Chapter 5

Scorio blinked slowly, reflexively, and stared up, uncomprehending, at a vast and distant ceiling. There was noise all around him, but he focused on the huge dome that seemed to hover some two hundred feet above, ribbed and gilded with faded gold, its base resting on the apexes of four semi-domes, all punctured by narrow windows that allowed streams of syrupy golden light to sluice down through the dusty gloom.

It was beautiful. Surreal. Ethereal and light despite the massiveness of the architecture.

He blinked again, focus returning by slow degrees, an awareness of his body laid out upon a smooth, pebbled surface. The murmur of voices rising in consternation, a sense of a crowd all around him, filling the air beneath those heavenly domes.

He sat up. He’d been lying on a large bier, its beveled edges trimmed with dull gold, its surface patterned with gems and blue stones, across which swirled bands of silver. Around him, extending in concentric circles about the base of a spire, were hundreds more just like it, the narrow passages between each bier illuminated by a ghostly blue light.

Not hundreds. Thousands.

Most of them were bare, their glorious surfaces dusty and still. But hundreds more bore others like him, all of them young and dressed in plain, white robes girded with golden ropes. As one they were sitting up, gazing about themselves in confusion, some brows furrowed in anger, others in fear, a few in defiance.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t process what he was seeing. A moment ago he’d been falling, his body ruined, down an ever-steeper hallway, falling into the dark—

Scorio frowned at his hands. He turned them over, finding the whorls over his knuckles and the shapes of his fingers at once familiar and alien both. His hands.

He looked up his bare forearm, the swell of a strong bicep, and explored his body, a sense of dissonance filling him. No wounds, anywhere. Young, healthy, muscled, lean. No scars. No blood.

“Scorio?”

He looked over at the bier next to his and saw Lianshi staring at him, wide-eyed, dressed in the same white robes as everyone else. Her hair was tousled, her body without injury, her confusion writ large across her face.

“Lianshi,” he said, a wave of relief crashing over him at the sight of her. “I thought I was going mad.”

“What happened?” She slid over the edge of her bier into the blue-lit space between them, so that it looked like she stood hip-deep in swirling water. “I remember blades, that hallway, the bands of light… I told you to go on, but…?”

Scorio reached out to squeeze her shoulder, proving to himself that she was there, flesh and blood. Her eyes were glassy with tears, and she squeezed his wrist, her grip tight, desperate.

“I died,” he said, twisting about to take in more of the space. Vegetation climbed columns and spread across distant, upper balconies, as if this building had been partially reclaimed by the wilderness. The central spire rose a hundred feet right before them, a scepter whose peak was crowned with a gently pulsing gem of iridescent blue which dimmed, moment by moment, even as he studied it.

“In the same hallway?” she asked.

“The next one. I was cut up bad by the time I got into the next room, and the floor kept tilting up the farther I crawled. Ended up sliding all the way back and falling to my death.”

Lianshi shook her head in horror and wonder, but a joyous bellow startled them both. Turning, they saw Leonis heave himself off his bier one row behind them and approach, arms wide.

“You live! Better yet, I live! And we weren’t reborn into that infernal place!”

“Leonis!” Scorio grinned at the large man’s obvious delight.

“What did I miss?” Leonis stepped up to them both, placing an arm with easy familiarity around Lianshi’s angular shoulders before clapping his hand on Scorio’s knee. “What wonders, what pleasures? Was the next chamber a bathhouse, complete with willing servants ready to oil and massage us?”

“Something like that,” said Scorio, but the activity around them pulled his attention away. They weren’t the only newly born people to recognize each other—all across the jeweled biers, other reunions were taking place, many of them with similar joy and emotion. Hundreds upon hundreds of young men and women, their voices raised in wonder.

Lianshi had followed his gaze. “You think they all underwent a similar trial?”

“Where’s Asha?” Scorio cast about, then saw the woman with her saturnine features a dozen biers off to the left. He raised his hand in greeting, but she frowned and looked away.

“Some people take dying hard,” said Leonis. “Me? I find it strangely liberating. The worst part was being killed by odious little rat monsters. I can’t tell you how delighted I am it wasn’t permanent.”

“But where are we now?” asked Scorio, scanning the huge basilica. Their little group was located in the very center, at the base of the spire. Leaning sideways so that he could see past it, Scorio made out an ornate stage, thrusting its way from the far wall like the prow of a ship, sliding between the biers and interrupting the otherwise perfect circles they formed around the spire.

“There,” he said, pointing. “Those people look like they know what’s going on.”

The stage was flanked on both sides by statues thirty feet tall, hewn from pale marble, some bearing armor and arms, others clothed in flowing robes, all gazing down in adoration upon the crowd that stood on the stage.

A man stepped forward, arms extended as if to embrace them all. Being several hundred feet away, the details of his face were hard to make out, but he was clothed in heavy robes of a ceremonial cut, and on his head wore a large, scalloped hat that glittered with gems. In one hand he held a scabbarded blade, and in the other, a heavy shield embossed in gold.

“Welcome back, my friends.” By some trick of acoustics, his voice carried perfectly without the need to shout. It was the voice of an older man, rich and assured, the voice of a man accustomed to being listened to. “I am Pyre Lord Praximar, Chancellor of our fair Academy, and Autocrator of the House of Hydra. I know your fear, your doubts, your confusion, for twenty-three years ago they were my own. For you see, I, too, once awoke where you now lie, without a past, having gone through the Gauntlet, and burning with a need for answers.”

“The Gauntlet?” murmured Leonis. “That what it’s called?”

“But know peace!” The man raised the scabbarded blade and shield as if the sight of them would reassure the restive crowd. “These answers exist, and you’ll soon have them all. You have been reborn, by the grace of the power stored within the Archspire, and brought back to fight once more for the city of Bastion, to wage our eternal war against hell, and in doing so, serve and protect our distant homeworld. I know that you are overwhelmed. How could you not be? But this is not the first time you have been reborn. Nor the tenth, or hundredth. I myself have died and returned two hundred and three times.”

Lianshi covered her mouth in shock.

“Two hundred and three times have I awoken where you lie. Two hundred and three times it has felt like the first, a novel, terrible experience. Each time I have passed through the Gauntlet and died there, and each time I have awoken here. And two hundred and three times I have discovered that it was I that signed up for this fate, that consigned my soul to the Archspire, and that agreed to tie my cycle of rebirth to Bastion. Just, my friends, as you did, eight hundred and seventy-three years ago, when Bastion was founded.”

“Tell him to slow down,” said Leonis, pressing a hand to his brow. “That… that can’t be right.”

Scorio felt his soul tremble at the gulfs of time being revealed to him. He’d been at this for almost a thousand years? Stupefied, he could only stare as the distant figure lowered his arms and handed his sword and shield to an attendant.

“You have my boundless love and sympathy. In due time, you shall learn the whys and wheres, the hows and what fors of it all. You shall learn about yourself, for there are records and ways to determine your history. Many of you have kept journals over the centuries or left belongings and weapons in secure compartments for you to inherit once you are yourself again. Everything will be explained. But know this.”

The silence in the massive basilica ached. Each youth on their gem-encrusted bier leaned forward, eyes wide, listening, waiting, hungering for the chancellor’s next words.

Scorio leaned forward with them.

“Know, my friends, that you are special. You are part of a renowned company called the Great Souls, an elect group of heroes in whose breast beats an Igneous Heart. In time you shall set your Heart aflame once more, and when you do, you shall awaken great powers and abilities that will serve you in the coming wars. Abilities that will make the challenges you met in the Gauntlet seem insignificant!”

His words hung in the air, and Scorio thought he heard a deep longing, saw in the faces of the instructors and other people on the stage a wistful yearning.

The chancellor sighed and smiled. “Fear not. We shall guide you through this process, teach you how to harness your talents anew, and strive to set the wisdom accrued over the centuries at your service. You shall be taken care of, you shall be nurtured, guided, and taught everything you need to know. And I promise you, a day will come when you stand tall, yourselves once more, proud to be a Great Soul in the service of Bastion, proud of the contract you made with the Archspire, and ready once more to fight for humanity and destroy the very Pit of hell itself!”

The chancellor’s words rang across the basilica, and Scorio, despite his anger and resentment, thrilled at their promise. Great powers? An Igneous Heart? Was that the lump of obsidian he’d sensed within him at the last?

“But for now, let us deal in practicalities.” The chancellor’s tone became businesslike. “You entered the Gauntlet in groups of four and did your level best to progress as far as you could. This is an ancient test, and used to measure your current incarnation’s resolve, ability, and luck. Your progress has been recorded, from the astounding three Great Souls who made it into the fifth chamber down to each of you who died with an iron bolt to the chest.”

Scorio fought to keep his features hard, to betray no emotion, but couldn’t deny the shock—three people had made it past the tilting hallway? After passing through the hall of slashing blades? How was that even possible?

“Now! No matter how far you got, feel no shame. You attempted the Gauntlet without any of your native powers, so it was inevitable that you would die quickly and badly. Of the four hundred and twelve that entered, a hundred and seventy-five died to the bolt trap. So if your attempt ended there, comfort yourself with the fact that you are in good company.”

Scorio glanced back to where Asha sat on her bier, arms wrapped around her shins. She stared stonily forward, clearly not comforted by the chancellor’s words.

“Two hundred and thirty-seven of you progressed to the second chamber. I’ll have you know that’s where I myself died during my current incarnation. There another hundred and forty-eight perished, leaving only eighty-nine Great Souls to progress to the third trial. If you are one of those that entered the Hall of Blades, you should rightly feel proud.”

“I just feel nauseous,” muttered Lianshi.

Leonis rubbed his hand back and forth across his bearded chin. “That grates. I don’t recall my past, but I know I wasn’t used to losing.”

“It was because of you that we survived,” said Scorio firmly. “We’d have all died there without you.”

“Hmm.” Leonis considered. “Fair enough. I feel better.”

“The Hall of Blades claimed sixty-three lives. Even our best rarely make it beyond that fell room. But this time twenty-six of you managed to persevere against the odds. Just about six percent of all who entered the Gauntlet. Incredible. Well done.”

“How far did you both get?” murmured Leonis, glancing at them from under his bushy brows.

“That’s where I died,” whispered Lianshi. “Scorio got one further.”

“You did? Scrawny little guy like you?” Leonis pretended disbelief. “This world couldn’t be any more shocking.”

Scorio just shook his head ruefully.

“Normally my accounting ends here. The Chamber of Balance has historically felled everyone who enters its confines. But not this time. Three of you managed to pass through into the fifth chamber, where their journey came to a uniformly swift and very final end. Still, your instructors, the academy staff, and even myself are awed by this accomplishment. It has been twenty-seven years since an unpowered Great Soul, whom we commonly refer to as a ‘Char,’ has made it to the fifth chamber, and for three of you to do so is an incredible auspicious achievement. I look forward to meeting these three exemplars and learning which great heroes the Archspire has seen fit to return to our ranks.”

The chancellor linked his hands before him and beamed as the Great Souls turned to study each other.

“A final note before we introduce you to the Revelator. The Gauntlet serves as a gauge of your current power and progress. But this is not the only time you shall attempt to penetrate its depths. The next time, however, you shall be armed with powers and abilities that will tilt the odds in your favor. Of course, the rooms get progressively more difficult the deeper you go. For your personal accounting, you earn a point for each room you managed to enter. Thus three of you earned five points in all, while the twenty-three who died in the Chamber of Balance earned four, and so forth. There is also a team score, which is the average of all four entrants. Heroism is not measured only by selfish success—your team’s average will give us great insight into your ability to work with others.”

“So,” whispered Lianshi. “Four, seven, nine—we got ten divided by four as our team average. Two point five. Is that good?”

“Better than what I got,” said Leonis. “Not sure how seriously I’m going to take this grading system.”

“They make it sound like a game,” muttered Scorio, rubbing at his leg where the flesh of his thigh had been sheared off.

The chancellor spoke over the hubbub that had ensued. “Also, I am always asked by curious students as to the total number of points that may be earned, and the answer, as best we can determine, is a thousand four hundred and forty.”

“A thousand…” croaked Lianshi.

“I quit,” said Leonis, tone matter of fact.

Murmurs and groans had sounded from across the breadth of the crowd, which seemed to greatly amuse the chancellor, who raised his hands genially for silence. “Know that later rooms are worth incrementally more points. The first five you passed through are worth a single point, but the sixth through the tenth chamber are worth five each. The eleventh? Ten, and so forth, though the very last rooms break this formula. But no matter. All you need know is that you have begun your path toward greatness, and this first reckoning in the Gauntlet will be the yardstick by which you measure all your future growth.”

“Somebody do the math,” said Leonis to nobody in particular.

Scorio’s head was spinning. “So after all that, we only got three or four points out of over a thousand?”

“Leonis only got two points,” said Lianshi brightly, earning a glower from the large man.

The chancellor’s voice boomed forth once more, cutting through the many conversations that had begun. “The other reason to pass you through the Gauntlet is to determine how much of the power the Archspire harvested from your previous lives shall be apportioned to each of you. Each time a Great Soul dies, their soul is gathered by the Archspire and held until the annual reincarnation. A portion of that soul’s accumulated power is collected, then distributed to the new souls. The further you progressed in the Gauntlet, the more deserving you are seen to be, and the greater your head start at the beginning of your journey.”

“I knew it,” groaned Leonis. “I’m never helping anyone again.”

“But further, the Archspire will reveal information about your previous lives and your tenure in Bastion thus far.” The chancellor’s voice grew grave. “For many, this is the first and greatest moment of insight into the mysteries of their past that they shall receive. Approach the Archspire with reverence and gratitude, and prepare to learn something of your true nature.”

There was general movement as Great Souls began slipping off their biers and looking uncertainly toward the Archspire.

“We shall call you forth in descending order of success,” said the chancellor. “Pay attention. The information that shall be revealed over the next few hours is exceedingly valuable. What you learn about your peers may prove as important to your long-term survival as what you learn about yourself.”

“Mind if I join you?” asked Leonis, hiking himself up to sit on Scorio’s bier. “Given how low down the list I am, it’s clear I’m going to be waiting a while.”

There was ample room on the broad bier, even for a man Leonis’s size. Scorio frowned up at the Archspire, then back to the stage. He scrutinized the smiling chancellor and felt his anger deepen. “What you said before.”

“Hmm? What exactly?” Leonis was busy tearing a slender strip of cloth off the hem of his robe. “I said a lot of very interesting and important things.”

Lianshi rolled her eyes and pulled herself back up onto her bier to sit cross-legged, facing them. “I can tell that this new life is going to be very hard for you,” she said. “You’re in for some very cruel realizations.”

“What you said about not being sure about how seriously you’re going to take this whole system,” said Scorio. “That resonated with me.”

“I take it back, though,” said Leonis, tying his long hair off at the base of his skull. “Now that it seems points are connected to power, I’m quite invested in the system.”

The chancellor had left the stage and was leading a procession of notables to a smaller platform set before the Archspire, only a handful of yards from where Scorio and the others sat. They were going to get premium viewing of what was to take place.

“I don’t know,” murmured Scorio. “They’re portraying this like it was all some manner of friendly competition, but when I was in the Gauntlet, crawling up that tilting hallway... That emotion. The rage. The pain. The anger. I’m having trouble just laughing it off.”

Leonis frowned thoughtfully. “I… yes. I know what you mean.”

The chancellor gained the base of the steps to the second platform and climbed up with easy assurance, a confident, subtle smile on his lips. Tall, slender, with a broad face and expressive mouth, he wore his regalia as if born into it, at ease but not without a hint of pride. There was in his expression something warm yet condescending, thought Scorio, something overly familiar and haughty at the same time, as if he were doing the world an immense favor by being so accessible and friendly.

“Friends! Let us begin. No doubt you are all curious to learn the identities of the three Great Souls who penetrated into the fifth chamber! All deserve equal accolades, but they did not all die at the same time. And so we reward the Great Soul who not only made it the furthest, but survived the longest. Her loss last year during the Siege of LastRock was a terrible tragedy, and I speak for us all when I say it is an honor to have her back with us so quickly. None present are surprised that she made it as far as she did, given her illustrious history, devastating power, and the universal respect accorded to her by one and all. Please approach the Archspire, Jova Spike!”

Scorio saw that he wasn’t the only one searching the biers for the winner, but for long, confusing seconds nobody moved, nobody climbed down to make it obvious they were claiming the prize.

Just as Scorio was about to comment, a woman close to the back of the populated rows swung her legs over the edge and hopped down into the blue light. Even at this distance and with but a glance, Scorio found himself believing she could have made it that far. She was of medium height, her skin a light brown, with the black hair on one side of her head shorn close to the scalp, the rest long and flipped over to fall past her right shoulder. She moved with a panther-like intensity, frowning as she stared straight ahead, ignoring the stares, the attention.

Nobody spoke as she stalked her way toward the stage. She burned with a ferocious intensity, her brow furrowed, dark eyebrows lowered, mouth gathered into a frown.

“What’s she so upset about?” asked Leonis. “Was she hoping for a better prize than first place?”

“Maybe she didn’t want to be called out,” replied Lianshi, turning slowly to keep Jova in her line of sight as the other woman approached.

“Or maybe she’s just a private person,” continued Scorio. “Or maybe she’s just furious that all the pain and effort she suffered was just for a game.”

“Don’t think this is just a game,” whispered Lianshi, watching as Jova climbed the steps to stand beside the chancellor. “A trial, sure. But not a game.”

“It is an honor to address you once more, Jova, and to welcome you back to Bastion. I know you recall nothing of your immediate past, but everyone alive today remembers your meteoric rise to Charnel Duke, and how you helped LastRock withstand assault after assault over the past decade. Allow me to congratulate you on your remarkable Gauntlet run, and look forward to what you shall accomplish in this, your new life.” The chancellor beamed at the Great Soul, immune to her dark glower. “You will now receive the greatest portion of harvested power from the Archspire, and learn about your past. If you are ready, please approach and place your palm against the golden sigil that you can see here, behind me. The Archspire shall then reveal your full name, by what titles you were known when you originally consigned your soul to Bastion, the highest rank you have ever achieved during all your rebirths, and how many rebirths you have had. A lot to digest, I know, but I’m sure you won’t forget.”

Scorio leaned from one side to the other but didn’t have the right angle to see what the chancellor was indicating. Jova crossed to where the platform abutted the Archspire itself, then reached out to place her palm upon it.

The massive crystal at its apex glimmered as blue lights swirled beneath its facets, and Jova gasped, losing her irritated expression to stare upward in amazement.

A voice emanated from nowhere and everywhere, cool and calm and androgynous. “Jova Spike, once known as the Queen of the Crimson Coast, the Enduring, the Sovereign Light, and Avenger of the Lost Vale. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Imperator. It has been less than one year since you last died, and you have been reborn one hundred and sixty-three times since the founding of Bastion.”

“She is so amazing,” whispered Lianshi.

“Imperator?” Leonis glanced at Scorio. “What do you think that means?”

“No idea.”

The chancellor and several other officials had surrounded the dazed-looking Jova and were speaking earnestly to her.

Lianshi bit her lower lip, then gave a sharp shake of her head. “The chancellor made a big deal about being reborn two hundred and three times, correct? So is it more impressive that Jova has only been reborn a hundred and sixty-three times?”

“Maybe she just tends to live longer,” said Scorio.

“Or gets reborn less frequently,” said Leonis. “Otherwise why would they bother adding how long it’s been since she died?”

The chancellor patted Jova on the shoulder, ending their little conference, and she descended the steps pensively, her frown now one of mild confusion and wonder.

“In second place, if only by seven seconds, is our next Great Soul, who, let me remind you, still achieved the near-impossible by making it to the fifth chamber. Please approach the Archspire, Ravenna.”

This time the Great Soul was ready; the woman slipped down from her bier, chin raised, shoulders squared, and begin striding toward the front.

“She’s as intense as Jova,” muttered Leonis. “Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I’m too jovial.”

Ravenna’s hair was jet black, cut in rough bangs across her brow, short at the back and lengthening to follow the line of her chin. Pale-skinned, her blue eyes piercing, she had a set to her jaw which spoke volumes about her attitude. She, too, looked neither left nor right but moved forward as if alone, gaze fixed on the distant stage.

“No disrespect,” murmured Leonis, “but I was expecting one of the top two to be, well. Larger? Stronger?”

“More masculine?” prompted Lianshi, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s not unimaginable, yes,” protested Leonis.

Scorio watched Ravenna march up the steps, back straight, hands tightly fisted. “Think about it. After the imp test, you wouldn’t need strength or size. The Hall of Blades called for sharp perception, quick wits, and inhuman agility. If you got through it without being all cut up like I was, then perhaps you could just sprint up the tilting hallway and leap to reach the end, whatever that was.”

“Also, I’d put money on either of those women in a straight-up fight against you,” said Lianshi sweetly. “No offense.”

The chancellor beamed at Ravenna as she joined him on the stage. “Congratulations on your stunning achievement. Everything I said about Jova applies to you, for a mere seven seconds separated you from being called first. Please approach the Archspire, Ravenna, and place your hand on the golden sigil.”

Ravenna needed no further prompting. She stepped up smartly to the massive spire, looked up once, then placed her hand upon it.

Again the great gem at the apex came to life, blue lights swirling within it, growing faster and faster.

“Ravenna Accardi, once known as The Merciless, Destroyer of the White Tower, and Heiress of the Wind. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Charnel Duke. It has been three years since you last died, and you have been reborn one hundred and eighty-nine times since the founding of Bastion.”

“Charnel Duke,” said Lianshi. “Someone needs to tell us what these titles mean.”

Leonis scratched at his jaw. “Do you think it’s more or less impressive than an Imperator?”

Ravenna had staggered back a step, her face having turned bone-white, and was staring fixedly out at nothing as she was surrounded and spoken to by numerous officials.

“What are they saying to her?” wondered Scorio.

Lianshi shrugged one shoulder. “More congratulations?”

“No…” Scorio wished they were just a little closer so that they could hear. “They look too intent. Like they’re trying to convince her of something.”

“Or sell her something,” agreed Leonis. “While she’s bewildered and overwhelmed.”

Eventually, Ravenna descended the steps, looking as remote and thoughtful as Jova had, and the chancellor stepped forth once more.

Scorio felt flickers of anger burning within him. “You think they’d give them a chance to recover and gather their wits before cornering them like that.”

“The third and final Great Soul to make it into the fifth chamber deserves just as much respect and consideration as the first two. Demonstrating exemplary tenacity and grit, he is remembered with awe and admiration by all who knew him until his fall, five years ago, deep in the Telurian Band. Massamach, please approach the stage.”

The dark-skinned young man who descended from his bier was all that Leonis might have hoped for; he was massively built, his shoulders straining his white robe, his neck thick as a bull’s, his arms larger than Scorio’s thighs. Despite his bulk, he moved lightly on his feet, with great deliberation and precision, and in his watery blue eyes, Scorio saw the same intensity and thoughtfulness that had marked the first two winners.

Massamach ascended to the stage and there turned to consider the other Great Souls, brow furrowed, lips pursed, ignoring the chancellor who waxed on about his notoriety and martial feats during his past life. Instead, he scanned the faces below, seeming to be seeking someone, but when finally he was bid to place his hand on the Archspire, he seemed not to have found them.

Once more the great gem stirred to life, and once more that gentle voice spoke forth. “Massamach, once known as The Wise, King of the Jandites, Breaker of Shackles, Destroyer of Idols and Bringer of Light. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Crimson Earl. It has been six years since you last died, and you have been reborn one hundred and seventy-one times since the founding of Bastion.”

Massamach’s frame went rigid as the Archspire poured its power into him and when he drew his hand back, he studied his palm, as if a secret message had been inscribed there for his eyes alone.

“Here they go,” murmured Scorio as once more the notables on the stage closed around him. Massamach seemed to ignore them, but finally blinked, looked about, and then cocked his head to one side as first one and then the next sought to lecture him.

“Do you think each and every one of us has as heroic a past as these three?” asked Leonis quietly.

“If so, it must have been a large world to accommodate us all,” replied Lianshi. “How many kings and queens could there have been?”

“I wonder what caused such powerful people to agree to all this.” Scorio glanced about at the other seated Great Souls. “There are hundreds of us here, and we’re just the ones who died recently. How many more are out there, fighting this war?”

“And against whom?” asked Lianshi. “What happened, I wonder, that we’d all agree to this? When are they going to tell us?”

“Not for hours.” Leonis leaned back on his outstretched arms. “Not till we get through every title and accomplishment. Get comfortable. This is going to take a while.”

When Massamach regained his bier, the chancellor stepped forth once more to announce those who had reached the fourth chamber.

Despite his misgivings and anger, Scorio couldn’t deny a sense of excitement; how well had he done compared to the others? Twenty-three Great Souls had died in the tilting chamber. How much power would be accorded him? What would he learn at the foot of the Archspire?

First one, then a second, then a third Great Soul was called up. Scorio wasn’t in the top five, or the top ten. All had died within the last half-dozen years. Scorio schooled his features, aware of how his two companions kept glancing at him, and when his name was finally announced, he realized he’d come in eighteenth.

The chancellor by that point had greatly abbreviated his summons.

“The next Great Soul to have dared the Chamber of Balance and exemplified the best of you goes by the name of Scorio. Please approach the stage!”

Leonis clapped him on the shoulder as he slid off his bier, and Scorio felt his stomach tighten as he walked around to the front. He could feel hundreds scrutinizing him, the weight of their stares palpable, but like the others had done he ignored the attention and focused on climbing the steps.

Up close, the chancellor and the other notables were clearly a mixed group; half of them were older, some even elderly, while the other half could have been in their early thirties or mid-twenties. All, even the most genial, radiated a heavy sense of power and danger; it felt like stepping into the heart of a pack of apex predators. Scorio turned at the top to gaze out over the biers; what struck him was how many lay empty, the vast majority dusty and stretching out to the far walls of the basilica.

“Well done, young man,” said the chancellor, his voice breathy and warm. He put a hand on Scorio’s shoulder and beamed at him. “I look forward to learning more about your identity, and helping you choose which of the four Houses you might accept patronage from.”

Scorio made no comment but simply nodded, and now saw the golden symbol on which his predecessors had placed their palms. It was circular and inlaid directly into the Archspire, a complex interweaving of golden curves that could have been a maze. He was too excited, however, to pause and examine it further; the sole way of attaining control over his destiny was to accrue power, and this was obviously the quickest and most efficient means of his doing so.

Stepping up, chest tight, he raised his hand and placed it to the symbol.

The lines of gold were warm beneath his touch, and then seemed to fuse with his palm, the sensation strange, not uncomfortable, but a melding that he hadn’t expected. A thrill passed through him, a jolt that coursed from his feet to his scalp, then he sensed the Archspire before him, became physically aware of his vast extent, as if it had momentarily become part of his own sense of self.

And realized that it plunged deep into the ground; he felt its roots extending beneath the basilica, fanning out in dizzying complexity, burrowing through the rock and leaching something from the world, drawing sustenance from a vibrant, invisible force he couldn’t understand, couldn’t put a name to, but which he knew, on some basic, primal level, he understood—

“Welcome, Scorio, once known as The Scourer, Lord of Nagaran, Master of the Black Tower, The Bringer of Ash and Darkness, the Shadow of Spurn Harbor, the Abhorred, Quencher of Hope and Unmaker of Joy. The highest rank you have ever attained is that of Blood Baron. It has been two hundred and thirty-three years since you last died, and you have been reborn six times since the founding of Bastion. You are Proscribed and belong on the Red List."

Before anything further could come from the Archspire, a hand seized him roughly by the shoulder and with unstoppable strength dragged him away.

Stunned, Scorio turned to stare at the notables, and the chancellor’s pallid face.

“Seize him,” said the chancellor, eyes wide with shock and anger. “Seize him and take him away.”