” said Lianshi, reaching down to curl Naomi’s hair from her brow. “Rest. We’ll see you soon.”

Naomi’s gaze settled on Scorio, and she forced a smile, her teeth outlined in red. “You can do this. I know you can. See you… soon.”

She blinked several times, lids growing heavy, and then seemed to sag, her breath stilling. For a moment they remained thus, a frozen tableau of grief, then Naomi faded away, leaving only a sopping stain in the carpets beneath where she’d lain.

“Damn it,” said Scorio, biting back the irrational grief and fury. She wasn’t dead, but her loss still hurt him worse than he could have imagined. “Damn it!”

“Come on,” said Leonis, voice rough. “Door’s appeared. That was the only one.”

“Give me a moment.” Scorio let his scaled form disappear, and with its departure felt the pain and weakness come crashing back. “Just need to gather… gather some mana back in.”

“We have time,” said Lianshi softly. “Now more than ever we need to be careful.”

Leonis relinquished Nezzar and then sat against a plinth, thick forearms resting over his knees. Together they rested in silence, catching their breath. Scorio stared at the bloodstain. Without Naomi, their chances of proceeding deep into the Gauntlet had dropped precipitously. He felt lost without her, bereft; only now did he realize how much he’d come to depend on her authority, her assertiveness, her incredible powers as the Nightmare Lady.

“Emberling-level rooms next,” said Lianshi softly. “Things are going to get really hard now.”

Leonis was grimly replacing the bandage on his thigh; the first had grown completely saturated with blood. “I’m trying to think of something positive to say. Give me a moment.”

Scorio snorted and studied his own ruined forearms. His bad wrist and hand joined the insistent drumbeat of pain that throbbed with each beat of his heart, and became part of the larger tapestry of wounds formed by the cut across the back of his calf and the gash in his side.

Lianshi was studying him soberly. “Don’t lose heart, Scorio. We’ve still got a ways to go.”

He wanted to protest, say that he wasn’t losing courage, but the pain was sapping his will. His arms felt as if he’d plunged them briefly into boiling water. He wanted nothing so much as to close his eyes and fall asleep, to drink heavily of some numbing alcohol, anything to place a distance between him and the wounds. But only his Emberling form offered him any solace. “I never thought I’d complain about being an Emberling, but I could use a much faster rate of healing right now.”

“Come on,” said Leonis, getting to his feet with a grunt, wounded leg stiff. “I’m ready to be positive. Want to hear a short speech?”

“Sure,” said Lianshi, unable to resist a smile.

“Then here it is: we’re doing far better than we know. We’re about to enter the Emberling rooms with three of our number, one of whom is completely unharmed. We’ve tactics that work. We’ve wills that won’t break. Naomi sacrificed greatly to get us here, and now each room we pass is one we defeat in her name, for her honor. So no complaints. No weakness. The greatest challenges lie before us, and we’ve spent every waking minute—well, almost every waking minute—preparing ourselves for just this moment.” Leonis grinned at them, somehow making Scorio feel complicit in the large man’s humor, part of the joke. “After all we’ve survived and overcome, will we lose heart now? No, my friends. We won’t. For I am the Golden King, and I will do honor to my ancestors at any cost. Let’s show this Gauntlet what we’re made of and crush every obstacle it throws our way.”

“I like it!” said Lianshi, rising smoothly to her feet. “That was actually pretty good. I’m feeling cautiously optimistic.”

“Only cautiously?” Leonis scowled. “I was hoping for cheers by the end of it.”

“Hurray,” said Scorio and Lianshi together in mock enthusiasm, and when Leonis rolled his eyes and turned away, they shared a look of genuine mirth.

“Here,” said Lianshi, extending him a hand. “Get up, old man.”

“Show more respect,” said Scorio, accepting her help. He limped a bit on his wounded leg, then carefully put weight on it. “Reincarnated Great Souls these days, I tell you.”

Leonis had moved up to the black archway that had appeared in the far wall. “Next room should be a trap, right? First room in a new level?”

“And an Emberling level trap at that,” said Lianshi, moving up beside him. “I’ll go first. Probably best to immediately sidestep or the like when you go through.”

“Agreed,” said Scorio, refilling his reservoir with Coal mana. “See you on the other side.”

Lianshi took a deep breath, raised both eyebrows as she pursed her lips, then stepped through before exhaling.

Leonis gave Scorio an affirming nod, then followed after.

Scorio exhaled shakily, was about to step through, but then paused to look back between the plinths and fallen gleaming statues to where Naomi’s dark blood still stained the rugs. He felt his resolve harden, then plunged into the darkness.

Chapter 75

The room beyond was broad, low-ceilinged, and otherwise featureless. Pools of sterile white light slowly moved about the floor without an obvious source, bringing into stark relief the massive flagstones. The far wall was a stone’s throw away, innocuous, and all the more unsettling for being so.

“No niches, no alcoves, nothing,” said Lianshi, voice tense. “This Emberling trap’s got me all spooked.”

“One way to find out what they’ve got in store for us,” said Leonis. “Ladies first?”

“Joke’s getting old,” said Lianshi, pushing away from the wall and tentatively stepping forth. “Though the ground. Those big flagstones. Anybody else sense… something off about them?”

“Off, how?” asked Scorio, studying the flagstone immediately before him. It was roughly textured but otherwise looked to be made of solid stone.

“Just a feeling. Like… different densities in the air,” said Lianshi, hesitating. “Reach out with your Emberling sense.”

Scorio frowned, did so, and realized what she meant. Ahead of them, static and almost waiting for them, was a sense of weight in the air, hovering over some of the flagstones. As if the stone itself were pulling at his senses.

“Yes,” breathed Leonis. “I see what you mean. Avoid those, then?”

“Would have been hell to try this without our Emberling senses,” said Lianshi, moving out wide to avoid the first invisible source of weight. “Even now I can barely pick up on—”

The wall to her left bulged, a shape pushing through the stone as if it were a sheet of cloth, and then a gray, insectoid creature extruded itself and oriented on Lianshi. It was the size of a large dog, but its body was that of a spider, with a child’s torso emerging from where the head should be. The child’s face was featureless, a curved expanse of stone, but wavering snakes surrounded this blankness like a serpentine halo.

Lianshi froze, watching intently, but the spider-child made no move to rush her; instead, it rose to angle its abdomen at her, pointing what looked like spinnerets, from which it loosed a great, glistening stream of webbing.

“Lianshi!” roared Leonis, rushing forth.

Scorio ran forward as well, going out wide to avoid the area of density before him. Lianshi’s form went iridescent, making her invulnerable, but that did nothing to stop the webbing from wrapping around her, and immediately the spider-child began to haul her toward it.

Leonis raised Nezzar high as he reached the webbing and clubbed at the thick strands, but they only stretched beneath it, so that he pounded them to the ground without much effect.

Igniting his Heart, Scorio reached them a moment later and swiped his claws through the strands, slicing through with ease. Lianshi let out a cry as she staggered back, tearing at the webbing in desperation.

“Stand still,” shouted Scorio, moving to help her, but she was frantic, her eyes wide as she clawed at the filaments from within. Staggering, her body still glimmering with its invulnerability, she let out a strangled cry of horror, and then her feet went out from under her.

“No!” Scorio lunged forward, letting go of his scaled form so that he could clasp her wrist with his good hand as the flagstone behind her disappeared, becoming a funnel that led straight down into nothingness.

Worse yet was the pull it exerted on Lianshi. A terrible, unnaturally strong suction that brooked no denial. Lianshi stared at Scorio through the veil of webbing over her face, kicking her feet as she tried to find traction on the sloping funnel floor, but the surface was slick, and she only managed to scrabble within her torn cocoon.

Leonis was battling the creature behind them, and Scorio felt the burns and cuts in his arm begin to scream, the agony mounting as he fought to hold to his rim of normal ground just outside the funnel’s treacherous declivity.

Lianshi’s gleaming power flickered and disappeared. Her feet kicked uselessly at the depths of the funnel, and she fought to catch hold of Scorio’s arm. He let out a cry as his grip began to weaken, and then ignited his Heart again. Or tried to. He needed just a bit more mana, and in wretched horror set to sweeping more of the thick Coal that hung about them into his reservoir.

“Scorio!” Lianshi’s voice was breathless, terrified, heartbreaking.

“Hold… on…” he grimaced. Where was Leonis? He felt himself sliding forward, the funnel’s pull drawing him into its field. He was too hurt to hold on. But he couldn’t let go. Just a little more mana. Again and again, he tried to ignite, and again and again, he felt his Heart almost incandesce.

“I believe in you!” Lianshi cried as her hand slipped free of his own, and then she slid down the funnel and was consumed by its dark core.

For a moment Scorio just lay there, eyes wide, shocked, his own hand outstretched, his blood staining the stone floor; then he willed his Heart to ignite, and this time it did, roaring into flame. His outstretched hand changed, became clothed in black scales, his long talons burning white-hot. What had he thought to do—bury his talons into her? Hook her like some fish, and prevent her from slipping away, no matter the cost?

Leonis gave a shout behind him, and Scorio snapped back to the present. Bounced to his feet, his wounds and pain belonging to another man, and wheeled to see Leonis wrestling with the spider-child, who’d snared his forearm and was now reeling him closer.

Closer to another flagstone of dark density, an illusion, Scorio realized, over another funnel-trap.

With a cry he leaped forward and slashed the webbing away, allowing Leonis to stagger back in relief, and then he ran around the huge flagstone. The spider-child oriented on him, but Scorio came in too fast and low; its next cast flew over him entirely, missing, and then Scorio reached the wall. He leaped up at the spider-child as it skittered higher up the wall, and slashed its head clear off as he passed, claws sliding through its featureless head as if it were made of cream.

The spider fiend fell off the wall to spasm on the ground, and Scorio landed heavily, staggered, then turned to where Leonis was staring, aghast, at the funnel that had consumed Lianshi.

“To the far side!” shouted Scorio, forcing his legs to move, running around the other traps, giving each area of density a wide berth. “Come on!”

Leonis forced himself into a limping run, and a few moments later they reached the far wall.

“She’s gone,” said Leonis, tone numb.

“I’m sorry.” Scorio couldn’t hold his scaled form any longer, sinking back into his human shape and its accompanying pain. “I tried to pull her free. I tried.”

“Damn it,” whispered Leonis, wiping a shaking hand over his brow. “I thought… I mean, I know it was irrational, but with her power, I thought she’d last the longest…”

“Didn’t help her,” said Scorio grimly, forcing himself to stand straight and suck in deep lungfuls of air. The urge to sit, to close his eyes, was intense. “Tripped her up, in fact. She relied on it when she should have dodged.”

“She did her best,” said Leonis, face flushing as he rounded on Scorio. “Don’t belittle her—”

“I’m not,” said Scorio, cutting his friend off sharply. “At all. You know how much I love and respect her. But that’s just what happened. Wrong reflex and it cost her.”

They stood thus in silence for a spell, then Leonis nodded reluctantly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. You’re right.”

“One room down,” said Scorio. “Come on. I don’t want to linger. Let’s just press on.”

“Fine by me.” Leonis shifted his weight on his good leg. “Together, then?”

“Together.” Scorio swept more mana into his reservoir, pushing himself cruelly, saturating as quickly as he could, and refused to think of how he might have saved Lianshi if he’d been able to ignite quicker. For a moment he wanted to explain to Leonis, to castigate himself, but he crushed the impulse.

A deep breath, a second, and then he nodded. “Let’s go.”

They plunged into the darkness, and emerged into a rough, natural cavern, utterly without light, its walls close, the length of it narrowing into a tunnel. But there was no time for further study—a host of small forms swarmed immediately toward them, filling his field of darkvision.

He caught glimpses of bat-wing ears, ragged, fang-filled mouths so wide they nearly split the creature’s heads in twain, lash-like tails, talons, and claws. Scrawny to the point of emaciated, their eyes burning crimson, they fell upon Leonis and him in a flood, their high-pitched screeches conveying hunger, delight, rage.

Scorio bolted up into his Emberling shape, the ruined scales rushing over his arms, across his shoulders, and even as his claws emerged, he slashed them widely through the attacking creatures before him—the same fiends that Leonis had destroyed so easily in the second chamber.

But there had been four of those then; now they came at the pair of them without number, an endless swarm, racing out of a distant tunnel, streaming to join the crowd that pressed him and Leonis back against the iron wall.

Leonis shouted and swung Nezzar; the weapon shattered and crushed, knocked small bodies flying, but more lunged in the second the club had scythed past.

Scorio swung and lashed out with his searing claws, keeping his guard up, slashed at hideous faces, tore hands off arms, swiped through knees and thighs, occasionally side-stepped as a small fiend hurled itself bodily at him, only to crash into the iron wall and fall back.

Leonis was singing some desperate song, a battle chant that faltered again as he grunted or barked his anger, and seemed to be slowly moving away from Scorio. The press of bodies was pushing them apart.

Realizing this, Scorio began to force his way back, but he had precious little control over the battle; each second was its own distinct thing of horror, one of the endless flashes of darkvision-fueled moments filled with grinning maws, burning eyes, lunging claws, the press of wizened bodies.

Again and again, he cut, and even in his Emberling form, he felt his stamina begin to wane, his strength to flag. The stench of burned meat filled the air, and a mound of bodies began to form before him, becoming a ramp off which the reinforcements hurled themselves at him.

Scorio ducked toward Leonis, who had ceased singing and was now just crying out in rage. Didn’t even have time to glance in the big man’s direction. The nicks and cuts were adding up, the small creatures wounding him over and over. No single attack was devastating, but the toll was debilitating, and Scorio knew he’d not be able to hold his Emberling form for much longer.

This was it. Any second now he’d resume his human form, and die.

Desperate, sweat and blood blinding him, Scorio snarled in defiance, swung, slashed, tore—

“Scorio! Hold on!” A tornado smashed through the assembled ranks before him, Leonis roaring as he swung Nezzar, bulling his way through the crowd as a half-dozen fiends clung to him, rode his back, their fangs buried in his shoulders, his neck.

Nezzar destroyed them. That one terrible swing alone must have sent a score of them to their death, but Leonis couldn’t maintain his momentum. More fiends leaped atop him, clung to his legs, and with a cry, he dropped to one knee, using Nezzar as a support to keep from falling over altogether.

But his charge had broken the overwhelming press; Scorio plunged forward, stepping over the wounded and dying, and set to murdering the fiends clinging to his friend with vicious, efficient swipes of his claws. Flesh parted before his talons, the last fiend taking a chunk out of Leonis’s back as it died, and then Scorio reeled back, gasping, blinking sweat from his eyes, to realize that there were no more.

Leonis gasped, released Nezzar, and fell to all fours. Unable to hold to his Emberling form any longer, Scorio sank back into his human guise and dropped beside his friend. His robes were so torn that they hung off his frame in ribbons, while blood poured from countless gouges, lacerations, and bite wounds.

With a grunt, Leonis toppled over onto his side, rolled onto his back, and lay there staring at the ceiling, blinking in a daze as his chest labored.

Scorio glanced across the cavern floor. Just how many of the fiends had Leonis killed? But each mortal sweep of his hexagonal club had cost him, opened his guard, and it looked like he’d suffered a wound for every fiend he’d killed.

“Damn,” said the massive man, finally focusing his gaze on Scorio and forcing a smile. “Look like the little bastards got me again.”

Scorio felt his throat swell up and took Leonis’s bloody hand. “You got ‘em first, though. They’re all dead.”

“And,” began Leonis, but then his breath caught and he struggled to clear his throat. He turned his head, spat blood, and looked back to Scorio. “And I got a room further than… Lianshi. She’ll never live it down. I won’t let her.”

Scorio felt his eyes burn as he stared down at his brutalized friend. He might even have survived the countless small wounds were it not for two deep bites into his neck; one had torn a chunk of flesh away, and from that deep wound pumped dark arterial blood.

“Room twelve,” said Leonis, blinking and looking straight up again. “Not too bad. I’m… sorry, though. I wish…”

“Don’t apologize,” said Scorio, squeezing Leonis’s hand. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

“Wish… could have helped you go… further,” said Leonis, voice growing light, whispery. “Wish… I could have honored… Golden King. But you know…”

“Damnit,” hissed Scorio, wishing that death would claim Leonis already and absolve him from this lingering agony. “Rest easy, my friend. I’ll see you soon.”

Leonis blinked again, but then his eyes glazed over. The tension went from his massive frame, and his grip on Scorio’s hand went limp.

A moment later he was gone, and Scorio was left kneeling amidst the countless corpses of the fiends who slowly began to disappear as well.

“Damn it,” hissed Scorio again, pressing the base of his palms against his eyes, and then dropped his hands onto his lap. Looking down over his body he saw that he’d suffered his fair share of fresh wounds as well; his arms were slashed up, and the sides of his thighs and his ribs had been scored with numerous cuts.

He felt so tired. The pain wasn’t even that bad anymore. It was an overwhelming, distant force, but so generalized now that Scorio simply felt a deep need to sleep. To rest, for just a moment. He’d regain his strength, and then rise and continue fighting. Was that such a bad idea?

Instead, Scorio grimaced, bowed his head, and forced himself to banish the thought. He’d rest when he was dead.

Scorio took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried to stand.

His body didn’t respond.

Blood seeped from countless wounds. He felt light-headed, his vision narrowing to a tunnel.

“Get up,” he whispered. “Get the hell up.”

But his legs felt as if they belonged to someone else, and a terrible weight pressed down upon him, holding him to the spot on which he knelt.

Again he tried to rise, and he felt his muscles tense, but again he failed to move.

The pain. It might be distant, but it was overwhelming his ability to command his body. It was all he could do to hold onto consciousness. To remain lucid, in the moment, and not surrender all volition.

It felt like only a few moments ago that they’d all stood together. Naomi, Lianshi, Leonis. How had they fallen so quickly? Had they done well, compared to the rest of the cohort? Surely they had.

But Scorio knew with cold, blasted certainty that even if they’d performed well compared to most of the class, they’d fallen short of what Jova would have accomplished. If she were in his place right now, her power would allow her to rise and resume walking.

Whereas he could only kneel here, shivering, in pain, and alone in the dark.

The profound unfairness of it all grated at him. If he’d only been able to ignite his Heart a second sooner, he’d have been able to save Lianshi, who’d have made a difference in this chamber, perhaps acting as a shield for Leonis so that he’d not have had to sacrifice himself for Scorio.

Of course, he’d have been able to ignite without a problem if his Heart hadn’t been so fractured.

It all came back to Praximar and his wretched bias. That one, single moment when he’d irrevocably changed the direction of Scorio’s life by casting him through the Final Door. Everything had led with its own terrible logic to this moment, here and now in the dark, where Scorio lacked the strength to rise and continue.

It was Praximar’s fault.

The world’s fault, even. The deck had been stacked against him from the very moment he’d drawn his first breath.

Shame and helpless fury consumed him, so that his eyes prickled and his hands bunched into fists upon his bloody thighs.

And then, unbidden, from the depths of his mind, a memory bestirred itself. He heard his own words, offered up, half in desperation, half in hope, to the Imperator who had come to destroy them all in her madness: “It’s not your fault. What happened to you. You didn’t deserve this. None of it. All your pain, your outrage. I might not be able to understand it, but because of who I am, I can respect it. I can respect what you’re doing, and why.”

Scorio stilled. Why had he remembered those words now? He’d been manipulating Imogen, playing to her weaknesses, trying just to survive.

Something dark within him curdled and recoiled. But… could those words not now be spoken to him?

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t deserve this.”

But he didn’t deserve this. Had never deserved to be treated as Red Lister, to be cast out—

Another memory, Imogen’s response, which in the moment he’d ignored, glossed over: “Your titles were always well earned.”

He went to refute that, but a second voice spoke in his mind, Kuragin’s, these words fresher, laced with scorn: “It was you that betrayed your brother and caused his execution.”

Scorio’s lips writhed back in anger, in disgust. Nonsense.

Jova’s voice, joining the chorus, cold and cruel: “You’re a Red Lister, Scorio, which means you have proven in every reincarnation that you imperil those around you, bring danger to our most sacred institutions, and care nothing but for your own goals.”

His heart ached and he felt dizzy. It wasn’t his fault. He’d been forced to react.

Even his original life? Or the lives of which Imogen spoke?

He’d have secured patronage from House Chimera if Praximar hadn’t gone after him, never even had to steal for Dola if Praximar hadn’t sentenced him to die—

No more voices spoke in his mind. His protests were cast forth before an empty audience hall. The spirits, the memories, having spoken their part, returned to the depths of his mind.

Leaving him panting, alone, aghast, and wretched.

Was it his fault? That Praximar had sentenced him to die? That was grotesque, made no sense. But Praximar hadn’t made him a Red Lister, had he? Praximar had simply reacted to the actions he’d committed in past lives. Actions committed by another Scorio, to be sure, but still himself, his own soul.

Scorio began to thrust the thought away. Would have done so, locked it away, and dropped that line of inquiry if one last thought hadn’t impinged itself upon his mind: he’d betrayed his own brother.

Had gone from risking everything to save him to turning him over to the king.

The impossibility of that connection rankled, and Scorio’s soul screamed in outrage against the possible plausibility of that deed.

How had he gone from that loving brother to betraying the man he’d risked everything to save?

How had he earned his titles? The very ones that had earned his place on the Red List? What if those Scorio’s had felt equally wronged? What if their heinous actions had been reactions to perceived injustices?

Did they make the crimes he’d committed any less evil?

Scorio stared down at his blood-stained hands. How far back did he have to go before he’d find an action of his own that he could take responsibility for?

It was Praximar’s fault, he thought, but the thought now rang hollow, gave him no comfort. The old rage was banked. Naomi, Leonis, and Lianshi had sacrificed so much for him, for his cause, at the altar of his rage. Sacrificed their own hopes of advancing as far as they could go to protect him, to help him.

His mouth tasted sour, and his shoulders shook. He raised his bloody hand and pressed his knuckles to his lips. Tears stung his eyes again.

It was Praximar’s fault, he thought one last time, and then with a wrench, he tore that excuse, that critical fragment of the architecture of his soul, out of his being and cast it aside.

It’s my responsibility. The words sounded alien, and he wanted to reject them, but they sank into his sense of being with a powerful sense of rightness. A deep and awful tension he’d not realized he’d been carrying relaxed; he felt a knot within his spirit undo itself, and said again, realizing the truth of the words: it’s my responsibility.

The old anger guttered and died. The outrage slipped away like a dismissed shadow. The strength it had given him evaporated, leaving in its place a quiet, sober calm.

He was Scorio the Scourer, Lord of Nagaran, Master of the Black Tower, The Bringer of Ash and Darkness, the Shadow of Spurn Harbor, the Abhorred, Quencher of Hope, and Unmaker of Joy.

He couldn’t remember what he’d done to earn those titles, but it had been him that had done those deeds. He was paying for that legacy today. And like a criminal who has had a change of heart in jail, he’d been furious that he still had to pay for his original crimes.

Scorio’s shoulders settled, and he raised his face, closed his eyes as tears ran down his cheeks, and felt a deep and alien peace settle over his spirit.

Fine.

No more excuses. No more running away from his past, remembered or not. But if his past had been dark, there was no saying his future couldn’t be different. That he couldn’t change. Be worthy of the friends who believed in him so, and strive to atone.

And with those thoughts, a profound determination entered his soul, replacing the fevered need to prove himself powerful, to prove everyone wrong. He felt his will swell with power, his mind growing sharp and focused, and a tremor of excitement passed through him. The upswell of mental strength took him by surprise, but he recognized the value of the moment.

Setting aside all his concerns, he focused on his Heart, fractured and pitted, and on the wisps of mana that remained within it.

Reached out with his will, and for the first time eschewed the Coal to purposefully work with the Iron that filled the room.

He flexed his will, and instead of visualizing a paddle, he imagined a great hand scooping up the Iron as a man in a boat might lean out and scoop up the glittering water at sunset. Freed of his rage, of his brittle need, he found the Iron respond more smoothly, more quickly than it ever had.

With great deliberation he packed the Iron into his reservoir, and found that it required less condensing, being so fraught with power in the first place. More and more he scooped in, his will inexorable even as his body weakened, and when his reservoir reached the point of saturation, he lowered his chin, furrowed his brow, and focused intently on its gleaming mass.

Slowly, with great intensity and force, he willed his vast reservoir to grow compact. To condense. It resisted, the Iron strong and proud, but in this moment of enlightenment and clarity, it could not resist him.

Slowly but surely, he forced the Iron to shrink, his reservoir to collapse upon itself, grasping the whole of it as if between his hands, and returning it to its original shape and size.

He trembled. Pain besieged the fortress of his mind. Sweat and blood ran down his brow. His body swayed.

Just when he thought he could force it no more, when motes of darkness began rising to cloud his vision, he felt something akin to a spiritual click; his reservoir returned to its original form, and once more occupied the center of his Heart as it once had done.

Wonder seized him by the throat. He raised his hands and studied his hands, over which burned a spectral fire, translucent flames that immolated him without pain.

Then the pressure, the agony, the mania, and fever-bright delirium—all of it fell away and disappeared.

And Scorio found himself standing on a gray slate platform from whose edges arose three free-standing portals, the void beyond starless and infinite.

Two of the doors were sealed shut, but the third stood open.

Stunned, shaking, resolute, he approached it. Studied its copper frame, then stepped through and into his second trial.

Chapter 76

Scorio stood within an old tent, the guide poles bending under the weight of the sodden canvas, drops of water pooling where it sagged to grow pregnant and then drip upon the heads of those gathered within. The air stank of sour sweat, anger, and mud, and from the impatient shuffling of the dozen men and the cantankerous stares they were leveling him, he could sense that the tenuous silence was about to break.

A table was before them, upon which a crude map was pinned down by daggers. It displayed part of the kingdom, the provinces immediately around their own, along with roughly carved wooden miniatures representing towns, the few larger cities, battalions on the march, galleons at sea, and their own, secret encampments.

If he focused on any one of them, names came swimming up from the depths of his mind: the village of Golden Creek, where they’d hung the six royal scouts they’d stumbled across by accident; the old Floss Mill, where they’d met in the dead of night with Garvin Smith two months ago to cement an alliance between his archers and their own men; Rump Moor, where they’d learned the dangers of attempting to fight the king’s men in open combat all too well.

And there, on the coast, Spurn Harbor, sacked and burned by the king, empty now but for a few hundred citizens who’d somehow survived the siege.

A stir; the wall of men around the table parted, and his brother, Eberro, stepped into view. His face was spattered with mud, his eyes bloodshot, his hair crazed with dried sweat. Pulling off his gloves, he threw them down on the warped boards and placed his hands on his hips.

“Well, it’s a fine day for a butchering, lads.” His voice was resonant, rich with authority and contempt. “I pressed the mayor about as hard as anyone could without drawing a sword, and he’s refusing to let us into the city. We’ll not be given the protection of the walls.”

“Then we should take the damn town,” cried Rawn, an old man with an eyepatch, skin leathery and tanned by a life spent toiling under the sun, his teeth jutting and yellow like those of a mule. “We’re not fancy diplomats from the capital, needing to stand on delicate points of etiquette.”

“We could,” said Eberro, expression flinty, “but what then? Face the king's guard tomorrow at dawn, our forces worn out and depleted from a violent siege?”

Rawn subsided, muttering angrily to himself.

“It was our one chance,” said Eberro. He leaned down over the table and glared at the miniatures as if they had personally betrayed him. “We’re cornered. If we try to retreat with this many men now, Captain Prewitt will catch us here”—he tapped the meandering course of the Whitemilk River—“here”—and he tapped the marshes beyond them—“or here.” And he tapped the open plain on the far side of the town. “Nowhere to run, boys.”

“Then we stand and fight,” growled barrel-chested Harkan, hand clutching the bandolier from which his skinning knives hung. “What choice do we have?”

“We could do that,” allowed Eberro, straightening up, and in that moment, Scorio realized what his brother was about. This had all been premeditated. He was leading the crowd to his own, foregone conclusion. “But that’s tantamount to suicide. Our two hundred boys against their five hundred veterans? No, we’ve had a good run.”

“What are you saying, Eberro?” Harkan narrowed his eyes. “Spit it out already.”

“What I’m saying,” said his brother, turning to regard each man present, “is that the writing is on the wall. We fight, we die. We run, we die. We gave it our best, but we weren’t able to muster enough support. Oh aye, we got Garvin Smith on our side, and Lady Farrow, and there was a chance we could secure the support of the Sea Baron’s League, but that proved to be naught but smoke and mirrors. We’re out of time, luck, and men. I say we disband, and I will present myself to the king and ask for clemency. Lady Farrow has promised to vouch for me, and with her patronage and a little luck, I’ll be cleared of wrongdoing and allowed to run for election again next spring.”

The uproar was immediate. Eberro crossed his arms and weathered the storm, jaw set, waiting for the reaction to wash over.

But Scorio, who had stood silent all this time, realized that more than a few of the men were glancing his way. Waiting for his words.

His opinion.

He’d never gainsaid his brother openly. Oh, in the privacy of their council tent, or on the march through stinging rain, or sleeping in the branches of more than one oak under the stars, he’d spoken his mind strongly, but always Eberro had dismissed his concerns.

But now. Now was the time. He could sense the weight of Harkan’s expectant stare. That of others, as they quieted, turning to him, waiting.

Scorio had become a favorite amongst the men. While Eberro schemed with mayors and sought the support of the Sea Baron’s League, while he’d courted and seduced the powerful Lady Farrow, Scorio had been out in the field with the boys. Helped with their training, taken patrols, listened to their grievances, and shared their meals.

But more than that, he’d manifested impossible powers ever since the day he’d saved Eberro from hanging. Talons that could cut through steel, scales that wreathed his arms and shoulders and which deflected any blade. He’d killed scores of men at Rump Moor, had cleaved through the ranks of the kingsmen with ease until he’d come against four of the king’s own Legendaries whose powers had forced him to run. He’d been the one to give the grim order at Golden Creek, and had led six successful raids against the kingsmen already, capturing prisoners, loot, and disrupting their supply chains.

It was because of him that so many despairing farmers and peasants had flocked to his brother’s banner. Word had spread like wildfire: a Legendary fought against the king.

Such a thing had never been heard of, and many refused to believe it till they saw Scorio approaching, eyes burning, claws flexing, his whole manner instilling fear in their foes and devotion in their allies.

But always he’d held his tongue and trusted his older brother. Bit down on his misgivings and openly supported him.

“What I want to hear,” said Velos, his voice cutting through the babble, “is what Scorio thinks of all this.”

Velos almost never spoke. He was a wiry, saturnine ranger who was as likely to go missing for a week as he scouted the enemy as he was to appear suddenly with a bottle of stolen wine in hand to share. He was greatly respected, and not just for his ability to string and draw his huge black oak bow.

All eyes turned to Scorio, including those of his brother.

“Well?” asked Eberro, his smile rueful, almost enigmatic. “What do you think, little brother? Will you trust me one more time? Shall we work together to avoid slaughter?”

Scorio rubbed at his jaw and leaned forward to study the map. Captain Prewitt’s little miniature was a half-day’s ride from Feldborough, who was denying them entry. Garvin’s archers were strung out in Wainwood, three days’ hard march to the west. And the bitter truth was that the beautiful Lady Farrow wouldn’t send out her knights unless success was assured.

Two hundred men and a rogue Legendary against five hundred kingsmen and who knew how many loyal Legendaries sent to destroy him?

A slaughter, surely?

But the alternative? To disband the men, melt away like shadows, and place their faith in Eberro’s political ploys?

The very thought rankled. But he had no illusions as to what it’d mean to gainsay his brother now, in open council, before every important man in their rebellion.

It would be his bid for power. To assert himself instead of acting quietly from the shadows.

To speak up, or to remain silent?

“We disband,” he said, the silence so profound it nearly ached. Groans immediately followed his words, but he pressed on. “But we reconvene in Wainwood with Garvin a week hence. Every man’s to secret himself through the marshes or down the Whitemilk as he sees fit.”

Eberro frowned lightly, as if only mildly confused. “To what end, brother? This was to be our final battle, remember, before the walls of Feldborough? The Sea Baron’s League has failed to bring its mercenaries to our side—you think they’ll suddenly have an attack of conscience and change their mind?”

“We should never have counted on them,” said Scorio, keeping his words quiet. “We’ve been going about this all wrong. We’ll not defeat the king with knights and mercenaries. We’ll only do it with the arms that have tilled this land and know it worth the fighting for.”

Voices rose in rough agreement, and Eberro’s eyes narrowed further.

“A worthy sentiment, but unfortunately it’s a foolish one. Peasants cannot stand against professional soldiers. We’d pay for each kingsman’s death with a dozen of our own. You cannot mean to win victory at the expense of every man’s life?”

Scorio rubbed at his jaw, grimaced, then shook his head. “See, that’s where you’ve also been wrong, brother. Rump’s Moor was our lesson, but you didn’t learn. We should avoid open battle at all costs.”

“Then how are we to earn the respect of the king, and with that change the taxation and inheritance laws?”

“We don’t need his respect,” said Scorio. “We need his fear. Not of us, but of his barons and dukes. If we bleed them, harry them, burn their estates, kill their livestock, and refuse, always, to meet them in battle, they’ll feel the pain where they’re most sensitive—in their coin purses. And the more they lose coin, the angrier they’ll become with the king, till at last he’ll be forced to sue for peace.”

Eberro snorted. “He’ll sooner come after you with the entire royal army than meet you at a table.”

Scorio smiled and spread his arms. “Let him. Let him chase us from Wainwood to Goose Swamp. Let him march his legions across wine country and feed them at ruinous expense. We’ll melt like mist before him. His coffers are already low. He can’t sustain an endless campaign. We need but wait him out.”

Murmurs of agreement, more pensive this time.

Eberro shook his head. “That’s not how one wins wars, little brother. That’s how you turn the very people against you. They want to look up to their leaders. To know we’re worthy of them. You don’t do that by setting fire to farms and skulking in the bushes.”

“You won’t win this war by trying to make wealthy allies, either,” said Scorio. “They’ll never play their hand till they know it’s safe to do so. Where’s Lady Farrow with her knights?”

Eberro scowled.

“Where’s the Sea Baron’s League with their three hundred Caprisso mercenaries?”

“Pah,” said Eberro, and made to turn away.

“We’ve wasted months chasing your dreams,” said Scorio. “I’m sorry, brother. We won’t give up the rebellion. We won’t ask the king for another chance. We’ll not work with his rotten system. We’ll force him to meet us at that table, or die trying.”

Another rough round of agreement, and Harkan clapped him on the shoulder.

“Then you’re a fool,” said Eberro. “All of you. You cannot defeat the system. This kingdom is far greater and more powerful than you could ever understand. Our one chance was to earn the king’s respect by presenting a unified front against him composed of peers and the powerful. Alone? You’ll die in ditches like dogs.”

The air in the tent turned surly.

“We’ll take our chances,” said Scorio softly. “In the meantime, you’re free to go to the king and plead your case.”

“Maybe I will,” said Eberro, raising his chin, twin spots of color appearing in his cheeks. “I’ll go to Lady Farrow and ask her to present me at court. And despite this betrayal, brother, I’ll ask for clemency for all of you as well.”

“We don’t need clemency,” said Velos, voice tight with anger. “We need a chance to feed our families without being crushed by taxes.”

“Aye,” said Rawn, his one eye burning fever bright with passion. “Piss on clemency! Piss on the king, the kingsmen, Captain Prewitt, Lady Farrow, Sir Kuragin, and the whole poxy lot of ‘em!”

Raucous cheers met these words, to which Eberro could only shake his head.

“Fools,” he said at last. “Then I bid you the best of luck. I will do what I can from afar.”

“We’ll wait with bated breath for that miracle,” growled Harkan as Eberro turned to leave.

“Good luck, brother,” Scorio said. “Don’t make the mistake of trusting the king or his men.”

“I know my way around court,” snapped Eberro, pausing at the tent flap. “Better, it turns out, than I did this tent. Don’t you fear for me.”

And with that, he was gone.

For a moment, everyone stood, stunned by the magnitude of what had just happened. Scorio stared at the tent flap, unable to quite believe he’d finally spoken his deepest, most dangerous thoughts aloud.

Rawn hocked, spat, then turned to the map. “Well then. Good to finally have a man in charge who talks sense. Enough with licking the boots of those who wouldn’t piss down our throats if our hearts were on fire. What do you say, Scorio? Wainwood in three days?”

The other men clustered back around the table to study the map, and with a deep breath Scorio dragged his attention back to the miniatures.

“Yes,” he said, reaching out to tap his finger beside the wooden carving of Feldborough. “Through the marsh is our best bet. We’ll break out in groups of five and aim to follow the currents down here to Trappin Bay. From there, everyone’s to head north, avoiding Calcote, and meet at the blasted oak in Wainwood, seven nights hence. Get the word out to your men. They’re to carry what they can and leave all else behind. Understood?”

“Aye,” said everyone around them, and the crowd broke into conversation as the men began to argue the best way to travel. Their voices became a murmur, indistinct words that Scorio didn’t register. Instead, the reality of what had transpired washed over him: by raising his voice, speaking his words, he’d both taken control and assumed responsibility for the rebellion.

It was his fight now. These men would live and die by his command. The thought chilled him, yet lit a burning desire in his heart.

He’d do anything to lead them to victory.

And with that thought, the world went dark, and Scorio found himself kneeling once more in the dark upon the bloody flagstones of the Gauntlet.

He blinked, raised his head, then the realization hit him: By the ten hells, I’m a damned Tomb Spark.

Chapter 77

Scorio rose to his feet and stared at his palms. His darkvision had expanded even further, to the point where it now encompassed nearly his entire field of vision; only the very peripheries remained opaque.

But it was his hands that fascinated him. Though they remained streaked in blood and dirt, they were… fine.

No wounds.

He closed his previously broken hand into a fist and squeezed tightly. No pain. Gripped his wrist. Nothing. The bones were repaired, the swelling gone. His forearms were healed as well, the deep burns disappeared, the gash in his side, the cut in his calf, the countless lacerations and slashes.

Scorio restrained the urge to yell for a quivering second, but the cry tore itself free: “Yes!” It was a victory cry, a bark of delight, of something, finally, going his way. No wounds, anywhere. He felt hale, whole, healthy, fit, practically bursting with energy.

But more than that. He stilled. Blinked, then summoned his Heart. Studied it closely, then cursed under his breath.

Still fractured.

But within it, he felt his reservoir, compact, sleek, requiring far less time to fill than before. Experimentally, he reached out with his will and worked Iron mana into his Heart, drawing it in with great, purposeful scoops, and though the mana immediately began to vent through the fissures, he felt his Heart saturate in what felt like record time.

He flexed his will, and his Heart leaped into translucent, silvery flame. Scorio took a deep breath as power washed into him, exalting his sense of strength even further. He’d never felt this fit, this on fire, this capable.

Breathing deeply, he raised his hand and willed his technique to manifest. Immediately black scales erupted from his hands, appearing down the length of his arms, across his shoulders, but they didn’t stop there—black scales swept down his back, and he felt stubs erupt from his spine, protective and angular. Scales emerged across his thighs as well, and his talons extended to their six-inch length, glowing with fell, white heat.

But more than that—from his brow, twin curving horns emerged, the bone warping, extruding, the two horns rising with a shorter, flanking pair growing just beside them.

Eyes wide, Scorio reached up and gently touched the horns. They were subtly striated, their points wicked, and he felt as if he were wearing a mighty crown, as if he’d been anointed by whatever dark power was fueling his powers and marked for greatness.

Lurking just within the realms of his mind, however, was an awareness as to another gift. Something that went beyond his physical form, the increased defenses he’d manifested, the heightened strength and speed.

He couldn’t quite pin it down, understand it, so instead he inhaled till his chest creaked and then willed the power to manifest.

The air around him shimmered as if suddenly superheated, a great sphere that extended at least five yards away from him in every direction. Scorio stared, wide-eyed: was it an attack, a weapon?

Not quite. Though the air glimmered, there was no actual heat. Instead, he felt his very presence pouring forth, his will, his might. As if he were taking in the hemisphere around him and making it part of his being.

What effect might that have on an enemy? He’d no idea. He blinked and released the field, which faded quickly from sight. Jova’s Tomb Spark ability had affected Ravenna at a great distance; Scorio’s seemed to have a limited range. Was it the same power? No—everyone manifested different abilities.

Mystified, he pondered the field, then felt another aspect of himself arise within his consciousness, a potential, an ability he’d never sensed before.

My shroud, he thought with a shiver of excitement. Composing himself, he extended one burning claw and willed the shroud to coalesce before him.

The sensation was incredible, a rush of power for which he seemed but a crude channel; might coursed through him and manifested in the air before him as a translucent shield, a yard tall and a few feet wide. It hovered before his outstretched claws, intrinsically connected to him, part of his very spirit. Mana flowed from his Heart to the floating shroud, and he realized just how much of a drain it was. Holding his scaled form and sustaining the shroud reduced his ability to keep his Heart burning to moments; with a gesture, he dismissed the shroud, released his scaled form, and staggered back, awed and overcome.

Yes, there was frustration. Jova had held her Tomb Spark abilities for the duration of her fight with Ravenna, while he’d barely be able to maintain them for ten, fifteen seconds. But that aggravation was swept away before the wonder of his state. Tomb Spark. Unless others had transcended during the Gauntlet run, that meant he was only the second in their entire cohort to have done so—and that without the patronage or guidance of the Houses or the Academy.

Better yet, he was completely healed; the pain and despair that had nearly crushed his will were gone. Now he felt sharp, focused, ready to tear through whatever the Gauntlet threw at him, to destroy any and every obstacle.

Calmly, methodically, he swept more and more Iron mana into his reservoir until it was bursting at the seams. Paused to consider the spot on which Leonis had died, and bent one knee to rest beside it.

“I’ll make the most of the time you bought me,” he swore, voice fervent, low. “Thank you, Leonis. I’ll never be able to repay this debt.”

Then he rose and entered the narrowing tunnel, made his way to its far, cramped end, where the black archway awaited him.

Without hesitation, he stepped through.

It took him a moment to understand what he was looking at as he emerged into the next chamber. Before him arose a massive set of steps that stretched from wall to wall, at first quite steep and then leveling out as if arching up over a hill. The wall to the left was slashed with regularly spaced cuts from which a pale, frosty light entered to fall on the other wall in bright slashes.

Scorio frowned, dropped to a crouch, and considered the room. Nowhere to go but up. And yet something was off. He extended his senses and felt—like the room that had claimed Lianshi’s life—strange, invisible densities in the air. Pit traps? Were the steps lethal, or perhaps only some of them?

But no; as he pondered, he felt those densities move, gently floating up and down or along the steps as if free of them.

Invisible foes? There was no intent in their paths. Were they biding time till he stepped forth?

Keeping his Heart saturated, Scorio rose and placed his foot on the first step. The invisible presences didn’t react.

Wary, he climbed to the second, high step. One presence was directly before him; almost it seemed to warp the air, so that he felt that if he squinted just right, he’d be able to determine its outline.

But it passed before him, allowing him to hurry up the next few steps and leave it behind. On he climbed, the light from the left playing over his body, climbing the arching steps and avoiding the floating, invisible presences until he reached the top; there he saw the steps descend on the far side to a black archway set in the wall across from his point of entry.

Nonplussed, he moved smoothly down, giving the presences wide berth, pausing occasionally to let them pass by or when their paths intersected. Slowly, carefully, he navigated his way past them, and at last, reached the archway. Turned to consider the steps, and wondered how he might have fared if he’d tried to assay them as an Emberling. Might he not have been able to pick out their paths so distinctly? What would have happened if he’d come too close to one?

He was happy not to know.

Taking a moment to sweep more Iron into his reservoir to replace that which had naturally vented forth, he stepped into the darkness and emerged into the fourteenth chamber.

A low ceiling, and him at the top of a tight cylinder of a room, all of it consumed by the spiraling steps that began right at his feet and curled tightly down and around. Great steps swept around the central axis through six complete revolutions, the floors below looking like a dead centipede that had coiled upon itself. A great beam of light speared down the central axis to illuminate the barren floor at the bottom, leaving the steps themselves in a deep darkness that completely failed to foil his darkvision.

Again there were no obvious foes. Scorio tongued the inside of his cheek as he considered the ceiling, the air above the steps, the central column of light itself. No floating presences, but… narrowing his eyes, extending his senses once more, he thought he felt a strange twinge coming from the third step down. Crouching, he stared at it. There was nothing unusual about it, but the third step felt more… ponderous? Alarming, in some subtle manner?

Scorio looked past it and sensed further collection of similar sensations from random steps as they curved down and out of view.

He considered. Then, seized by impulse, he stepped right off the edge of the step into the central shaft, into that searing white light, and plummeted down the axial core.

Wind tore at his slashed and ruined robes, pulling at his hair, and his stomach pressed itself up against his diaphragm. The winding steps flashed past him, and at the last moment, he exerted his will and ignited his Heart, embracing the rush of power and summoning his enhanced form so that he was wreathed in scales when he landed lightly upon the bare stone, dropping to one knee and placing a taloned palm on the rock as he caught himself neatly.

Other than the jarring shock to his body, he felt no pain, no dizziness, nothing but grim satisfaction in his form’s new ability to handle such acrobatics.

Talons scoring the rock, he turned to the dark archway before him. This time he didn’t spare a glance for the spiral staircase that rose above him; he swept Iron into his Heart, the turgid mana responding more freely to his will than ever before, and when his reservoir was once more saturated, into the archway.

The fifteenth chamber was a crude cavern, roughly circular, the floor strewn with sand. No illumination; there was a sense of stillness, of calm, and then a section of the far wall moved, seemed to animate, and unfolded itself to face him.

Scorio took a step back, eyes widening in alarm as he gazed at his monstrous foe. He’d seen it before, once. At the very beginning of this life.

He took a slow, uneven inhalation. He heard again the screams, Nissa yelling in horror, Havert’s cries as he was torn apart.

The fiend was wider than it was tall, its hide an eruption of igneous stone, like huge spars of lava cooled to black. It leaned forward, knuckles pressed to the floor, each forearm as large as Scorio, each fist massive enough to crush his head with ease. Its head hung low and center, a mass of segmented rocks, its maw filled with saurian teeth. Incandescent eyes fixed on him.

But it was the deeply carved and ragged lines of burning purple flame that Scorio remembered best. Riotous like lightning trapped within the rocky hide, the purple light smoldered in patterns about its face, contoured its body, elevated it from some rocky horror into an eldritch force of nature. The trapped lines of flame surged and burned as if venting from an inner furnace, perhaps in time with its pulse or some deeper, more magical rhythm, but with each flare, the light left after-images in Scorio’s eyes.

The fiend twisted its head to one side, regarding Scorio with something akin to quizzical interest, then smashed a fist down into the ground, cracking the rock, and let out a roar so powerful that Scorio felt the sound in his chest cavity more than heard it with his ears.

“Come on, then,” he said, lowering himself into a crouch. He raised his arms and willed his form to emerge. Black scales slid out over his arms, coalesced around his knuckles, swept over his shoulders, down his back, over his thighs. Light, flexible, supple armor that hindered him not at all. Searing white claws emerged from his fingertips, their light equal to the burning purple, and Scorio allowed himself a dark smile as he stared at the rock fiend on the cavern’s far side. “I’ve grown a little since we last met.”

Again the fiend pounded the cavern floor, then it took three or four loping steps forward, knuckling as it went, only to hurl itself at Scorio, its strength such that it came flying right at him, claws burning as it brought a titanic fist around to clobber Scorio where he stood.

But Scorio leaped aside at the last moment, a sweetly executed dive that should have brought him up at the creature’s flank—but the fiend pivoted with alarming speed, a forearm the side of a door ripping through the air to try and backhand his head off.

Scorio’s impulse was to duck, to retreat, but a part of him, cold and impersonal, told him that to dance and bob and weave would be to expend his reservoir and leave him defenseless.

No.

With a cry, Scorio summoned his shroud. The air shimmered as his mana poured forth, and the fiend’s fist crashed into the translucent barrier. The blow was powerful enough to split rock, but it crashed into his shield, and it was the fiend’s fist that splintered, as if it had struck a wall of steel with all its force.

Scorio lunged in and thrust his burning claws into the beast’s side; slashed at the massive, corrugated black rock armor, and though he tore deep grooves he failed to penetrate deeply enough.

The rock fiend leaped back, shook out its fist, then lunged forward and tried to snatch at Scorio with its other hand, intent on scooping him up between its talons.

Scorio ducked under and threw a wicked uppercut at the fiend’s elbow, slamming his talons into the joint.

The white burning points sank deep, and this time the fiend roared in pain. It swept its arm around to batter Scorio away but missed; Scorio leaped over the arm that came at him like the boom of a ship, landed lightly right before it, ready to tear its face apart, but again his foe’s speed shocked him.

Before he’d fully landed, the rock monster drew back and punched him with everything it had.

Scorio barely had time to cross his arms before his face and summon his shroud once more before the fist the size of a barrel crashed into it. The force was such that Scorio was thrown back, shroud and all, heels sliding on the uneven floor, forcing him to stagger and catch his balance.

Victorious, the rock fiend threw its arms open wide and roared at him again, spewing ropes of spittle and causing its lightning flames to flare as if oil had been tossed into its depths.

Scorio dismissed his shroud, took a deep breath, then bellowed right back. And in that moment, he summoned his Tomb Spark power, that shimmering hemisphere whose purpose he hadn’t yet divined.

The air around them burned, swirled with force as Iron mana streamed from his rapidly depleting reservoir. Scorio felt his presence suffuse the air, his might, his rage, his intolerance to defiance.

The hemisphere caught the rock fiend’s front half within its curvature; Scorio felt his power wash over the beast and saw it freeze, shrink in on itself, then back away.

Its change in attitude was shocking; its flames diminished, it shook its head as if wanting to sneeze, looked uncertain. Knowing he had but moments before his Igneous Heart guttered and died, Scorio took three steps forward and leaped, causing his aura to wash completely over the rock fiend.

It raised its huge head to stare, small eyes flaring bright as it watched Scorio fall upon it like a bolt from the heavens.

Still screaming, Scorio smashed his fist through the beast’s head, talons shearing through rock and bone and brains in one terrible strike, removing a third of the fiend’s skull and splattering it against its own chest and forearm.

He landed in a crouch before it, breathing heavily, just as his Heart died. For a moment the loss of power was shocking; he gasped, rose to his feet, saw that he stood within the twin forearms as a man might within the sides of an archway.

The fiend rose before him like a hill. It swayed, ichor pouring from its shattered head, and then with a gargling groan, it collapsed to the side, back legs giving way, massive forearms toppling sideways. It crashed to the ground and lay there, splayed out, monstrous and huge, its burning purple flames flickering and then dying out altogether.

A black archway appeared in the far wall.

“Damn,” whispered Scorio, looking at his hands, then back at the dead fiend. What had his aura done to it? The beast had looked… stunned. Overwhelmed. And there was no way Scorio could have defeated it as an Emberling. Even with his companions, this would have been a grievous battle.

But as a Tomb Spark, he’d destroyed it alone.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he whispered, and punched one hand into the other palm. Fierce resolve burst into him like a flash flood into a slot canyon, and he strode to the distant archway.

“Watch out, Jova,” he said to the darkness about him. “I’m coming for you.”

Chapter 78

Scorio paused before crossing through; took a moment to settle his emotions, to control his excitement, and gather Iron mana back into his Heart. It was wonderful to have his reservoir be so compact again. To be able to ignite it with ease. But that very facility spoke to the dangers that lay on the archway’s far side: he was now entering the Tomb Spark run of rooms, alone, and with a fractured Heart.

He had to play it careful.

When he felt ready, he pushed through the darkness and stepped out into a great sphere of a room. He stood at the sphere’s base, a circle of iron under his feet, and directly above him, some fifty feet over his head, lay the exit, a black circle incised into the roof of the room.

“What the hell?” muttered Scorio, staring up in alarm and dismay. Was he supposed to fly up there?

The sphere of course was dark, so he studied it with his darkvision, and saw that the walls weren’t perfectly curved; the sphere was a polygon, each facet six-sided, with facets than he could count.

He extended his senses and tried to pick up on invisible densities, any hint of danger in the room, and found… nothing. Was he supposed to run up the sides? Were only those Great Souls who could fly or leap supposed to pass this chamber?

Hesitant, curbing his frustration, he stepped out of his hexagon, placed his foot on the next facet, and immediately the whole sphere rolled. Or his own sense of internal balance changed—down became the facet onto which he’d stepped, while his iron hexagon seemed to have slid up the side of the sphere a step.

But more than that—the sphere came to life. A huge gout of pale, green liquid rivered forth from a facet on the sphere’s other side, undulating toward him at terrific speed as if waterfalling over the edge of a cliff. Scorio let out a cry and ran on, moving to the next facet, causing his center of gravity to shift again, just as the river of liquid poured itself into the facet on which he’d stood, the spray that came off it burning his skin and causing it to tingle as if frostbitten.

But more rivers of acid were pouring forth; wide-eyed, Scorio stared about himself, feeling trapped, as a dozen such torrents rushed across the inside of the sphere, sinking into their opposite facets and creating a three-dimensional maze before him. Turning, trying to keep track of every deluge, Scorio almost missed the one that erupted upward from under his own feet.

There was no time to leap aside; reflexively, he summoned his shroud directly beneath him and felt the gout of acid push him upwards, even as it sprayed out to the sides. The shroud protected him completely, acted as a board upon which he balanced as he flew across the room, propelled by the power of the jet.

And right into another one that was running perpendicular through the interior of the sphere. Scorio bit off a cry as he leaped off his shroud, more of a wild toppling to the side as he didn’t have perfect balance, and crashed down through the air, avoiding two other jets to land with a bone-jarring thud upon a new facet.

The whole sphere rolled to re-orient around him.

Wild-eyed, he shoved himself to his feet, saw that he was closer to the black facet than before. But now the dozen main jets that crisscrossed the sphere branched, each splitting halfway into three roving rivulets that poured across the far facets, splashing through each other, spraying the air with acid.

“You’ve got to be—” began Scorio, then broke into a run. He brought his heightened form forth, wanting the protection his scales afforded him, and shielding his head raced up the side of the sphere, which turned with him so that he seemed a rat in a wheel, racing but never going anywhere.

A stream of acid washed over him, and with a cry, he summoned his shroud again. The stream deflected right off, but he could feel his mana dropping precipitously. Another sprayed toward him, curling in as if on a leash, and with a grunt, he dove under it, but not quickly enough; he felt the acid wash over his shoulder, felt his scales begin to soften, their interstices to burn.

Up to his feet, gasping for breath, to sprint on, only to stumble and then back away as a jet rushed right at him. He spun aside and then summoned his shroud again as a third washed over him. The shroud deflected it once more, but just as he ran past the jet his Heart guttered out and died.

Four more facets to go. Trusting to his native athleticism, recalling his endless runs through the ruins, his morning sessions on the Academy track, Scorio dug deep into his reserves and bolted for the black segment. Two streams of acid crossed before him, coming at him like an “X,” and he dove over the apex of their intersection, hit the ground in a rough roll, and came up on his feet, only to careen into yet another gout.

The acid washed over his right arm, submerging it completely for a brief second, but it was enough; the scales lost definition, seemed to wilt, and pain stabbed into him in a latticework of flame.

His mind recoiled at the thought of what the acid would have done to his naked arm.

But there was no time for anything but one final leap. Scorio dove headlong into the black facet, punched through the portal, and emerged in a mad dive into the seventeenth chamber.

Mania had him by the throat; the pain was building back up in his arm, his hand, and he knew what it presaged: a slow, terrible decline in vitality, a loss of power, an inexorable fall into the abyss.

This time, though, he wanted none of that. He wanted to hold onto his newfound might for as long as he could, to fight with daring and fire, to wield his techniques and abilities with reckless abandon until he flared out in an explosion of blood and violence.

No creeping caution. No slow decline.

He was a Tomb Spark now. He would wield that might like a sledgehammer. He’d punch through whatever came his way or die trying.

The seventeenth chamber was a broad hallway, the air lambent with fluid light as if he were underwater. A subtle resistance worked against him, a pressure that constrained his movement.

Scorio stood still, back to the wall, chest heaving as he summoned his Heart. He went to reach for mana right as a great azure creature manifested beside him, shaped like a roughly circular rug, a wicked, spiny tail like a switch trailing behind. It streamed through the air, twin black eyes set in subtle ridges atop its upper side, and with a flurry it banked and swam away, bringing its tail to bear, whipping it through the unctuous air.

Instinct. Scorio swept Coal into his Heart and summoned his shroud just as a razor-sharp line of invisible force slashed against it. The parts that exceeded the shroud’s breadth cut past him, nicking the corner of his elbow, passing through flesh and bone as if they were a dream.

The shroud devoured the wisps of Coal in less than a second and disappeared.

Scorio filled his Heart with Iron and ran forth, straining against the resistance. With painful slowness he powered forward, sinking into that glimmering underwater domain, his weight lessened, the sensation such that he half-expected the ceiling to be the undulating, glimmering top of a tank.

More of the huge, strangely flattened beasts appeared in the ephemeral air; they faded in and out of sight, but each lashed at him with its tail as he struggled to run past them. The resistance infuriated him; he bared his teeth and strove for traction against the stone floor. Powered through, swinging his mantle back and forth, blocking slashes of invisible force mere moments before they would have gutted him.

The floor and walls behind him weren’t so fortunate; they were soon scored by deep gashes, a testament to the lethality of the attacks.

And then the creatures started swimming in behind him.

Cursing, Scorio slowed, considered trying to kill them. But he couldn’t even tell how many there were; they appeared and faded away as if swimming through columns of light.

No—he had to make the far wall. He plunged on, his Heart burning brightly, Iron venting furiously through the fractures, the shroud devouring what remained with horrific speed. The tender resistance in the air was just enough to reduce him to a strained jog. A flash of movement behind him, and he swung his shroud around, blocking the attack. A trickle of the force cut got past the bottom of the shield, however, and slashed through his foot. Another frantic flurry as a second beast banked and swam away as if affronted, and again Scorio brought his shroud around, parried the blast.

The wall was almost there. Slicked in sweat, gasping for breath, his muscles burning, he strove to reach it, shroud swinging about him as more attacks concentrated upon him.

And then his Heart died. How long had it lasted—ten seconds? Maybe less? It felt like an hour.

The creatures seemed to sense his weakness. They converged on him, emerging from their invisible realm to form a cyclone of swimming, flattened bodies about his own. Growling, his scales gone, his talons vanished, Scorio reached for the far wall. Sensed the azure fiends coordinate their attacks, their bodies as one pulling away, bodies rippling in a frantic explosion of activity, a score of barbed tails ripping around and unleashing their attacks.

So close. If he leaped, he just might make it, a tenuous chance, his need fever bright, his impatience clamping him like a fist—

But at the very last moment, he curbed his desire and dropped to the ground, falling flat, having to throw himself against the subtle resistance, a convulsive movement that slammed him against the stone as the force cuts flew over him.

The cyclone of flattened fiends fell apart, segments of their rug-like bodies falling away slowly, inky blood suffusing the air. Pain lashed across Scorio’s own body; he felt cuts etch themselves deeply across his back, his shoulders, his scalp; it felt like he’d taken a dozen lashes all at once, laying open his flesh, flaying him to the bone.

He wanted to lie there, tensed up, unable to scream, but instinct gripped him by the throat, worked his limbs as if he were a marionette, and with a terrible, frantic scramble he lurched forward and through the black archway as it appeared.

Eighteenth room. Or was it the nineteenth? Scorio didn’t know. The pain swamped him as if live, burning filaments of living flame worked deep into his flesh. He continued crawling, unable to stop moving forward, and then stopped, momentum abandoning him at last.

The hallway before him spun, or different segments of it did. It was divided into five bands, each a pentagon, each spinning slowly in a different direction at a variable speed, and on each, bonded to a side by localized gravity, stood a foe.

The result was like looking down into a grinder, some hellish contraption meant to turn flesh into meal.

Each of the five foes was a man, brutish and slope-shouldered, clad in a leather apron and leggings, clutching a massive cleaver attached to a three-foot-long pole. Their heads were covered in shapeless cloth masks, giving them something of the air of executioners, and they stood ready, weapons gripped in both hands.

“Damn,” hissed Scorio, pushing himself slowly, methodically, to his feet. He swayed, blood pouring down his back and the side of his face, soaking into his shredded robes, trickling down his calves. “Gentlemen.”

The five brutes shifted their weights as they rotated before him, and then as one, their forms were encased in an iridescent sheen, a thin film that caused them to glisten in Scorio’s darkvision.

“What is that?” He staggered, falling back against the iron wall. “You guys invulnerable like Lianshi?”

None of the brutes responded. They just spun on and on, revolving past each other, cleavers gripped in their ham hock hands, waiting with terrible patience.

“Damn it all.” Scorio forced himself off the wall. “At least you’re waiting for me. Mighty polite.”

With great deliberation, he set to sweeping Iron mana into his Heart, then paused. He’d not had the time before to consider it, but there was a new form of mana in the air. Brassy and bright, it fluttered and surged as if alive, twining about the staid Iron, more centered and denser than the ephemeral Copper, bright against the background Coal.

Bronze mana.

The power of a Tomb Spark.

Scorio blinked slowly, forced his eyes to focus. The revolving foes weren’t helping the sense of dizziness brought on by the pain and blood loss.

Bronze mana.

“Let’s try it,” he said, and reached forth his blood-smeared hand as if he could grasp the power directly.

At the same time, he swept the Bronze into his Heart. It was more pliable than the Iron, yet not nearly so flighty as the Copper. It required more work, however; Scorio was forced to lower his chin, clench his jaw, and truly focus to scoop the mana into his Heart.

But as it flowed into him, he felt its power radiate through his body, enhance his healing, felt the pain dull, its plangent ferocity blunted. More and more he swept the Bronze in, until he felt drunk on power. Delirious, his thoughts fluid, his body splitting into a duality, part pain and ruined tapestry of flesh, part exalted instrument of glory and destruction.

“There,” he whispered, blood pooling about his feet, his head hanging low so that he stared at his foes from under his brows. “Now I’m ready.”

And with a flexion of his will, he lit his Heart, and caused it to burn Bronze.

Ephemeral flames of gold rushed up in a sublime display of might. Strength coursed through him, washing the pain away like a flash flood might quench a flame. He breathed deeply, chest fully expanding, felt the ruined muscles and lacerated skin part as he did so, but barely registered the agony. Focused instead on how his Tomb Spark body was already beginning to heal, to staunch the flow of blood, to knit his shredded flesh together.

He went to raise his hand to summon his claws when a woman stepped past him, haggard, shoulder broken, black hair soaked in blood, to glare at the foes beyond.

The sight of Jova Spike was such a shock that Scorio’s heart lurched, and he drew back, confused, half-panicked, alarmed more by the sight of her than the five foes that awaited them both.

“What—?”

But he could see through her. She stood before him as if a ghost, looking like hell, looking as if she’d dragged herself through the last few encounters through sheer will alone. Her body was slashed, gored, torn, broken. She shouldn’t have been on her feet. And yet she was. Unbreakable, unyielding, she glared at the five foes, ignoring Scorio utterly.

“Jova?” he whispered.

She didn’t respond. Was he seeing into her private Gauntlet run? Was this an ability fueled by Bronze? Was the Gauntlet itself showing her to him for reasons of its own?

Helminth’s words came back to him: “Further, the Gauntlet will show the final moments of the Great Soul who makes it the farthest to those who reach the same chamber.”

Jova drew herself up and lurched forward, timing her attack just as a ghostly version of the first executioner rotated past her and up to the right. It slashed its brutal cleaver at her, and she swayed aside, almost more by accident than design, so that the cleaver missed her by an inch. Then, one arm shattered past all utility, the other hand pressed deep into a sucking wound in her side, she simply threw herself at the massive man and cracked her brow as hard as she could into his face.

The impact was shocking, the result explosive; the man’s head burst back, but the sheen seemed to have protected it from actual damage. But Jova wasn’t done. She slammed her shoulder into his while hooking the back of his leg with her calf. The trip was masterful, somehow elegant, and the executioner crashed to the ground, both Jova and him rotating up and around so that to Scorio they now seemed to stand against the wall.

Not hesitating, Jova dropped her knee into the man’s throat, crushing it. She paused there for a moment, the executioner scrabbling at her back with his hands, and only when he went limp did she slowly, painfully rise.

How the hell is she still moving? Wondered Scorio, aghast.

But move she did, seemingly at random, stepping into the second pentagon, right above the second executioner who raked his cleaver up at her. She took the blow, the huge blade sinking into her back, and reached up to clamp her gory hand upon the shaft. She began to walk around and down the pentagon to where the huge man was wrestling with his weapon, trying to tug it free of her body.

How was she moving with that hunk of metal embedded in her back? Why hadn’t she summoned her shroud?

Down she came, patient and deliberate as death, and when she was almost upon the man, she tightened her grip on the haft and jerked it down. The wood snapped. The blade came up and out of her back, six inches of wood beneath its metal head in Jova’s hand, and she brought it around in a brutal chop, sinking the weapon into the executioner’s head.

The glistening sheen seemed to prevent the blow from doing as much damage as it should have, but it was enough to knock the man off-balance; he staggered, and she kicked him in the chest, a forward thrust that was almost lethargic. But perfectly timed. The executioner fell off his segment, between his and the third pentagon, and was ground apart by the revolving stones.

“Damn,” whispered Scorio, eyes wide.

Jova stood there, heaving for breath, broken cleaver in her hand. The huge wound in her back, freshly dealt, seemed to blend in with the tapestry of other lacerations.

It should have killed her. Instead, she slowly, ever so slowly straightened, and turned to stare at the third executioner.

Scorio could have sworn the fiend blanched.

She hurled the cleaver at his head just as he passed her to the left, then staggered after it as the man deflected the weapon with upraised arms. Sank her shoulder into his broad midriff, an attempt at a tackle, perhaps, to knock him back and off his pentagon, but there wasn’t enough force behind the charge.

Jova looked so tired.

The executioner brought his elbow down upon her exposed back, but a shimmering layer of might appeared, at last, an inch above her torn flesh and protected her.

Her shroud.

The man’s elbow bounced off, but he brought it down again, and the shroud was no longer there; he drove Jova down to her knees, tossed aside his cleaver, seized her by the waist with both hands, then turned to heave her headfirst into the gap between the third and second segment.

“No!” Scorio took a half-step forward, blinked, and saw double. The five executioners stood in their revolving pentagons before him, yet at the same time, the first two were empty even as the third brute-forced Jova down into the grinding depths.

The first executioner swung his cleaver out and nearly took Scorio’s head off. Reeling back, he stared past the brute at the sight of Jova’s legs kicking, the rest of her hidden from view. The segments revolved around and around, tearing her apart, and Scorio was profoundly grateful that he couldn’t see the damage being done to her. After an impossibly long time, her legs quit their kicks and went limp. The executioner shoved the rest of her into the gap, then turned to face him.

And the realization hit Scorio.

That was as far as Jova had gotten.

She’d died in this room.

And if he wanted to beat her, he had to get past the third executioner.

“All right,” he hissed, drawing more Bronze into his Heart. “I can do this.”

A deep breath and he drew himself up. Stepped forward as the executioner came back down and around and hit him with his aura.

The hemisphere of churning air appeared, encapsulating the brute, who staggered back, weapon coming up half-heartedly in a defensive pose.

At the same time, Scorio lurched forward, annoyed that his legs didn’t obey him precisely as he wanted, and flowed into his scaled form. His claws gleamed as he slashed out at the man, cutting through the haft of the weapon, through the leather apron, and into his chest.

But his claws didn’t tear the man apart as they should have. That glistening layer protected him, blunted Scorio’s attack so that his claws left deep cuts but little more.

The man, however, was struggling to gather himself, the hemisphere somehow constraining him, overwhelming him once more. Scorio swayed back and lashed out again, raking his claws across the man’s mask.

Leather parted, and the man’s features were ruined. Didn’t take much damage to puncture a set of eyes. The man screamed, and taking his cue from Jova, Scorio grunted and slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, driving him back and into the yard-wide gap between the two segments, where he was promptly torn and ground apart.

Heaving for breath, Scorio looked up and saw the second executioner revolving across the ceiling, heading down toward him and entering the hemisphere.

“Hello,” said Scorio.

The executioner stiffened as he entered the field of churning air, then dropped his weapon.

By the ten hells, Scorio loved his new ability.

With a cry he fell upon the man, slashing at him, again and again. The second executioner raised his beefy forearms, took the blows, then with a cry of defiance lunged forward to try and slam Scorio off his pentagon.

With a grunt, Scorio summoned his shroud right before the man’s brow. The impact was blunt and cruel; the man’s head rocked back, and Scorio leaned in to rake his claws across his throat, once, twice, thrice.

The third set of slashes got through the iridescent shielding. Clutching at his neck, the man dropped to his knees then toppled over.

“There,” said Scorio, swaying, vision going in and out of focus. “Just… just one more.”

And that’s when his Heart guttered out.

The pain rushed in. His knees went weak. Scorio staggered, almost fell. Not now. But fine—he’d wait, gather more Bronze, would refill his reservoir, and when he was ready—

The third executioner stepped over the gap and onto the second ring, cleaver raised.

“Oh come on,” groaned Scorio, backing away, trying desperately to focus on the man, whose form doubled, coalesced into one being, then split again.

Impulse. Instinct. His saving grace. All the long hours spent training against the Nightmare Lady, dodging through the ruins, working every angle, breaking every rule.

Just as the executioner stepped over into his pentagon, Scorio lurched over the yard-wide gulf, and onto the third.

He’d not defeated the man—the executioner was coming right after him—but forget that guy. Scorio wheeled about, saw the fourth ready himself as he came revolving into line.

Sensing the attack, Scorio staggered around his pentagon. He was fading fast. No strength. Precious little coordination. He sought feebly to ignite his Heart, but there was no mana in his reservoir.

The grievous wounds that scored his back were draining his will, overwhelming his every thought. Pain that just sucked his ability to think down a dark well. The spinning pentagons were making him feel sick, disoriented. Where was the third? The fourth? Was that them in truth, or delirious visions of them?

Scorio felt his gorge rising, his legs folding under him. Too much blood loss, too much pain. That last move in the previous room had gotten him past the floating monsters, but at too high a cost. Without mana buffering him from his wounds, without his Tomb Spark might, he couldn’t keep going.

One chance.

Jova had made it to the third.

He had to just cross to one more segment.

With a faltering cry, summoning the last of his will, Scorio threw himself over the grinding gulf, to land face down on the revolving floor.

A huge blade immediately thockked into his back, and his legs went numb. Scorio wanted to thank the fiend. His body jerked over as the man tore the cleaver free.

But Scorio didn’t care. He lay there smiling, blood welling up his throat, body adrift on a sea of flame.

He’d made it to the fourth segment.

One more than Jova.

He’d done it.

Somehow, against all the odds, he’d beaten her at the Gauntlet.

When the blade came back down, it brought nothing but welcomed oblivion, and Scorio fell into the abyss with joy bubbling up within his heart.

Chapter 79

Scorio blinked, focused, then stared up at the interior of the basilica’s vast dome. The light of First Bronze sluiced in through the many small windows that ringed its base, pouring in distinct, oblique shafts to illuminate the balconies and massed guests to its side. Around him he heard the murmurs of awakening Great Souls; sharp inhalations, gasps even, the sound of robes as people sat up.

An entire cohort manifesting and coming back to life.

He expected pain. Had been conditioned by the old Gauntlet to expect the agony of death when he awoke. But instead, he felt comfortable, his body relaxed, as if he’d just taken a refreshing nap. The jewels of the bier were hard pebbles beneath his body, but familiar now. He’d returned. Alive. Whole.

Strong.

Then memories began to flood in. Slowly at first and then all at once: Naomi stabbed by the golden statuette, Lianshi falling into the depths of oblivion at the base of a hidden funnel. Leonis sacrificing himself in one last great charge to drive the fiends off Scorio and afford him a chance to press on.

With a gasp, he sat up, heart pounding, and turned to stare at his friends.

There they were. Leonis lying with an arm draped over his eyes, Naomi rubbing at the back of her head, scowling, Lianshi staring at him, eyebrows raised.

He’d made Tomb Spark.

The thought hit him like a club to the back of the head. He’d passed his second trial. He hadn’t betrayed his brother—at least, not in the way Kuragin had described it. And he’d made it to the—eighteenth room?

Had seen Jova die on the third pentagonal segment, had passed her to reach the fourth.

Scorio’s eyes widened. He couldn’t catch his breath. His heart seemed to freeze, and then began to pound widely as a wave of giddiness washed over him.

Lianshi’s stare flickered right past confusion to a demanding glare. But before she could speak, Praximar’s voice washed over them all.

“Welcome back, brave souls of the class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three! You have struggled, fought, sacrificed, strived. You have won glory, you have suffered ill luck. You have much to celebrate, much to rue. Amongst you are those who achieved far greater success than they might have hoped for, those who felt themselves destined for glory but who stumbled at the last moment. No matter. In this moment, we, the assembled might of Bastion, the Academy, and the far-flung settlements of Hell, salute you.”

Applause broke out from the balconies, the wings of the basilica; thousands clapped and a few even let loose wild cheers. Scorio blinked, looked about himself; saw a sea of faces smiling down indiscriminately at him and the others.

“But though you are all noble, only one of you made it the farthest into the Gauntlet. Amongst your number is a single soul who dared and achieved the impossible. Now, I think I speak for all of us when I say that I believe I know whom it is, but we must obey decorum and seek confirmation from the Archspire. If our guests can be patient for a moment longer, we shall confer.”

Praximar led the procession down from the far stage to make their way toward the central spire. They were a mixture of instructors, heads of Houses, illustrious guests, all of them dressed in their best finery. Praximar met the eyes of students as he went, smiled, muttered blessings, nodded his head.

“What happened?” hissed Lianshi, leaning over as far as she could without toppling off her bier. “Scorio!”

“It must be bad news,” said Leonis fatalistically, lifting his arm off his face to finally sit up. “You don’t think he’d be shouting it to the skies if he’d done well?”

Naomi remained still, staring at him with a subtle frown.

Scorio couldn’t speak. The air was trapped in his lungs. He felt so light he might lift right off the bier and float away.

Praximar climbed up the steps to the platform that ringed the base of the Archspire, and once more raised both hands as he turned in a circle, smiling at everyone who was watching him. He bowed his head as an elderly man leaned in to confer with him, clearly in no rush, enjoying the moment, the pregnant pause before the revelation.

Scorio’s mind was whirling. He couldn’t think. What would he do? He wanted nothing so much as to retreat with his friends to a side chamber, to tell them everything. Instead, he pivoted about, searched the biers, and then saw her.

Jova Spike.

She sat with her knees drawn under her chin, arms wrapped around her shins, ignoring all the covert and overt stares being directed at her. Her expression was severe, closed, brows lowered.

She didn’t know. She had died before him.

Her gaze slid over and met his own, as if drawn by one of those hidden funnel traps.

Jova’s gaze was intense, moody, just shy of defiant.

Scorio had spent endless hours imagining how he might celebrate a victory. Would he grin rakishly at her? Smirk? Make a rude gesture? But instead, he found his expression remained sober.

He couldn’t mock someone so strong. Who’d walked into further pain and against all the odds when her body was so nearly destroyed. It was incredible, to see her whole, healed, her shoulders aligned, her body free of blood.

So instead he nodded respectfully to her and turned back to the stage.

Praximar was nodding to another person but raised a hand in mock protest as a third dignitary went to speak to him. “My friends, my friends, this is not the time to dally! We’ve three thousand honored guests eager to celebrate the victor! And, if I may add a sobering note, this is, after all, a time of great stress for the city of Bastion.”

He turned to gaze out over the students, his expression grave. “Indeed. You brave warriors may not know this, focused as you’ve been on the challenge before you, but even as I speak violence grips our fair city. Ungrateful churls revolt against our authority, convinced—for reasons that only prove their foolishness—that we orchestrated Imogen the Woe’s attack.”

Mutters and murmurs swept across the cohort, but Praximar raised his hands. “Know that the matter is in hand. Each House has sent forth soldiers to deal with the rioters, to clear the streets of blockades, and to bring the rebellion’s leaders together so that they may be peacefully reasoned with. Why do I tell you this now? Because this moment is made all the more important for the events that convulse our city. That Great Soul who won furthest into the Gauntlet will have an unparalleled opportunity to make of herself an emblem, a figure, of our Academy’s good work and success. To go forth and represent the reason we strive as we do, to help quell the madness, and bring peace to our people.”

Everyone had swiveled to stare at Jova, who ignored their looks and glared stonily at where Praximar stood.

“Thus, whoever has won this ordeal, I merely ask that they consider the chaos outside, and finally choose a House so that they can best effect change. Let us crown today’s proceedings with even greater cause for celebration, shall we?”

He smiled brightly in Jova’s direction but was clearly making an effort to not literally stare at her.

More mutters sounded from the balconies, and the sense of unease within the basilica only grew.

“Now,” continued Praximar, turning to the Archspire at last, “please, step aside!”

His voice was jolly, his raillery obvious. Enjoying himself immensely, he stepped up to the Archspire, and placed his hand against it.

The silence that befell the basilica was that of a tomb.

Praximar stood at ease, a light smile playing on his face, one eyebrow raised. And then, violently, he jerked his hand back, his expression one of confusion and alarm.

“Instructor Feng,” he said, voice barely audible. “There has been a mistake. Check the Archspire for me.”

Feng frowned, hesitated, then did as he was bid.

Immediately whispers started up amongst the cohort, along the balconies.

Lianshi turned back to Scorio, eyes widening, eyebrows rising higher and higher.

Feng frowned, withdrew his hand. “The result is clear.”

“It cannot be.” Praximar pushed Feng aside roughly and stepped in once more. “Someone must have tampered with the results.”

“That’s… that’s not possible,” said Feng.

Other officials stepped in close, asking pointed questions. Praximar ignored them all, stared into the Archspire, his brows lowered, his jaw clenched, hand pressed against its side.

“No,” he said, drawing his hand back. “Impossible.”

Voices rose from murmurs to shouts. More than a few of the honored guests called out from the balconies, demanding to know what was going on.

Praximar smiled widely and turned back to the basilica. “Friends! A moment’s patience. There is a little confusion with the results, but nothing to be worried about. We’ll have this clarified in a moment.”

“Scorio!” hissed Lianshi. “You didn’t.”

Leonis blinked, stared at Lianshi, then Scorio, then back to Lianshi. “He… wait. What?”

Light was starting to burn in the depths of Naomi’s eyes. A gleam of pride and a joy so fierce that the sight of it caused Scorio’s skin to prickle, a flush to rise to his face, a smile to curve his lips of its own accord.

Never had he seen such intense happiness on her face.

The group on the stage gathered into a tight knot, and for a couple of minutes conferred furiously with each other. More than one dignitary pressed their hand to the Archspire, and all the while the volume of conversation rose ever louder amongst the students, along with the balconies.

Scorio watched Praximar. Watched him as a hawk might a mouse struggling in the weeds. First, he argued in furious whispers, disagreeing with what was said to him, and then he entered apoplexy, his face turning crimson, his whole body vibrating. But Helminth spoke with him, another two House heads reasoned with him, until the blood drained from the chancellor’s face, and he entreated with those before him, making his case urgently. The others listened but slowly began to shake their heads. Praximar paused, bit his lower lip, then cast his eyes downward, clearly at a loss, searching for something else to say.

Leonis slipped off his bier and padded over to Scorio’s side. “How far did you get, you mad bastard? What did you do?”

“Not what,” said Lianshi, unable to restrain her grin, knees bouncing as she sat cross-legged, clapping her hands rapidly, lightly, “but how?”

Finally, Praximar’s shoulders slumped, and his head dropped. Others continued to speak to him till he raised his hand, cutting them off. Scorio watched. Waited.

Praximar turned back to the front of the stage and dragged his smile back onto his face.

“Friends! My sincere apologies for the delay. You know that I am an inveterate showman—I’ll stoop to the basest tricks to raise the tension.” His eyes flashed with humor, and had Scorio not known better he’d have thought the chancellor in fine spirits once more. “What a contest! Incredible. We shall begin with the student who did the third best. An incredible performance, and a testimony to House Kraken, who had the wisdom to sponsor them. Will Chen She approach the stage?”

The applause was thunderous, and Chen She slipped off his bier with a victorious smile. His grin became especially pointed when he passed Kuragin’s bier, who stared at him with stony indifference.

“Chen She achieved the stunning accomplishment of reaching the thirteenth chamber and earning sixty points. Recall that on his first attempt he only reached the third; what an incredible improvement. House Kraken, you are fortunate to have such a worthy Great Soul under your wing—or should I say tentacle? The Academy is pleased to offer Chen She all the gifts and treasures that third place merits, along with the chance to train here another year. What say you, Chen She?”

The youthful man bowed low to Praximar, his agreement and pleasure obvious. Again the crowd burst out into applause, and after shaking hands with numerous people on the stage, Chen She moved to stand to one side where the head of House Kraken engaged him in quiet conversation.

“In second place! A legend in the making.” Praximar paused to smile, but then his silence drew out, becoming strained, awkward. The seconds rolled by, and still, the chancellor just stood there, beaming fatuously out at nothing. People began to whisper once more until Praximar jolted back to life. “You all know her, the Great Soul who has awed us through every step of her career here at the Academy. The winner of the tournament—”

At this, the crowd erupted into an excited clamor. Scorio could hear snippets of the storm all around him, the shock, the delight, the amazement. Again he turned to stare at Jova, and this time she was already staring right at him.

Her face was ashen, her lips pressed into a line, and then understanding entered her face and she sagged where she sat.

“—promises a great future! Few are the Tomb Sparks that reach the eighteenth chamber and seize the remarkable sum of a hundred and twenty-five points, and though she did not go the farthest, her accomplishment is literally stunning in and of itself.” Praximar’s last words were a shout as he strove to drown out the noise. “Will Jova Spike please come to the stage?”

She unfolded herself from her bier and stalked forward, looking neither left nor right. As much as everyone watched her, however, they were all examining each other, clearly wondering: who had beaten the unbeatable?

Scorio watched as she climbed the stage. She moved woodenly, as if in a dream, and accepted Praximar’s compliments and the shoulder pats from everyone else without looking anyone in the eye.

“She looks… stunned,” said Lianshi softly. “I feel so bad for her.”

“I doubt anyone’s ever felt bad for Jova Spike before,” said Naomi.

“I do, too,” said Scorio, and realized that he meant it.

When Praximar and the others finally subsided, she stepped next to Chen She, whose congratulations she ignored.

“And now, the moment that our entire year has been building up to. The Great Soul who progressed the deepest into the Gauntlet, earning himself incredible accolades, wealth beyond measure, access to the riches of the Academy’s vaults and patronage from any House they should choose.”

Praximar paused, and again the silence seemed to throb.

“Will Scorio please approach the stage?”

The silence seemed to implode, collapse under its own weight, then explode in incredulity and outrage.

Leonis let out a reverberating roar as he leaped up to stand upon his bier, and Lianshi bowed low to him as he passed her by. He walked as if a foot off the ground, the moment surreal, his blood rushing through his ears, a second roar that made everything people said or shouted to him unintelligible.

Naomi stepped forward as he passed her and placed a hand on his shoulder. They locked eyes, and for a second, they were back in the ruins, back in his ruined chamber, alone and cut off from all society, just one Great Soul reaching out to connect with another. Scorio’s eyes prickled with tears as he smiled brokenly at her, and saw her own eyes brim with water, too.

“I was wrong about you,” she whispered, and somehow, he heard her over the cacophony. “But deep down, I think I always knew.”

Unable to restrain himself, he stepped in and hugged her tightly, not giving a damn that every dignitary and House luminary was waiting, staring. He squeezed her as hard as he could, and she buried her face in his neck for but a moment, hugging him just as hard right back.

Then they separated, she wiped the tears away as she gave him a tremulous smile, and he continued to the stage.

People reached out to clap his shoulders, but most just stared at him in amazement. He could almost read their thoughts: Scorio? But he’s nothing, a Cinder, a Red Lister, a nobody. How?

The very words Praximar must have spoken.

Slowly, carefully, he climbed the wooden steps for the second time in his life. The first had resulted in his being tossed through the Final Door. And from the look on Praximar’s face, the emotion deep in his eyes, the truth behind his wide smile, Scorio knew that the chancellor yearned for nothing so much as a repeat of that first performance.

“Scorio, ladies and gentlemen, is a testament to how the Academy can serve anybody and everybody, how we can exalt even the least promising of our number to the greatest heights.” Praximar turned to address the crowd once more, which quieted reluctantly. “You are all aware, no doubt, that he is a Red Lister; yes, yes, I know, and for that, he was cast through the Final Door as is only fitting and proper. But! Scorio’s destiny was not to die in ignominy and darkness! His fate has led him from success to ever greater success, for he not only escaped his doom, but managed to help Imperator Sol repulse Imogen the Woe’s attacks! And that was but the first sign of his genius, and an act which opened the doors of the Academy to him once more.”

Murmurs came, the sound ugly, but also laced with wonder. Scorio stood beside Praximar, eyes glazed, not quite believing what was happening.

“From there, he studied in an exemplary manner. His instructors have reported nothing but dedication and talent from this young man, who let nothing stand in his way. Oh, the example he sets for us all! He performed respectably in the tournament, but did not let his loss there deter him; right up to the last moment he strove, pushed himself, and with our teaching, with the resources of this grand institution at his disposal—including my personal guidance and blessings—he’s reached the very apex of success. Yes! The Archspire has revealed that not only did he, too, reach the eighteenth chamber, and earn himself a hundred and twenty-five points, but that en route he achieved the rank of Tomb Spark!”

Again, the crowd seemed to convulse in outrage, and more than one dignitary behind him cried out in shock.

Praximar nodded enthusiastically, as if taking credit for this success, eyes gleaming, hands raised once more as he allowed the crowd its reaction.

Despite the attention showered on him, Scorio cared only for one set of eyes, which were staring at his back at that very moment.

“Now, Scorio is unaffiliated with any House, which means he can virtually choose his new home, and on his own terms. Everything that I said before about the importance of this moment stands as true as ever. What an enviable position to be in!” Praximar grinned as if he’d made a very witty comment. “Scorio is guaranteed further training, and will become the emblem of our Academy’s success! His future is guaranteed, as he’ll have no want for treasures, training, support, and personalized care. Most importantly, Scorio is a symbol to us all: that anyone can achieve greatness if they are willing to do the work. Let him take on this mantle of greatness, and help us begin the crucial act of healing the rifts that have opened between us and the people of Bastion!”

The applause broke out slowly but grew in volume; more and more people began to clap, till by the very end the sound was thunderous. It may not have been particularly enthusiastic, but the witnesses and students could not deny his success, no more than Praximar did.

And if there was one thing that a Great Soul respected, it was victory.

“Now, Scorio.” Praximar turned to him, smile affable, to all appearances enjoying the moment tremendously. “Which House do you wish to choose? If you care to, you may address the audience as is customary of the Gauntlet’s winner.” And then, in a quieter voice meant for him alone, Praximar whispered, “Choose your words with caution, my boy. Your success is not inviolable.”

And then he stepped back, leaving Scorio to face the assembled multitude alone.

Scorio had completely forgotten that the winner was expected to address the crowd. He gazed out over his cohort, some five hundred strong, all of them sitting or standing beside their jeweled blue biers. Then let his gaze rise to the balconies, ivy-covered and neglected as they were. Up and up, over the expectant faces, till at last, he thought he could make out his own, personal locker.

“I’m honored to have come first,” he heard himself call out. “Because I greatly respect my peers. I hoped to achieve this success, told myself that I could, but to have actually done so…” He trailed off, bemused. “It’s hard to believe. It wouldn’t have been possible without my friends, however. Lianshi, Leonis, and Naomi.” He stared down at where they were gathered and felt a rush of emotion come over him. “They believed in me when nobody else did. They never broke faith. Without them, I’d be dead.” He said that last word with utter finality. He knew it to be true. “My friends. You have my undying loyalty and love. I’ll never be able to repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

Lianshi’s eyes glimmered, Leonis grinned, and Naomi blushed and ducked her head, allowing her curtain of black hair to sweep down before her face.

The crowd, however, seemed almost embarrassed by his display of emotion. No matter. Scorio looked back up and smiled. “I set myself the goal of coming first in the Gauntlet for reasons of my own. In the process of accomplishing this, I believe I’ve come to understand the true nature of Bastion and the Academy. I’ve seen sides to this city, to this institution, that I’d never have guessed at when I first incarnated. And it wasn’t pretty.”

He could almost feel Praximar’s warning glower behind his back like an opened oven door.

“There’s no need to get into those truths, or how they influence me now, here, today. But I can say with a full and glad heart that I will not be returning to the Academy next year. Nor will I be accepting sponsorship from one of the four Houses—”

Again an uproar swept across the crowd, a wall of sound that washed over him and which was met by angry cries from the dignitaries behind him. He went to speak further, but the volume was simply too loud. But he didn’t care. He’d said what he’d wanted to, and so stepped back, a subtle smile on his lips.

Praximar shoved past him and pitched his voice into a bellow, using some device or trick to crush the outrage with his own shout. “Silence! So be it, Scorio.” He turned to stare murder at him. “You cast aside what you cannot understand nor value. I believe it is within my rights to thus disqualify you from the Gauntlet run, and pass the victory to whom it was stolen from, the rightful winner, Tomb Spark Jova Spike!”

Shock caused the voices of the crowd to soften, and Praximar gestured peremptorily at where Jova stood, her eyes glassy, her lips parted.

“Come, Jova!” Praximar’s geniality was splitting at the seams, his smile almost a grimace. “Come forth, you need but speak a few words for us to continue with the ceremony.”

Scorio stepped back, watched as Jova drifted forward to stand before the assembled audience of students and citizens of Bastion, the visiting Great Souls from deep Hell, and the instructors and staff of the Academy.

The voices died down altogether as she stood there, black hair sweeping over and down past one shoulder, her black-lined eyes wide, her black lips pursed. Then she blinked, as if coming back to herself, licked her lower lip, and raised her chin.

“I, too, will not be returning next year. I also decline to join one of the Great Houses.”

Scorio felt his mouth slacken as he stared at Jova, who turned to consider him, her poise regained, wry amusement entering her dark eyes.

Praximar spluttered, his face turning waxen, but before he could speak, Jova walked down the first three steps and then looked back to Scorio.

Her words were utterly distinct in the shocked silence. “You coming?”

For a second Scorio couldn’t understand her words. Then the cries of the crowd arose in a howl, demands, and imprecations being hurled at them from all sides, and Praximar was yelling, face scarlet, his eyes bulging.

But it all seemed to be drowned out behind the immediacy of Jova’s expectant pause, her raised eyebrow, her probing stare.

“Yeah,” he said at last, his word lost to the clamor, and walked past the gaping Chen She, past Instructors Feng and Helminth and Hera, past all the dignitaries of the four Houses. Past Praximar, who screamed threats at him, and down the steps to where Jova awaited him.

She turned, and together they descended to the basilica’s floor. Shoulder to shoulder they walked out, past all the biers, only Lianshi and Leonis cheering them on, while everyone else cried out, shouted, hurled questions, and cursed them.

They reached the double doors that led out to the Aureate Hall, and together they pushed them open, passed through, and left the Academy behind.

Chapter 80

Jova moved with purpose, and Scorio was content to simply walk beside her, their footsteps echoing in the empty halls. It gave him time to process, to come to terms with what had happened. To accept his success, his new resolve, his growth.

He thought of Eberro. Thought of Naomi’s admonitions. That powerful moment when he’d chosen to take responsibility for himself, for his past, for his deed names and titles.

Praximar, his face apoplectic. The tears shining in Lianshi’s eyes, Naomi’s proud smile, Leonis’s brazen cheer. His chest filled suddenly with emotion, his breath caught, and when Jova glanced sidelong at him, he could only give her a tight smile.

They descended a flight of steps, walked the length of a student’s residential hall, and stopped at the last door. Jova unlocked it with deft, economical movements, pushed the stuck door with her shoulder, and led him inside.

Her suite.

It was like his own, if perhaps more modest; a small common room spread before them, the carpeting burgundy, cushions strewn about, a low table in the center covered in scrolls, half-finished meals, candles burned down to their bowls, and potent mana treasures on enameled altars which radiated such potent power that Scorio could sense them even without summoning his Heart.

Still silent, she moved to sit on a cushion set against the far wall.

Archways led off to bedrooms. The rear wall through ferns to a small pool. All so similar, yet so utterly alien as this was her space, her private domain, and he was in it, with her, alone.

Scorio suddenly felt uneasy, didn’t know how to stand, to act. Jova looked completely poised, not at ease, but alert, confident, still. Carefully, he moved to another cushion and sat upon it.

They sat in silence, studying each other. It was bizarre, almost, surreal even, to sit like this with Jova, after so many months of only catching glimpses of her from afar. To be alone with her after spending so many nights ruminating on how best to beat her, to catch up with her progress, to achieve exactly what he’d just done. And now that he was here? He didn’t know what to say.

“How did you do it?” she asked at last, tone… complex. Curious. Demanding. Perhaps a touch resentful? Was there admiration there, as well as confusion and anger?

“Hard work, mostly. Took risks others wouldn’t be willing to take, or which wouldn’t have been options for them, given their easy resources here at the Academy.”

Jova nodded, a touch impatient. “Hard work, obviously. But you went from Cinder to Tomb Spark almost overnight. That’s… unprecedented.”

“It’s not,” said Scorio, and smiled again. “Ever hear of a guy called Iulius the Golden? He reached Flame Vault in his first year. I just kept quiet about making Emberling a couple of weeks ago.”

“Fine. I’m sure it’s been done before, but still, you ascended from Emberling to Tomb Spark in only a couple of weeks.” She glared at him. “How?”

Scorio stared at his hands. “Desperation? I made a deal with a fiend out in the ruins. He allowed me to use his mana condensation pool in exchange for a handbook on… well, that part’s complicated. But the process worked, mostly, and I made Emberling. Then I hit Tomb Spark during my run in the Gauntlet.” He paused, hesitating, then blurted out, “I saw you in there.”

Her eyes narrowed. “In the Gauntlet? I died before you, then.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not. I went fast and hard. That might have been my undoing. My team fell apart rapidly. I petitioned to enter with Juniper instead of Kuragin but was denied. Of course.”

“I… didn’t know that.”

“You’ve been an outsider. There’s a lot you don’t know.”

“Sure.” Scorio accepted that verdict with a slow nod. “Like what you might have written in your journals about me.”

“Smooth transition,” she said, her amusement showing through again. “Very nicely done.”

“Thank you.” Scorio felt almost breathless. What was going on? He’d thought she’d be furious at having come in second place, would hate him, resent him for being a Red Lister and having beaten her so publicly. Instead, their exchange felt almost… playful?

She leaned forward and drew a tattered old book from the central table. “I have it right here, actually. I’ve read it many times since you drew my attention to it.”

Scorio felt his stomach clench. “You found something?”

“Of course. It was simple. Praximar stated your last reincarnation was two hundred and thirty-three years ago. Which led me to this particular journal.”

“Oh. Right.” Scorio blinked. “And?”

“I was suspicious of you, even back then. I was a Flame Vault, you an infamous Blood Baron. You came to me at the Fiery Shoals. You were being hunted.”

“Hunted?” Scorio sat up straighter. “Who would hunt a Blood Baron?”

“You didn’t tell me. But my impression was that you had betrayed someone or an organization. Or angered them past all measure. Seems to be a motif for you.”

“Yeah. I’m starting to realize.”

“Regardless, you’d known me in previous lives, apparently. My reputation, you said, was such that you hoped my journals would remain inviolate. Whereas any message you left to your future selves would be stolen and destroyed, and so hoped to use me to communicate with yourself, just as we’re doing now.”

Scorio shivered. A plan over two centuries in the making was coming to fruition. “And the message?”

Jova opened the journal to a slender bookmark and frowned down at the pages. “I’ve puzzled ceaselessly over it. At first, I thought them the words of a paranoiac. But now…” She trailed off, then raised the journal. “Your message was as follows:

Scorio, do not trust the Houses, the Imperators, and least of all the Herdsmen. Everything is a lie: our cause, our purpose, the reason we are bound to this hell, and our way out of it. The only way to break the cycle is to become the Infernarch. Unless you do, the cycle shall repeat itself forever, damning us and countless innocents to this heinous masquerade. I know we can do this. Not in this lifetime—my questioning has already drawn too much attention. No doubt we shall be placed on the Red List for it—but you can do it. I tried to go it alone. I failed. Don’t make my mistake. You can’t do this by yourself. Damn the odds. Do whatever must be done.”

Jova considered her journal, then lowered it to her lap once more.

“That’s it?” asked Scorio, breathless, almost dizzy. “I didn’t say more?”

“You refused to.” Jova frowned down at her pages. “You said committing certain truths to paper would draw the attention of the Imperators, and worse. You could only use indirect warnings. We spoke long into the night, however, and my previous incarnation came to trust you, or wished to, at any rate. You left the next dawn, and I never saw you again.”

“Huh,” said Scorio, then bit his lip and frowned. “Who are the Herdsmen?”

“I don’t know,” said Jova.

“And my becoming Infernarch?” He gave a hollow laugh. “Within the next—how long are we supposed to have?”

“Depends on who you ask,” said Jova softly. “Seven to ten years if the rate of the ruin’s advance remains steady.”

“Well, that’s just not possible.” Scorio sat back and propped himself up with outstretched arms. “Pyre Lord in that span of time would be impressive. Imperator in seven years would make me a legend. But to make Imperator and conquer the Pit, and to do so before the other seven Imperators do so? Not going to happen.”

Jova stared at him silently.

“What?” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Don’t tell me you think it can be done.”

“I made a bet with myself, after reading this,” said Jova. “That I would believe the warning, would believe your previous self’s words, if you bested me in the Gauntlet. It seemed so impossible that you could do so, but so necessary a first step in your quest to become Infernarch, that I decided it a fitting test.”

“Oh,” said Scorio, taken aback. “So… you believe in this warning?”

“I’ve always intuited it, I suppose, even before we spoke.” She stared down at her black nails. “It’s why I never signed up with any of the Houses. Their… need, their sweet words, all seemed but a prelude to the raising of a lash. The harder they pursued me, the more suspect they became.” She shook her head irritably. “An intuition, nothing more. But your warning and the… other things I wrote in my journal convinced me that it might be otherwise.”

“You were pretty adamant the last time we spoke about not trusting me because I was a Red Lister,” said Scorio.

“That was before I read these journal entries.” She continued to study her fingers, her frown marked. “After our encounter in the hallway, I looked up this passage, and ever since I’ve been wondering. Doubting. Questioning. And then, against all the odds, you somehow went the deepest into the Gauntlet.”

“I bested you by only one segment,” said Scorio suddenly. “I threw myself onto the fourth pentagon just before I was killed.”

Jova smirked at him. “Smart. But still a valid victory. And that doesn’t gainsay the fact that you somehow made Tomb Spark when you needed it most.”

“I suppose it doesn’t.” He subsided, pensive. “I can’t make Infernarch. Reaching Tomb Spark has nearly ruined my Heart. I’m venting half of everything I draw on. Just healing that damage will take years.”

“We don’t have years.”

He looked up sharply. “We?”

“We.” Her expression became defiant. “You don’t think I spurned the Academy and all four Houses to then wander Hell by myself without a cause?”

“Oh.” His face flushed. “So, you’re—ah—coming with me?”

“If we can reach an agreement, yes.” She couldn’t hold his gaze any longer and looked away. “I didn’t say what I said on that stage lightly. But if your warning is true, and we cannot trust the Houses, the Imperators, and that everything we’ve been told is a lie—then how could I do otherwise but help you begin to discover the truth?”

To which Scorio could only slowly nod.

“It’s a gamble.” Her voice turned soft, and she looked down once more. “But the stakes are too high to be ignored. You’ve proven yourself remarkable, Scorio, just as I once thought of you, two centuries ago. I trusted you then. It will take some work, but I’ll try to trust you again.”

“Oh.” Scorio blinked, almost shook himself. He had to do better than that for a response. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” She inhaled sharply and sat up straight once more. “If this warning proves true, I’ll be the one eternally in your debt. I don’t like the idea of being anyone’s slave, especially not for countless reincarnations of my life.”

There was a knock on the door. Jova frowned, rose smoothly to her feet, and crossed the room to crack it open.

“Scorio in here?”

Jova opened the door wider to reveal Lianshi. Jova stepped aside, and she and the others filed in. Juniper was with them, Scorio saw, along with Zala.

Scorio rose to his feet. “Jova and I—”

But he was cut off by Lianshi’s high-pitched squeal as she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly about his frame and burying her face into his neck. “You did it! You did it! You’re a Tomb Spark?” She drew back sharply, suddenly angry. “How did you become a Tomb Spark?”

Leonis laughed loudly, the rich sound filling the room like sunlight, and pounded Scorio’s back before grabbing him in a headlock, only to release him a second later. “You’d not have made it without us, you mad bastard! Don’t forget us on your road to greater glories!”

“What? No! I’d never—”

But Leonis was grinning so widely that Scorio realized belatedly it was a jest, and clamped his mouth shut, cheeks flaming.

“Tomb Spark!” Leonis shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “Insanity.”

“Congratulations,” said Naomi, voice almost inaudible, standing off to one side, one arm wrapped over her midriff, hand clutching her other elbow. “That was… incredible.”

Scorio grinned at her. “We’ve come a long way since we first met, haven’t we?”

She couldn’t resist a quiet smile. “That we have.”

Juniper brushed her blonde hair behind her back and smiled tightly at him. “Congratulations, Scorio. We’ve not spoken much, but Lianshi has told me a lot about you.”

“Nothing private,” said Lianshi hurriedly.

“Nothing private,” agreed Juniper. “But… Jova?” And she stared at her friend in disbelief. “I knew you had an independent streak as wide as the ten hells, but what… I mean… What’s going on?”

“Same,” said Zala, crossing her arms and sticking out one hip. “I mean, Jova, you’re not exactly what I’d call talkative, but seriously, you’ve got to tell us what the hell’s going on.”

“Yes,” said Lianshi, stepping back, face becoming concerned. “The treasures Praximar was going to be forced to give you would have healed your Heart, Scorio. I know your distaste for him, but you won. Leaving now feels like doing what Praximar wanted?”

Scorio took a deep breath and looked from one face to the next. “Jova found the passage I was hunting for in her journal. She shared it with me.”

“Oh,” said Lianshi.

Leonis put his hand to his brow. “Oh! I’d forgotten all about that. And?”

Uneasy, Scorio glanced at Zala and Juniper.

“They already know,” said Jova, then blushed. Scorio stared. He’d never have guessed her capable. “I trust them with everything. Just like you guys do.”

“All right,” said Scorio. “I turned down Praximar’s offer for more training at the Academy and endless treasures for the same reason, it turns out, that Jova turned it down all along. We both recognized those rewards for the leashes they were. After all I’ve seen, after the way I’ve been treated, I’ve no illusions about the Academy’s morals or virtues.”

Naomi nodded her head in approval.

“But our decisions were…” He paused, searching for the right word. “They were reinforced by words I wrote down over two centuries ago. I’d unearthed some… theories, I guess you could say. The process of which put me on the Red List. And warned my future self to not trust the Houses, the Imperators, anything of what we’ve been told. I sent a warning through Jova to myself about everything we’ve been told being a lie.”

Leonis frowned. “The story we’ve been told? A lie?”

“How so?” asked Lianshi. “You mean Ettera? The Portal home?”

“I don’t know,” said Scorio. “Writing down more would have drawn the attention of people worse than the Imperator, apparently. But Jova and I are taking the warning seriously. We’re going to leave Bastion and try to learn more.”

“Leave Bastion?” Zala’s eyes widened dramatically. “By yourselves? And go where?”

Scorio glanced at Jova, who was frowning down at the ground. “We’d not gotten that far.”

“Wow.” Leonis stroked his beard. “I definitely want to know more about this warning. Would like to read it, even, when we have a chance. But when do you intend for us to head out?”

“We?” The word almost choked in Scorio’s throat. “I don’t expect you all to sacrifice your—”

“Oh, come off it,” said Lianshi. “You tell us we can’t trust the Houses and Academy, then expect us to stay behind and remain part of that system?”

“I didn’t necessarily assume you’d believe me—”

“He’s very slow,” said Leonis patiently to Juniper and Zala.

Tears pricked at Scorio’s eyes, and a comfortable warmth washed over his face.

“Of course we’re coming,” snapped Naomi. “That was always our plan, in the end, wasn’t it? Escape to the Rascor Plains?”

“Jova?” Zala lowered her head to catch Jova’s downturned gaze. “Are you really doing this?”

Jova pursed her lips, nodded slowly, thoughtfully, then raised her face to meet Zala’s stare full-on. “I am.”

“Bloody chasms,” said Zala. “I mean—” She paused, gave her head a rapid shake. “Well. All right.”

“All right?” asked Leonis.

“If you all will have me, I’ll come, too,” said Zala. “I don’t take Jova’s decisions lightly, and someone needs to come along who can cheer her up. While I don’t understand quite what’s going on, I want to learn more. Whatever this is, I want to be a part of it.”

“Me too,” said Juniper softly. “I feel… called. I can’t explain it. Perhaps it’s my bond with Lianshi. But I can’t tell you what I felt when you both turned down the chancellor’s offer. I felt my soul sing. As if it had lain dormant for generations, and only now been offered a chance to escape its cage.” Her smile became self-conscious. “So if you’ll have me…”

“That makes seven of us,” said Leonis. “And none of us dead weight. Well, maybe Lianshi, but—”

“Hey!” She thwapped him across the arm.

“What?” He assumed an innocent expression. “Which chamber did you die in again?”

“Oh, you’d better watch it,” said Lianshi, glowering at him.

Scorio felt like laughing. His heart felt full, a sensation he’d briefly felt before, but which now seemed to suffuse him. He looked from Naomi to Leonis, to Lianshi to Juniper, considered Zala, then turned to meet Jova’s steadfast gaze.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll form a fellowship. My goal—our goal, I suppose—is nigh on impossible. I literally don’t see how it can be done. But I must try. There’s so much to learn. I can’t… if my warning is true—risk the chance of us all being bound to a lie. Our lives yoked to some… travesty that makes us little better than ignorant slaves. I aim to learn the truth or die trying.”

Everyone’s expressions grew sober, and one by one they nodded their affirmation.

“There you go,” said Naomi at last, and her smile was crooked, bittersweet.

“What?” asked Scorio.

“I told you once that if you wanted real power, you were going to need a real desire to achieve it.” She curled her dark hair behind one pale ear. “Looks like you’re finally on track.”

Scorio stared at her, suddenly brought back those first brutal days of training, the awe and fear with which he’d regarded her.

Felt like a lifetime ago.

He grinned, and she grinned right back.

“We’d best clear out of the Academy soon,” said Lianshi. “Praximar won’t take this humiliation lightly.”

“Agreed,” said Scorio, coming back to the moment. “And fortunately, I know just where to go.”

Jova frowned at him. “Where’s that?”

“I have a couple of friends in town. Helena and Feiyan. They contacted a group called Manticore. They were going to help get us out.”

“Manticore?” Juniper stirred uneasily. “Didn’t they almost form their own House a decade ago? Am I thinking of the right group? Had an Imperator who disappeared, and then their organization collapsed?”

“They don’t have a good reputation,” said Jova.

“It’s a way out of here,” said Scorio. “We can evaluate our partnership once we’re out on the Rascor Plains. But yes. I agree with Lianshi. We’d best gather our belongings and quit the Academy before Praximar escapes his ceremonial duties and comes for our blood.”

“Well, then,” said Leonis. “How about we all meet at the western gates in twenty minutes?”

“Agreed,” said Zala. “I don’t have much to collect anyway.” Then she stopped, pressed her palm to her temple, and shook her head. “I can’t believe this is all happening so quickly. This is so exciting!”

Juniper laughed and stepped to the archway of her bedroom. “See you all in twenty minutes then.”

Scorio walked with the others to the doorway, then paused to look back to Jova. She stood alone, pensive, her dark hair raked over to fall past one shoulder, her expression grim, resolute.

“Thank you,” he said. “For deciding to trust me.”

“It’s but the first step,” she said. “You’ll have to earn it from here on out.”

“I mean to do so.”

For a moment they stood thus, gazes locked, then she gave him a grudging smile. “Hurry up, Scorio. You won’t make Infernarch by lingering at my door.”

To which he could only laugh. And heart full, he turned and left with his friends, hurrying down the hallways of the Academy.

THE END OF BOOK 1

Thank you! Please Read!

This book has been a work of passion. My brainstorming walks through the mountains behind my office must have worn a rut into the road, and I can’t tell you how many months I spent planning the setting, the magic system, the characters, and how best to tell Scorio’s tale.

All that work has culminated in this book you’re holding. Thank you for choosing to join Scorio and his crew on their adventures. It’s your support - yes really, yours - that makes it possible for me to spend time dreaming up such stories, and for that I can’t thank you enough.

With that in mind:

Please consider rating and reviewing Bastion on Amazon.

Over a million books are published each year, and each of those authors is vying for an audience, which means I’ve little hope of achieving any visibility for Bastion without help. I don’t think readers appreciate the truly oversized impact a simple rating or review can have, so if you have a moment, I’d really appreciate your support!

Most importantly, I hope you enjoyed the heck out of this story, and are excited for the sequel. Thanks again for giving Bastion a chance.

Cheers,

Phil Tucker