Chapter 44

The rest of that Eighthday cycle was chaotic and atypical; classes were suspended as students and instructors were directed to help establish order across Bastion. Scorio and his friends reported each First Clay to one of their instructors and were given their orders for the day; often this involved liaising with House operatives and guards to help clear away rubble, demolish intrusive new architecture, or project force and authority to help calm the populace.

Scorio loved it. Even when the work was drudgery, even when his shoulders ached from swinging a sledgehammer for hours or clearing collapsed buildings by hand, his sense of elation never quite left him. For at each moment, he felt a new sense of belonging.

Not having to hide. Not having to duck his head and turn away from officials. To be able to stand side by side with his friends and laugh and tease each other as they crossed the city, to be seen and acknowledged as a Great Soul—it remained novel and invigorating no matter how many days passed.

The best part was when they returned to their quarters each evening. When they’d bathe and change into fresh robes and then lounge about their common room, discussing the day, the strange and notable things they’d noticed, speculating about the high level and mostly invisible political jockeying that everyone knew was taking place among the major Houses.

More than once Scorio became painfully self-aware as he lounged on a spread of cushions, his robe new, clean, and of the softest weave, a cup of some honeyed tea in hand. He’d suddenly feel removed from the jesting and conversation, the light raillery and sober introspection. He’d grow almost melancholy, observe the scene as if from outside, and marvel he could lie there at all.

Could be so natural, ensconced in the very heart of the Academy, a part of its wondrous machinery, a favored Great Soul, a man with a future, filled to the brim with potential to change the very nature of hell.

Scorio would find himself watching Leonis telling a convoluted story that struggled toward some humorous reveal, Lianshi feigning ever-mounting impatience and disgust, while even Naomi would lower her guard and allow herself to smile. And in moments like that, when he should feel the most at home, he would find himself outside the situation, self-aware, and swept by a great and tender wave of what he could only call melancholy.

Only one event jarred him during that first week, a moment that threw him back into his old life and caused him to jerk aside into a hallway.

Heading toward his apartment suite, he’d stepped into a large hexagonal room that served as an intersection between three hallways. A dead fountain dominated the center, an idealized warrior raising an amphora to the sky from which no doubt water had once splashed down. Now the basin’s edge served as an informal meeting place for students and servants, who sat and luncheoned and relaxed as crowds of people moved through the chamber and down one of the six hallways.

He’d almost missed her. Almost walked straight through the crowd and down the hall that led to the student apartments. But out of the corner of his eye, he’d spotted a head of gray hair, a sturdy frame, and turned to see Kayla from The Double moving purposefully along the far side of the chamber.

Familiar mustard-colored robes revealed a hint of the intricate tattoo that covered her chest, and he’d known it was her, a chill washing over him as he’d hurried to place the fountain between them.

She’d not seen him and rapidly disappeared down a hallway, merging with the crowd. For a long moment, he’d just stood there, people jostling around him in annoyance, and then stepped to the basin’s edge to interrupt a couple of young men who were munching on sticky buns filled with some manner of meat.

“Excuse me. That hallway over there. Where does it lead?”

“Hmm?” The young man paused, mouth filled with food, then hastily swallowed. “That one leads to a bunch of places. Instructors’ quarters, executive suites, meeting rooms, council chambers, and in the basement levels you’ve got your more exclusive cellars, storage room, treasure vaults…”

Scorio had nodded slowly. What was Kayla doing here? On Dola’s business? Should he follow her?

He stood, irresolute, until he realized the opportunity had slipped him by. He’d missed his chance, and now she was gone.

Which, in a way, brought its own measure of relief. The sooner he left his past behind him, the better.

Their free Eighthday finally came and went. In celebration of how far they’d all come, they dined at the same restaurant in which Scorio had always met Leonis and Lianshi, and spent more octs than Scorio had thought possible. Leonis had been in his element, roaring with laughter, ordering more drinks, demanding more platters of food, calling for musicians to be brought in from the street, buying rounds for the other patrons, and in short becoming a master of the revel, so that when they finally left, long after Second Clay, the streets wet and gleaming under the copper manalights, a great cheer had followed them out into the street, and Leonis had led them home, head held high.

Only for the suite’s lights to glow to life of their own accord at far too early an hour—Scorio, who had indulged in only a few drinks, immediately awoke. Tossing off his covers, he’d hurriedly dressed in his new exercise robes and washed his face briskly in the bowl set on the narrow table against the wall.

He paused, water running in rivulets down his face, to stare at his reflection in the copper mirror.

This is it. Your first day, your first chance to show everyone that you belong here, that you have what it takes. Deep breaths. Keep it together. You’re going to do… well. Fine, I’m sure.

Emerging into the common room, he saw Naomi seated at the dining table, an empty mug before her, face haggard from lack of sleep.

“You been here all night?” Scorio asked, moving up to stand behind one of the chairs.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, staring down at the mug. “Gave up trying.”

Scorio considered her words, bit back the obvious questions, and then simply nodded. “Well, it’s a new chance for both of us. I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.”

She considered him, eyes heavy-lidded, then grimaced, an expression which he knew was her attempt at a smile.

“By the ten hells and every fiend that ever cursed my name, it can’t be First Clay already,” groaned Leonis, languishing against the doorframe of his room. “Tell them I’m poisoned, that I’m on the verge of death. Ask Helminth to send flowers.”

Naomi raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Are you discovering that sixteen glasses of flaywine don’t agree with you after all?”

“Have you no heart?” muttered Leonis, running his hand over his waxen face. “Can’t you muster even an ounce of sympathy for a man laid low by fate?”

“Fate?” asked Naomi.

“I carry a heavy burden.” Leonis forced himself to stand straight. “I care for the good of the people of Bastion. Should I have refrained from bringing joy to their hearts?”

Lianshi slipped into the common room, cinching her sash tight, then gathered her black hair to expertly twist it into a braid. “No, of course not, Leonis, and I’m sure the people of Bastion are busy making plans to erect a statue in your honor as we speak. Let that comfort you during our five-mile run.”

“You think they will?” Leonis fell back into a pained slouch. “I should get in touch with their planning committee. I have definite ideas about which poses are to my best advantage.”

“Ask Praximar,” said Lianshi, moving to the door where she slipped on her sandals. “Naomi, Scorio, you ready? We’ll have to run the circuit ten times if we’re late.”

“Ready,” said Naomi, standing smoothly.

“Be good to stretch my legs.” Scorio pulled on his new sandals. “Long as these break in quickly enough.”

“Don’t fall too far behind, Leonis,” said Lianshi, opening their front door. “I won’t lie for you again.” And she led them out into the Hall of Golden Reflections where other Great Souls were emerging from their own suites, voices low, more than one looking the worse for wear after their Eighthday festivities.

Scorio felt his heart pounding as he followed Lianshi down the hall. Nobody else looked excited—far from it—but to him, this moment was alive with meaning, each face a fascinating enigma he couldn’t wait to decipher. Just walking the center of that growing throng was exciting; when traffic slowed at an archway that acted as a bottleneck he found himself bouncing from foot to foot and jostling good-naturedly with Leonis as the big man pressed in from behind.

More than one of the other students glanced at him, and a few openly stared. He could hear whispers about him, and his name mentioned several times. Cheeks flushing, Scorio ducked his head, not wanting to meet their eyes, and was glad when they reached the Amber Circuit, a broad and subterranean corridor that ran uninterrupted just within the Academy’s perimeter, forming a large, smoothly curved oval lit overhead by evenly spaced lanterns.

The Great Souls fell into a light run as they stepped out into the circuit, moving to fill its breadth in a loose crowd and jogging ahead as more and more of their fellows emerged behind them.

“A hundred and seventy-six lanterns per circuit,” said Leonis. “Every forty-fourth lantern is painted red, so when you see your fourth, you know you’ve run a circuit. Twenty red lanterns and you’re done with your run.”

“Sounds good,” said Scorio, feeling light on his feet, gazing around at the other Great Souls, some of who immediately set a swifter pace, others content to just drift along in lazy groups, still waking up.

“If you’re going slow, you’re supposed to stick to the right wall,” continued Leonis. “All ten student groups are running here, so you’ll make no friends if you get in people’s way. If you’re intent on lapping others, stay left. But only hug the left wall if you want to make a public statement about being the fastest.”

“Who is the fastest?” asked Naomi.

Scorio sensed Leonis’s shrug more than saw it. “There’s a core group that usually finishes first. The usual suspects.”

“Jova Spike,” said Scorio.

“And Ravenna Accardi,” said Lianshi. “Girl runs like the wind and never breaks a sweat. She and Jova are locked in a very public rivalry. Ravenna ended up getting the premier sponsorship from House Hydra, but everyone knows that’s because Jova turned her chance down.”

“I feel like pushing myself a little,” said Scorio, fighting to keep his tone light. “Naomi? You want to go a little faster?”

“I could go a little faster,” allowed the other woman.

“See you guys later then,” said Leonis. “I’m going to shuffle along the right wall. It’s my best friend.”

“I’ll keep him company. Don’t get in any trouble,” said Lianshi. “And remember, no igniting Hearts.”

Scorio flashed a smile at her. “This is just the morning run, right? What trouble could we get into?”

And then he lengthened his stride. He fought the urge to go fast right away; he was stiff after days of heavy labor and gave himself time to warm up, occasionally rolling his shoulders and rotating his neck. But soon he found his pace; almost he could imagine the ruins scrolling past him, the cylinder that was Bastion rotating under his feet, an endless diorama of sere rock and shattered facades.

Naomi kept pace without comment, her stride efficient, her elbows close to her sides, her thick hair bound back into a rough ponytail.

Most of the Great Souls were content to just jog along to the right, but a good quarter of those doing the morning run was intent on making good time. Scorio came to know them well, each one running either in the center of the broad, curving hallway or along the left side; each inexorably drew closer as Scorio and Naomi caught up, their gait becoming familiar, their awareness of his and Naomi’s approach at their rear either causing them to swing out to the right or momentarily pick up their pace; inevitably they pulled ahead for a few hundred yards, then began to fade; drifted back, struggling to keep their speed, until they gave up and angled to the right.

One by one Scorio and Naomi passed them. He knew he should be counting the red lanterns, should at the very least mark the entrances and exits, but found himself focusing on the next runner, the next opponent.

To his surprise, he saw Asha up ahead; she was moving at a steady and rapid stride, her legs devouring the hallway, just barely in view around the curve.

Scorio pushed himself to go just a little faster, sensed Naomi’s questioning glance, but was soon rewarded by Asha coming more into view; she had her hair braided and coiled into a bun; had folded her robes back up to her elbows and knees, and wrapped white bandages in an interweaving pattern up her forearms and shins.

She was fast, she didn’t tire, but Scorio felt a flicker of joy as he gained on her, and when they drew abreast, he relished her startled glance. To her credit, she didn’t try for an artificial burst of speed; she fell behind, and Scorio felt his chest open with exhilaration.

“Second lap,” Naomi said, voice tight, brow damp with sweat. Scorio eased up the pace just a little, and then an instinct told him someone was coming up behind him. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw them.

Jova Spike was in the lead, face expressionless, her gaze spearing past him as if he weren’t even there, half her scalp shaved as before, eyes ringed in dark make-up, lips painted black, none of it running as she didn’t seem to be sweating at all.

Right beside her was Ravenna Accardi, pale and fiercely focused, jet-black hair cut raggedly at jaw length, looking slight and angular compared to Jova’s panther-like strength and athleticism.

They were coming in fast, some thirty other Great Souls at their heels. Real fast. Scorio veered out to the right, and the pack slipped by him smoothly, only a few of them glancing sidelong at him and Naomi as they powered around the curve.

“You got it in you?” asked Scorio quietly.

“To beat that lot?” Naomi’s lip curled up derisively.

“Let’s go then,” said Scorio, and he really opened his stride. Felt his heart pounding in his chest, a joyous, riotous beat, his body alive with strength and resilience, the endless Eighthdays he’d spent racing through the ruins coming to him, filling him with certainty and speed.

The pack had pulled nearly around the curve, but now it slowly drew closer once more. Scorio paced himself to keep them in sight, not wanting to just sprint past them and wind himself, but to maintain, to hold them close.

“Third lap,” said Naomi, words clipped. They passed Lianshi and Leonis, who stared at them in alarm, but were past before they could say anything.

“One more lap at this pace,” said Scorio, chest starting to feel tight, “and then we show them.”

A few at the rear of the pack had seen them; casual glances had turned to amused stares, and they’d picked up the speed themselves, compacting the pack which as a result transferred the energy to the lead two; eventually, Jova and Ravenna glanced back as well to see what was going on, and made eye contact with Scorio.

He gave them a predatory grin.

Jova seemed to dismiss him, while Ravenna frowned before turning back.

“Fourth lap,” said Naomi. “Can’t go much faster.”

“Do your best,” he said, and as he pushed himself, the very act of running began to feel effortless, as if it would be harder to stop now than to go faster. His body seemed to fade away, and with it his awareness of his breathing, his tempo. The world reduced itself to his feet impacting the ground, his mind crystal clear, his body strong, his being driven, energetic yet strangely relaxed.

It felt as if he were floating, his body surging and perfectly in harmony, capable of devouring endless miles, of outrunning anything and everyone.

He drew abreast of the rearmost Great Soul in the pack, a reed-like, dark-skinned man who studied him with wry amusement but made no attempt to run faster. Past him, past the next woman, worked his way up the pack, taking them from the inside on the right.

He leaned into the curve, almost at a sprint now, chest expanding, a smile plastered on his face, sweat running down his back, alive, so painfully alive.

Everyone on their right was staring, eyes wide, as he drew up beside Ravenna and Jova, and then passed them.

If only for a second.

Neither woman was about to let him by so easily. The air seemed to grow denser, and then as one they lowered their chins, gained more speed, and in a dozen strides caught up to him.

The three of them ran. Scorio had never run like this before. He’d always either sprinted for his life, or jogged steadily, but this incredible, all-out race was a new experience, and he relished the challenge, felt a strange joy and camaraderie with both women, as if they were in it together, sharing something incredible, an impossible talent. But when he looked at them, smiling, he saw that they were ignoring him.

“Ready?” he heard Jova ask.

“Ready,” said Ravenna.

And they somehow went faster. Smoothly pulled ahead of him, running so swiftly the balls of their feet barely touched the ground.

Scorio scowled, dug deep, tried to keep up. But they seemed to glide ahead effortlessly, going so quickly he had no choice but to give it all he had. Let loose with the last of his reserves, and for a glorious second, he began to catch up again, was going faster—but then a deep cramp stabbed into his side, right under his ribs like a knife sliding home, and his euphoric sense of invincibility began to crumble.

His breath rasped in his throat, his chest grew tight, and his thighs began to burn. He strained to keep going, but Ravenna and Jova continued to pull away, fleet as thought, rounding the curvature of the hall even as he went ever slower, losing speed.

The next person in the pack passed him, then the second and third. He had nothing left to give. Had scraped the very bottom of his reserves, and could now only struggle along, losing momentum, till the last of the pack had passed him, the slender man flashing him a victorious, caustic smile as he did.

“Fifth lap,” gasped Naomi, coming up behind him and pointing at a crimson lantern that slid into sight. Jova and Ravenna had already left the circuit, and the last of the pack was following suit; everyone else continued to run past it, at least one lap behind.

“Argh,” gasped Scorio as he ran through the archway into the dimly lit hall and staggered to a stop. He bent over, hands on his knees, and just stood there gasping, sweat dripping from his nose.

“What… was that?” asked Naomi, stepping up alongside him.

“What?” He straightened, wincing, and kept walking, his legs feeling loose and strange. “The way they just went… impossibly fast, as if they didn’t need air like the rest of us?”

“That,” agreed Naomi, wiping the sleeve of her robe across her face then just coming to a stop, both hands pressed to her hairline, chest rising and falling. “That... I didn’t sense them ignite.”

“Nor me,” said Scorio, lowering his voice as he saw the pack up ahead. They’d come to a stop as one and were stretching, everyone talking lightly. A dozen or more of them in all, two of the women chatting with Jova who was smiling at their commentary, Ravenna off to one side, drinking from a water skin.

“Nice run,” said Scorio, giving them a chin-up as they walked by.

Someone made a soft, scoffing sound, but Scorio didn’t see who. Jova and Ravenna simply stared at him, not with hostility, but something akin to indifference. It made him feel small and cold, and he was glad when they’d walked past the group and out into the intersecting hall that led back to their quarters.

“And what was that about?” asked Scorio, bewildered, once they were out of earshot.

“Simple,” said Naomi. “They’re the top predators of the school. You tried to threaten their dominance. They crushed you as was right, and now you’re a nobody to them again. No, worse than a nobody—an upstart nobody.”

“That how it works?” Scorio grinned and inhaled deeply. “Well, I hope they enjoy owning the roost while they can. I’m coming for them.”

Naomi snorted. “Give yourself a few months of ingesting the best elixirs and pills that Academy has to offer, along with whatever their House sponsorships give them. Then make Emberling, and maybe you’ll develop the reserves and strength they’ve got.”

Scorio frowned. “That’s what’s going on?”

Naomi scratched briefly at her scalp, then shrugged. “It’s the rule of the Academy. The best get the greatest rewards to maximize their potential. The weak? They’re left to fight over the scraps. The Academy’s meritocracy system is a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Scorio with a smile. “You know I like a challenge.”

“It has been a while since you’ve had a suicidal cause,” smirked Naomi. “I’ll give you that.”

Protocol involved returning to their rooms, cleaning up, and putting on fresh robes before heading down to the mess hall for breakfast. Leonis and Lianshi arrived some ten minutes after Scorio and Naomi, and consequently rushed to get ready so that they could all go to the mess hall together.

“It’s fiendish,” grumbled Leonis as he led the way to breakfast. “The faster you run, the more time you have to bathe and eat. Whereas we poor souls who are built like champions—”

“Built like what?” asked Lianshi innocently.

“Built like mighty oxen, and not meant to race about like fleet-footed deer—”

“Can I call you that?” asked Lianshi, elbowing him in the ribs. “Mighty Ox?”

“Scorio, save me from this harridan,” begged Leonis.

“Not I,” said Scorio, laughing over his shoulder at them. “Lianshi might shift her tender attentions to me as a result.”

“Coward,” muttered Leonis. “But as I was saying, those of us who need the most food to get through the day are consequently deprived of essential sustenance! How am I meant to maintain peak condition when I can only bolt down a bowl of gruel before classes begin?”

“Run faster,” said Naomi from the back of the group.

“Well, there is that, I suppose,” said Leonis.

“Drink less flaywine the night before?” asked Lianshi.

“Now that’s a barbaric suggestion.” Leonis jutted out his chin. “Might as well tell me to give up living.”

Scorio chuckled softly as they entered the mess hall. It was a stately and dignified chamber, high ceilinged and reminiscent of the basilica, its fluted columns flanked by huge potted ferns, its windows filled with ancient panes of glass whose colors had begun to bleed into each other, the soft lead that defined their partitions having sagged over the centuries.

The sound of animated voices echoed off the vaulted ceilings, and a crowd milled before the tables laden with food, their trays heavy with trenchers ready for all manner of delicacies.

Scorio still wasn’t used to the richness of their fare. No gruel was to be found anywhere, and instead, they had steaming cauldrons of creamy grains, platters of freshly cut fruit, sizzling spits of sausages, boiled eggs, small, dark loaves of nut bread, wedges of sharp cheese, salted fish, and a variety of drinks served in thick clay pitchers, the favorite of which was a powerfully aromatic coffee.

They chattered amicably as they loaded their trays high, then moved to join a line.

“Back in business, looks like,” said Lianshi softly as they slowly moved to the front. “Guess life is returning to normal in Bastion after all.”

“What’s this about?” asked Scorio. “I thought the food was free?”

“It is free—” began Lianshi.

“But the quality can vary widely,” interrupted Leonis, tone dark. “There have been days when the food is no better than soup and vegetables. Hard times, those days. Sucks the joy right out of you.”

“As I was saying,” continued Lianshi, “this is the treasure line. You present your badge, which reflects your ranking, and are given the according treasure. Supposedly. They often run out, or have trouble buying them, or something. Not too surprisingly, given that there are almost five hundred of us Great Souls in our cohort. Must cost a lot of octs to keep us supplied.”

Scorio thought of the ivy growing over the balconies in the basilica, the many cracked flagstones, the faded art, the scores of rooms that stood empty and abandoned.

Lianshi continued. “The lowest-ranked three hundred of us have badges with one notch, and get Black Star pills. Next hundred have two notch badges, they get Fat Crickets.”

“Fat Crickets?” asked Scorio skeptically.

“Yes,” said Lianshi, smiling in amusement. “Don’t judge, they have a real kick.”

“She did not just say that,” said Leonis with a groan.

“Next fifty have three notch badges, they get Glittering Sage pills. Next twenty-five have four notch badges, they get Luminous Ghost dust.”

“Then you’re at the top twenty-five in the whole class,” said Leonis dourly. “That’s where the good stuff is really doled out.”

“Not to mention, at that rank they’ll definitely have House patronage, which usually means even better treasure.” Lianshi sighed. “It’s tough to claw your way out of your ranking.”

“What do they get?” asked Scorio.

“Next twenty get five notch badges and all sorts of special privileges, along with Peaceful Wheel elixirs. Top five? It’s ridiculous. They get one of everything. What it would take us a month of hard training to achieve, they get every day at breakfast. A number of the elites only do a bare minimum of training, even, and they’re still pulling far ahead of everyone else.”

“One of everything?” asked Scorio, eyebrows shooting up. “Black Star, Fat Cricket, all of it?”

“All of it,” said Leonis, and now his voice had turned grim. “Two of the top five you know. Jova and Ravenna. The other three have become almost as famous. Zala, Jova’s best friend and who made Emberling right after her. She clawed her way to the top five after only scoring in the top hundred on the original Gauntlet run. Kuragin, whom I really advise you to avoid at all costs; and Chen She, whom I trust the least of all because he seems really nice.”

“What’s wrong with being nice?” asked Scorio.

“Wait till you have to fight a duel against him,” said Leonis darkly. “You’ll see what I mean. Guy nearly killed me by accident.”

“So one Fat Cricket is worth how many Black Stars?”

“Don’t know,” said Leonis dourly. “Twenty? More? It’s deeply ironic. Those of us at the bottom of the rankings work ten times as hard as those at the top, and it doesn’t seem to make a difference. It’s enough to drive one to flaywine.”

They reached the front of the line, and Leonis received a Black Star pill while Lianshi was given a Glittering Sage. Naomi and Scorio both showed their blank badges, and after a moment’s hesitation, the proctor gave them each a Black Star as well.

Taking their treasures, which felt paltry compared to the pills and rare bottles he’d glimpsed in the boxes arrayed along the proctor’s desk, they retreated to one of the alcoves where they claimed a circular table. Everyone downed their pill with a drink, then focused for a few moments as they worked upon their Hearts.

The silence was finally broken when Leonis sighed in satisfaction and took up his utensils. His tray was practically hidden by the piles of food, and he set to work eagerly.

“You’re going to have a lot to catch up on, course-work wise,” said Lianshi, smearing thick honey cream over a slice of dark bread. “Our entire cohort is broken into ten groups of roughly fifty students. Each group is assigned four instructors. On the first day of the week, we have the History of Bastion under Hera, which she takes very, very seriously.”

Leonis’s cheek bulged out obscenely as he chewed enthusiastically on an entire salt herring. “She’sh shupposhed to have shtayed here deshpite multiple invitashions becaushe—”

“And you were a king?” asked Lianshi, staring pityingly at him.

“Golden King,” he said jovially, chewing on.

“Golden King of barbarians,” she said despairingly.

“History of Bastion,” said Scorio. “That’s—what—a thousand years’ worth of material?”

To his surprise, it was Naomi who responded. She’d served herself a modest plate of mostly creamed grains and fruits, and was stirring the berries into her bowl. “There are only five phases of note. You’ll learn them quickly.”

Leonis washed his herring down with half a cup of coffee. “You sat in on the classes, Naomi?”

“Nothing so grand,” she said, her smile bitter. “I found that I was permitted to sweep the classrooms beforehand, and could then hide in the alcoves along the top of the amphitheater when classes began.” She paused, frowning. “I found the subject interesting.”

“Fair enough,” said Leonis. “But yes, of course, you’re right. Five main phases, though Hera will love you if you pretend to debate with yourself whether the Himiko Interregnum counts as a sixth.”

“We’re well into the Red Peace Era,” said Lianshi, sipping her coffee. “Third period, so named for how the destruction of imperial House Naga paved the way for the rise of House Hydra, and its consequent dominance under the century-long rule of Imperator Nguru, known as the Cleanser.”

“Pretty impartial cleanser, if you ask me,” said Leonis, leaning forward to spear a sausage off Scorio’s plate. “Anyone who looked at him funny got cleansed.”

“I thought Imperators had to reside deeper in hell,” said Scorio. “How’d this Nguru rule Bastion?”

“Proxies, mostly,” said Lianshi. “Anyone who disobeyed his puppets disobeyed him, and defiance would be met with his returning home to kill everyone. It worked for a century, at any rate, but when he died in the Pits of Ebullience—”

“The what?” asked Scorio.

“Whatever, hell is weird. When he died, House Hydra was forced by House Basilisk and Charnel Duke… what was her name… to sign the Accord of Indemnity, whereas—”

“Whereas,” continued Naomi softly, “no Great Soul over the rank of Blood Baron can claim direct control over Bastion and its political bodies.”

“Huh,” said Scorio, food forgotten. “What’s to stop an Imperator from breaking the Accord, though?”

“Nothing, really,” said Lianshi.

“The other Imperators?” asked Leonis.

“Custom,” said Naomi, looking down at her bowl. “Centuries of bending their efforts toward reaching the Pit. It’s been four hundred and sixty-five years since the Accord was signed by House Hydra and Basilisk, and Chimera and Kraken signed on when they, too, rose to sufficient power. The signing marked the end of the Era of Red Peace, and the beginning of the Great Southern Expansion.”

“You really do know your history,” said Leonis. “Can we study together?”

“Don’t agree,” said Lianshi sharply. “His idea of studying is very disagreeable.”

“History sounds interesting,” said Scorio. “What about the rest of the week?”

“Tomorrow is the Geography of Hell with Helminth,” said Leonis, picking up another salted herring. “You know, it took that class for me to notice why her name is so ominous.”

“Oh, Mighty Ox,” said Lianshi pityingly.

“That’s Golden King to you,” said Leonis, pointing the herring at her face. “Though the Wielder of Nezzar is equally suitable.”

“Thirdday is my favorite,” said Lianshi, ignoring him. “Fiends with Instructor Rex. Though given that there seem to be thousands upon thousands of them, it’s clearly a lifelong study.”

“Mana Theoretics is on Fourthday,” said Leonis. “Really, really fascinating stuff. I mean, truly and utterly riveting. My absolute favorite.”

The three of them simply stared at him till he laughed and raised both hands. “What can I say? I’m a masochist at heart. Lay on those dry philosophical treatises!”

“Fifth Day is Great Soul Organizations, which is fascinating,” said Lianshi. “Apparently it’s a new addition to the curriculum—Praximar was blackmailed into including it eight years ago when House Hydra lost so much authority with the failure of the Empyreal Prophecy. A bunch of distant groups threatened to force their way into the Academy and teach it themselves. The instructor rotates from outside the Academy and is tasked with giving us a fair assessment of the political structures deeper in hell outside of the Houses. Showing interest is a surefire way to lose any hope of patronage, however.”

“Wait,” said Scorio, leaning forward. “Which organizations are these? They’re—”

The lights in the mess hall flickered in a defined pattern, and Leonis immediately began shoving food into his mouth.

“Time’s up,” sighed Lianshi, setting her spoon down. “First Rust is imminent. We need to be in class before the cycle changes. Ready?”

Naomi had finished her bowl of oatmeal. Her tray looked positively spartan compared to Leonis’s riotous and half-eaten feast. “Ready.”

“Sure,” said Scorio, rising to his feet. He’d not eaten his fill on purpose, wanting to remain on edge and alert, and followed Lianshi as she led the way through the mess hall toward one of the exits.

Was it his imagination, or were people still watching him? Some surreptitiously, turning away when he glanced at them, others more openly, frowning when he met their eyes? He resolved to just stare ahead, relieved when they entered the hallway that led toward the distant classrooms.

Through the bustling corridors they went, losing themselves in the flowing crowd, till at last Lianshi and Leonis peeled away and hurried down a side corridor where the lower halves of the walls were covered in gold leaf. Through an archway at its end, and into a small amphitheater that was already filled, Great Souls slouching down into their seats, pulling forth stacks of parchments, arranging their ink wells and plumes, whispering to each other and settling in for what was obviously going to be a long lecture.

Their arrival caused a fair amount of stir; students turned to stare, others leaned in close together to whisper, while a few affected stiff disinterest.

“Good morning, class,” said Leonis, spreading his arms wide. “I, Leonis the Golden King, have arrived. Please, do not be unduly affected. Surely you are used to being graced by my presence by now.”

Mutters, some stifled laughter, and the other students looked away.

“There,” said Leonis, leading the others down to an empty row of seats. “I have masterfully quelled all curiosity.”

Instructor Hera entered a few moments later; tall, severe, her waist-length braids held back by a golden circlet, she swept the class with her glittering gaze as she moved to stand at the lectern. “Good morning, class.”

Her gaze fell upon Scorio, who held it for a beat before sitting up a little straighter, everyone once more turning to regard him.

“Cinder Scorio, Emberling Naomi, welcome to the History of Bastion. Scorio, you’ve missed many months of material, but I expect you to learn it regardless in time for the final exam. Now, seeing as you performed a great service to Bastion and have already become a part of its history, I won’t expect you to catch up to speed for a few weeks yet. That doesn’t mean you can relax; you will need to arrange a study group to cover the missed material. Good luck, however, on finding volunteers.”

A blonde woman seated in the front row raised her hand, her smile genuine. “I would be happy to help tutor Scorio, Instructor Hera. It would be an excellent way to review the material as well.”

“Is that so?” asked the instructor, raising an eyebrow. “Very generous of you, Juniper. Is anybody else interested in helping?”

From the skepticism in her tone, she clearly didn’t expect more volunteers, but a half-dozen hands went up, and Scorio was surprised to see that most of them were women, Famissa amongst their number.

By his side, Leonis could only shake his head.

“Well, it seems I was wrong in my assumptions,” said Hera wryly. “Everyone interested in so nobly assisting their new classmate should meet with him by the west door after class is over to structure a learning plan. Now. Considering the unrest in the streets, it’s poetic that we should be studying an ancient parallel. We’ll pick up where we left off, with the Garannil Uprising of 745. Who can explain Garannil’s reasons for starting the non-violent revolt, and why he thought Bastion would be better served by having regular citizens dictating policy instead of Great Souls?”

Scorio slouched down in his seat, cheeks burning. More than one of the volunteers continued to glance his way as the class began, a few shyly smiling, most just considering him in a speculative manner.

“It would seem,” murmured Lianshi to his right, “that your reputation has preceded you.”

“It’s confusing,” whispered Leonis on his other side. “But his scrawny physique must be appealing somehow.”

“He’s far from scrawny,” said Lianshi, frowning. “Scorio just isn’t a shambling bear like you.”

Leonis looked innocently ahead. “Shambling bears are criminally underappreciated.”

“And Scorio is very handsome,” whispered Lianshi firmly, as if that settled the manner. “We’ll have to start barricading our front door.”

Scorio sank even deeper into his seat. Even his ears were burning now.

“I need some tutoring as well,” muttered Leonis. “Scorio, lend me some of your tutors? Say, three of them?”

“Shambling pig, I meant,” said Lianshi.

Instructor Hera’s gaze scythed across the students to where they sat. “Cinder Lianshi, since you seem so eager to contribute, perhaps you can answer the question.”

Scorio hadn’t even been listening, and for a moment panicked on his friend’s behalf, but Lianshi sat up straight, expression clear and forthright. “The blue sashes were worn by the protestors to indicate their alliance with the Peerless Heaven sect from the fifth band of Hell; they hoped to draw sympathy and support from Blood Baroness Nyala.”

Instructor Hera nodded grudgingly. “That’s correct. Now, Garannil’s attempts to draw on the support of sects such as Peerless Heaven and Hollow Moon was the right move, but still failed—who can tell me why?”

Scorio glanced sidelong at Lianshi. “You know your history.”

“I study hard,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

“Would you tutor me, then?”

“No,” hissed Leonis. “I’ll help you choose the best tutors—we could have Famissa and Juniper visiting our suites on a regular basis!”

“Sure,” said Lianshi. “I’d be happy to.”

“Thanks,” said Scorio, relaxing a fraction. The thought of sitting across from bright-eyed strangers who were all too eager to explain the esoteric past was slightly unnerving. “Much appreciated.”

Class ended when First Rust gave way to First Bronze, and after disengaging himself from the small knot of hopeful tutors that tried to corner him by the door, Scorio followed the others eagerly to the next class.

“Sparring and Forms,” said Leonis. “Now this is something I enjoy. Who’ve we got this week?”

“Instructor Feng. You’ll like him,” she said, turning to look at both Scorio and Naomi. “He’s fair and very impartial. I think it’s because he thinks we’re all equally terrible.”

“Sounds like someone Naomi could like,” allowed Scorio, but she flushed angrily and looked away. Lianshi gave him a shrug of commiseration, and he shrugged back when Naomi wasn’t looking.

They crossed the Academy, leaving behind the academic classrooms, momentarily joining a flood of students in a large passageway before splitting off again, descending two flights of stairs, and emerging into a cavernous hall. The air was cool and slightly damp, and everything was lit by a fierce, pale ironlight that was so subtly tinged with blue that it took Scorio a few moments to figure out why he felt like they’d submerged themselves into a clear pool.

There was stadium seating around both sides of the hall, eight rows high, the wood gleaming with endless years of varnish, while a circular raised platform of white stone arose in the center, its surface chalky and plain under the severe lights.

Nobody moved to take the seats. The gathered crowd, sparse and spread out, was instead warming up. Some shadow boxed; others had taken up wire-thin jump ropes and were lightly skipping; a few groups sat in circles, leaning forward to touch their toes or arching an arm over their head as they leaned over to the side.

“We’ve a few minutes before Feng arrives,” said Leonis, cinching his sash tight then shrugging his massive shoulders. “There’s a routine to the class structure. First, we’ll pair off to engage in some light sparring, then he’ll teach us new techniques. We’ll practice them on each other, and then do some bag work. Class ends with five fights. He picks the combatants and after each bout, does a question-and-answer session to see what we noticed and what the fighters did wrong.”

“Sounds fun,” said Scorio, windmilling his arms, his stomach light and fluttery.

“So much fun,” said Naomi, her tone indicating the exact opposite.

Lianshi bent down to press her forehead to her knees, wrapping her arm around the back of her legs, then dropped into a squat, one leg extended before her, balancing easily on her one heel. “It is fun, actually. If you win three fights in a row, you’re awarded a treasure of choice within a set category of power. It’s a powerful incentive.”

Naomi frowned, then nodded reluctantly. “That sounds better.”

“What are Feng’s powers?” asked Scorio, pitching his voice low. “I saw him use that cone of… dust?… in the Imogen fight. Any idea what it does?”

“Slows people down,” said Lianshi, shifting smoothly to crouch over the other heel. “The longer you’re in his cone, the slower you get, and the faster he becomes.”

“And if you’re in it, you’ll forget he’s there if you look away,” said Leonis. “He uses it on us during fights sometimes. Stop things getting out of hand, or add a challenge. It’s the weirdest thing to look around and realize you’ve forgotten all about him because you lost line of sight.”

“Interesting,” said Scorio. “So—”

“Line up,” came a barked command, and a second later, Instructor Feng strode into view, his robes so worn and soft that they’d gone from black to a smoky charcoal gray.

His command had an electric effect on the students; everyone leaped into place, forming a wall along one set of stadium seats. Naomi and Scorio fell in with everyone else, and Scorio stared straight ahead, chest tight with anticipation.

It was strange; seeing Feng alongside the Pyre Lords, Blood Barons, and the White Queen had somehow diminished him, made him appear as little more than a foot soldier. But now he radiated authority and a deliberate calm that drove home just how far above Scorio he really was as a Dread Blaze.

Feng stopped before them all, hands linked behind his back, his thick shock of black hair swept back, his expression sharp, exacting, severe. “Good morning, class. We’re joined by two new students, and as such, we’ll delay our usual routine until I can evaluate their skill. We’ll begin with Scorio. Everyone else, take a seat.”

The line melted away. Naomi stepped back last, as if reluctant to leave him alone, but finally gave him a jerky nod of encouragement and joined the others on the benches.

“Scorio,” said Feng, “Will you join me in the sparring circle?” And so saying, he strode to the raised platform and leaped onto it with ease.

His muscles felt strangely twitchy as he moved to follow, his mouth dry, the spot between his shoulder blades prickling as if from the combined weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. Scorio climbed smoothly up onto the sparring circle and moved to stand across from Feng under the harsh iron light.

“The goal of this exchange is for me to evaluate your speed, strength, resilience, and instincts.” Feng’s words were clipped and precise, his dark eyes intent. “We’ll begin with only our natural talents, but when you’re ready, you may choose to ignite. Begin.”

As one, the crowd seemed to inhale and lean forward.

Scorio lowered himself into the three-quarter profile combat crouch which he’d used so many times against Naomi, and forced himself to exhale smoothly. And then, in that moment of utter stillness, a rough and ready joy flooded his heart.

This was it. His chance to discover just how far he’d advanced. Whether all his hard work and brutal training had paid off.

Scorio fought mightily but failed to restrain a predatory smile. He met Feng’s dark, patient gaze, then moved to attack.