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.