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…”