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.”