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.