Chapter 48

The rest of the Eighthday passed in a blur. The innocent joy in availing himself of the Academy’s resources sluiced away under the double threat of the upcoming tournament and the realization that he was on hostile ground. No longer did he take the stares as indicating admiration or wonder, but now saw them as accusations. And each time he began to feel good, to relax, or lower his guard, all he had to do was catch Naomi’s flat stare, and his resolve would harden.

He played the runs conservatively, no longer attempting to catch the lead pack, but instead working on setting a punishing pace that he could keep without losing his wind. Breakfast was a hurried affair, then each morning he was thrown into a different class, reviewing everything from the geography of hell to the nature of fiends. His favorite proved to be the class on the known powers of hell; the world outside of Bastion proved to be immense, varied, and populated with a bewildering number of fiends and potentates amongst whom the Great Souls fought, negotiated, and co-existed.

“I thought it was just war out there,” said Scorio to Lianshi as they left the class, new books under his arms. “Armies of Great Souls throwing themselves endlessly at the enemy.”

“There aren’t enough of us,” his friend replied in amusement. “If we declared war on all of hell, I don’t think it would notice. No; the goal is to reach the Pit, and there are many ways to get there.”

“So it seems.” They walked in silence for a spell, Scorio steeped in thought. “But most of hell doesn’t even seem… I don’t know, that bad? Strange, sure, dangerous, but more like…”

“A world? A place with its own ecologies, rules, and internal logic? Sure.” Lianshi shifted her satchel strap higher up her shoulder. “But it doesn’t have to be actively aggressive to kill you.”

“The Curse,” said Scorio.

“The Curse. It alone will destroy Great Souls who venture too far.”

“Or elder powers like the Living Mountain,” said Scorio. “The, ah, what was the inferno creature called?”

“Cazador the All Burning. Wait till you learn about the Viridian Heart and its living empire, or the Dying Dreamer. That’s my favorite.” Lianshi clutched her tome tight across her chest. “I’d love to meet one of its white riders and defeat it in spoken combat, earn a life boon just like Blood Baroness Esme did in the song.”

“White riders?” asked Scorio, bemused.

“Yeah, you’ll get to it. They’re ghostly emanations from the Dying Dreamer himself, fragments of his shattered mind. He sits in despair, a doleful, absolutely massive giant who was once a king, in his rusted armor on his broken throne.” She paused and shook her head slowly. “It’s overwhelming, don’t you think, to realize that they’re all out there at this very moment? While we’re walking down this hallway, right now, the Winged Plinth is calling down storms, the Javalynx is stalking its next prey, Wan Elderlings haunt the mist-shrouded Vale of Regrets, the Omnicide decides the fate of hundreds of thousands in the Scorched Swale...”

Scorio laughed and rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, when you put it that way. Though I’m more excited to see the Great Soul outposts and cities. Red Shoals, say, or one day even get to the Golden Star.”

“You’d need to join Endergrast’s sect to enter the Star,” said Lianshi, smiling in amusement.

“You kidding me? If a Crimson Earl asked me to join his legion, you think I’d say no?” Scorio laughed. “I’d take the suit of Enameled Armor and Browstar in a heartbeat.”

“You and everyone else,” said Lianshi. “Though sometimes—and don’t tell anyone I said this?”

“Sure,” said Scorio, stepping in a little closer.

“Sometimes I daydream about not questing for the Pit. Just… exploring. Going to areas where no Great Soul in living memory has ever been. Discover new wonders like the Shimmering Falls of Tranac, or the Forest of the Past.”

Lianshi curled a strand of hair behind her ear as she ducked her face, then glanced up at him anxiously. “Not that I don’t want to help, or fight for the cause, and all that, it just seems… sometimes the fixation on the Pit feels short-sighted.”

Scorio inhaled deeply, considering her words. “I mean, there’s more than one path to the Pit, right? Who's to say ours won’t cross through new lands?”

Lianshi’s expression brightened. “True! But we might be getting ahead of ourselves. We’ve your tournament to get through first.”

“Yeah, and my Heart to heal.” Scorio sighed and shifted the weight of his satchel. “Thank you again, by the way.”

Lianshi hip-checked him with a laugh. “You don’t thank your friends for being your friends. That’s what they’re for.”

“You say that, but nobody ever said being friends meant going without sleep to get in extra training hours. I didn’t see that stipulated in the contract.”

“That’s because we gave you the toddler’s version with the letters written in brightly colored paint.” Lianshi’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “We were worried you’d panic if you saw too many words at once.”

“Ha,” said Scorio. “Funny. But I’m still going to thank you guys, no matter how much you protest.”

“Thank us by winning in two days’ time. And getting a House sponsorship quickly so we can go back to getting our sleep.”

“Sure,” said Scorio with a smile. “I’ll work on it.”

* * *

Tournament fights were held during First Rust on Seventhday. Enough time was given for the run and breakfast, and then it was understood that everyone would return to their rooms to prepare. Scorio ran at a slow jog, conserving his energy but relishing the warm-up. Five laps passed in a fugue as he reviewed the day’s importance, the moment to which he’d been training and honing his skills, in a sense, ever since he’d begun fighting for primacy.

“It’s an intense spectacle,” said Leonis, back in their rooms. He paused in the act of sweeping and leaned against the broom. “The closest I can compare it to is that first, huge room in the Gauntlet. That sense of space, of momentous consequence. I loved it.”

“Overwhelming,” said Lianshi from where she was straightening the cushions. “The sound, the scope. I mean—well. You’ll see soon enough.”

Naomi stood by the door, ready. “We don’t know whom you’ll be fighting, but remember you have the edge. They’ll fear you. They won’t know what is truth or fiction about your helping defeat Imogen. But they’ll know you received the official blessings of an Imperator, and that will throw them off-balance.”

“Off-balance, right,” said Scorio, windmilling his arms then stretching one across his chest.

“Which means you need to maintain that edge,” continued Naomi inexorably. “Don’t allow them to pigeonhole you. To believe they’ve figured you out. Keep them off-balance, then destroy them.”

Leonis resumed sweeping. “And Helminth didn’t tell you how she’d set this up?”

“Nothing,” said Scorio. “You don’t think she’ll change her mind, will you? Because of the whole Kuragin thing?”

“No,” said Leonis firmly. “That’s not her style. She’s very upfront.”

The lights pulsed gently over their front door, and Scorio took a deep, shaky breath. “That’s the signal. You guys ready?”

“No, I need to finish tidying,” said Leonis with a roguish smile. “Can you tell Helminth to put things on hold till I’m done?”

“You should just stay behind and finish up,” said Lianshi, rising smoothly. “Make sure we have an appropriately clean suite to celebrate in when we’re done.”

“Ha,” said Leonis dryly. “The Golden King cleans for no man!”

“I’m not a man,” said Lianshi, tapping him on the chest as she strode past him to the front door.

“Alas,” said Leonis. “I know. Otherwise, I’d feel no compunctions about hurling you into the pool.”

Lianshi slipped her feet into her sandals and turned to him, eyebrow raised. “Oh, remind me. Who was it that knocked you out of the tournament? Was it a man or a woman?”

“It was a beast,” grumbled Leonis. “A monster of primal power and unearthly rage.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Ramona that,” said Lianshi sweetly. “I’m sure she’ll want to ask some follow-up questions.”

“Scorio, throw me a line here!” cried Leonis.

Scorio tightened his belt and smiled tightly. “Apologies, Golden King. You’ll just drag me down with you.”

“I’m surrounded by jackals and carrion eaters,” said Leonis, opening the door. “Ah well. Such is my burden. The greater the soul, the heavier the load. Shall we?”

Naomi brushed past them all in silence.

“Hey, Naomi,” said Leonis, following her out. “When are you going to start the obligatory banter? You’re not carrying your weight here.”

Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “You defeat me in single combat, Leonis, and I’ll start bantering.”

“Huh.” Leonis stuck his thumbs into his belt. “Motivation. I might try just to hear your idea of a witticism. Let me guess, it’d be something like, ‘Dying men are attractive because they’re…’ Hmm. No— ‘The only thing unattractive about a dying man is the stench he leaves behind.’ Something like that?”

Naomi turned, stepped in close, and put her hand upon his chest. She gazed up into his startled eyes, her own half-lidded, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “You know me so well, King Leonis. How about we get together later, just you and me, and I’ll share my idea of a fun night out?”

Leonis paled and stepped back. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me, Emberling. I care only for serious studying and deep meditations.”

Lianshi giggled and pulled Naomi away, draping an arm around her shoulder. “I have much to learn from your techniques.”

Naomi blushed furiously as self-awareness flooded her, but smiled self-consciously as she allowed Lianshi to lead her down the hallway. Scorio and Leonis followed at a short distance.

“How are you doing?” asked Leonis, tone sober.

“All right. Nervous. I need this win.”

“Yeah, you do. But I think you’ve a good chance. The loser’s bracket is a tough crew, but each of them is there because they’ve already lost once. Sixty-four men and women looking to regain their honor and prove themselves better than everyone else. They’re going to be under a lot of mental pressure. You can exploit that.”

“Yeah,” said Scorio softly as they merged with the other students heading toward the basilica. A few cast him sidelong glances, but most seemed preoccupied with their own conversations. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if I lose. I can’t wait years to continue advancing.”

“Don’t think that way,” rumbled Leonis, voice pitched low so that only Scorio could hear. “Take strength from your accomplishments. You’ve done more in a few months than anyone else here, including the new Emberlings. Who survived being thrown through the Final Door?”

“All right, yes, I understand,” said Scorio.

“No. You need to hear this.” Leonis stared straight ahead as they walked together. “I don’t think you appreciate how incredible your successes have been. You survived a literal death sentence. You forced Naomi of all people to begin training you. I can’t even get her to smile. You found a way to farm Black Star flowers. You brute-forced your way to Cinder through sheer bloody-minded determination. You discovered the other, ah, older run, then took to it like a drunkard to a pool of unrefined flaywine. But all of that’s nothing compared to what you then did. You helped an Imperator defeat Imogen the Woe. You played a part in that. You had the wits to survive when even the White Queen was taken, and then the discipline to wait for your moment. Which you took, and which made all the difference.”

Leonis grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him out of the flow of the students into a side alcove. He set him against the wall, his strength irresistible, and stared at him with a sober, grave look that Scorio had only seen him manifest in the Gauntlet. “You need to internalize those facts, my friend.” He thrust a finger into Scorio’s chest, right above his heart. “You need to understand what it is you’ve done, because it’s our actions that define us, and yours speak volumes as to the manner of man you are. You said that both Sol and Imogen recognized you from previous lives. That Imogen allowed you to remain alert and yourself because of her memories of you. Think on that. What that means. You’re an individual of such presence and power that an insane Imperator chose to respect you and enjoy your presence.”

Scorio inhaled deeply, transfixed by Leonis’s stare. It was so intense that it was almost a glare, pinning him to the wall. “Yes,” he said at last and gave a curt nod. “I hear you.”

“No, you don’t. I can tell. You think those deeds happened by luck, or that anyone else could have done them. And you’re right, to a degree. Any one of us could have pulled off one of those accomplishments. Jova, whomever. But you did them all. Back-to-back, you accomplished the impossible, again and again. And now you’ve a new trial before you. But you need to understand: this fight is just another stepping stone on your path toward success. You’re going to win. After what you’ve been through? This is nothing.”

Leonis grabbed a fistful of Scorio’s robes, pulled him away from the wall, then thrust him back hard. “You hear me?”

“Yeah,” said Scorio.

Leonis glowered, pulled him away, shoved him back harder against the wall. “You’re not convincing me. Where’s that damn fire, Scorio? You showed me more fire when I told you to ease off your training back in the ruins than you’re doing now.”

Scorio inhaled again, and his chest felt tight, his stomach fluttery, and his palms prickled. He felt again that spark of resolve, remembered his rage when he’d thought his friends were telling him to not take advantage of his scant resources. How he’d been willing to cross to the Old Academy all by himself and risk physical and spiritual destruction to keep honing his skills.

How this one fight was only the next obstacle. The next hurdle he had to leap over to continue his fight.

“You’ve been given nothing but bad cards since you reincarnated,” said Leonis, tone hard. “And you’ve played them to your best advantage, again and again. So now your Heart is ruined, and you need to win this fight to earn a chance at healing it. Take it. Whoever volunteers to fight against you, crush them. Destroy them. Manifest that rage, that will to power, and grind them to the finest powder. You hear me, Scorio?”

“Yeah,” said Scorio, and a prickling fire washed over his skin, his hands curling into fists. “I do.”

“There it is,” said Leonis with a predatory smile. “There’s the look I’ve come to fear and love.”

“I’ve got this,” said Scorio, pushing off the wall. Leonis released him and stepped back. “Thank you, my friend. I needed that.”

“Nah,” said Leonis, brushing off Scorio’s shoulders with quick sweeps of his hand. “You had it all along. Let’s go.”

They were at the back of the crowd now and hurried to reach the basilica before it was too late. It was passingly strange to enter the Aureate Hall here, to see the walls and roof undamaged, the murals gleaming and vivid, the trees growing in their massive stone containers verdant and straining toward the crimson light of First Rust.

But then they swept through the double doors and into the basilica, and the sound hit him like a wave, an ocean of movement and voices, students filtering between the biers to find their own, the excitement palpable, the tension rich and provocative.

But it wasn’t just students. Nearly as many strangers were there, moving to claim biers as well, clad in august robes of the main Houses, along with errant Great Souls who had chosen to watch the student fights.

Leonis led the way confidently down to their original biers, close by the base of the Archspire, and Scorio slowed as they drew close to trace the height of that wondrous spike that climbed so high into the air. Allowed his gaze to travel over the high, impossible domes, along the far-away balconies wreathed in ivy, the resplendent and impossible glory of this one, single, massive chamber, the adumbrated lockers, the shafts of ruddy light streaming down from the high windows, the air alive with energy and melding voices.

“Greetings, Class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three!” Chancellor Praximar’s voice rolled across the room, silencing all conversation and drawing every pair of eyes. He’d stepped up onto the far stage upon which Scorio had first seen him, and was clad in a gorgeous robe of beige that was so heavily encrusted with golden filigree and diamonds that it appeared more a suit of armor than ceremonial vestments.

Students stood to attention beside their biers, their knots breaking apart so that soon the silence was absolute.

“What a time to be alive! History is in the making, and I believe that your class will witness events beyond the norm. Era-defining moments that will be studied in future history classes, if any of us remain to study them. Bastion itself is only now starting to recover from a grievous attack, one which was repulsed only at grave expense. A living legend, Imperator Sol, journeyed here from the Abyss itself to give us succor, leaving his comrades in arms to fight alone for precious days. A gift for which we, and every soul in Bastion, shall be forever grateful.”

Scorio felt his skin prickle as stares were turned upon him. Would Praximar mention his role? Would he single him out? Scorio found himself fervently wishing he wouldn’t, and stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.

“But that is but a sign of the times! Word has reached us that the Emerald Host is on the march, for the Viridian Heart has chosen to migrate for the first time in a century. Elsewhere, a mana quake of unprecedented strength has sent Gold mana flooding thousands of miles north, washing over territories that can hardly withstand the assault such flooding will allow. The White Queen herself told me that the Cerulean Oracle has returned to life and begun giving prophecies! Worse, that LastRock has fallen to the Blood Ox, and our forces stream back across the Bone Plains in disarray.”

Voices arose in wonder and consternation, and Praximar raised both hands, waiting patiently for silence once more. “Momentous events! Once you have lived as long as I, you will realize that these convulsions come in waves. Years of peace and stasis followed by times of great chaos. It is in these moments that losses are suffered, yes, but also in which striking victories can be achieved. We cannot guess what the next few years will bring, but now is the time for brave souls, for intrepid warriors to stream forth from the halls of this Academy to buttress the ranks of those who have been fighting for our cause! You, Cinders and Emberlings, are the future, and hidden amongst your number are the Charnel Duchesses, the Blood Barons, nay, even the Crimson Earls and Imperators that will lead us in tomorrow’s victories. I, and every member of the Academy, salute you, and wish you the greatest success in the struggles to come!”

Scorio drew a breath of surprise and pleasure; he glanced sidelong at his friends and saw Lianshi’s eyes shining with emotion, Leonis frowning as he nodded slowly, even Naomi listening intently, reluctantly.

“But today! Today, my friends, we do not march into glorious war, but rather continue the process of refinement, of separating the wheat from the chaff, by watching you pit your best efforts against each other. Know that to lose in these fights is not dishonor; it simply means you have more to learn, and that your chance at glory remains ahead of you. But the victors shall continue forward, earning ever more accolades and attention, striving for the chance to be part of the final two teams who shall assail the Gauntlet with every House’s blessings. Fight, my friends, as if your future depended on it! Fight, students of the Academy, as if hell’s fate rested upon your shoulders, because it does, oh you brave and wondrous Great Souls, it does. Fight and show us your worth, show us your mettle, prove yourselves before the eyes of the Houses and your peers, and seize glory!”

Praximar’s voice rang out, and hundreds of voices raised themselves in cheers, crying out with charged emotion causing a flock of doves to burst out of their roosts from some high ledge and sweep across the great void of the dome, wings fluttering in the red light, to alight upon the spreading branches of a slender tree that grew out at a pained angle from the highest balcony as it reached for the light.

“He gives a good speech,” said Leonis in a low voice so that only Scorio could hear. “You have to give him that. Even if he tends to repeat himself.”

Scorio’s heart was pounding, his mind light, his body feverish with the desire to prove himself. He could only nod, eyes locked still on the distant Praximar.

“Now, students, before you infuse your crystals and lie upon your biers, Instructor Helminth would like to issue a unique challenge to those sixty-four souls who shall be fighting today.

Scorio’s breath caught in his throat as the Hell Whip stepped to the fore, her smile broad, almost cruel. “Students! As you know, Imperator Sol himself requested that Scorio and Naomi be readmitted to our class and afforded all opportunities available within the Academy. Who are we, then, to deny these two students a chance at winning the tournament? Of course, the rosters are full, the brackets complete, but here lies my challenge: which of you sixty-four wish to prove yourselves truly worthy by competing against Scorio in a preliminary bout, the winner of which will then fight again in today’s matches?”

Hundreds of heads swiveled as everyone turned to stare at Scorio, who ignored them all and only stood straighter, chin raised. A cry sounded out as a student leaped atop his bier, hand raised to the sky.

“I will accept this challenge!” His voice shook with an excess of emotion. “I accept, Instructor Helminth!”

A youth, a boy with skin as white as milk and hair as pale as morning mist. Slender, gawky, but with a searing intensity that caused him to tremble as he stared fixedly at the distant stage.

“Very well, today’s combats will begin with a qualifying bout between Etheren and Scorio.” Helminth’s voice betrayed no sense of whether she was pleased or not. “Students, honored guests, and spectators, infuse your crystals and lie upon your biers! The Archspire shall convey you to the Arena, where we shall see who shall progress and who will be left behind.”

Leonis stepped in close. “Etheren’s a Cinder, won his last fight by luck; his opponent twisted her ankle halfway through and he showed killer instinct in taking her down. He’s fast but not strong, don’t underestimate his ability to take punishment and keep getting up. Put him down hard, and don’t turn your back on him.”

Scorio nodded and saw that Etheren had hopped down from his bier and was staring through the crowd at him. Even at this distance, Scorio could see that his eyes were as pale as the rest of him. Scorio moved to the base of the bier, palmed the familiar crystal, and swept Coal into its depths. When it flared to life, he hopped up onto the broad, jeweled surface, and lay back.

All around him came the whispers of cloth and sounds of movement as almost a thousand other Great Souls did the same. Glancing down the length of his body, he saw the officials atop the stage descending to biers of their own.

Scorio closed his eyes. Lay there in the warm darkness of his own mind, feeling his heart pound. It beat steadily, as if more assured of the outcome than he was. Over and over again it pounded, until a sense of change came over him.

He was standing, on his feet, and he snapped his eyes open to see that the world had changed. He stood across from Etheren on a plain sparring circle that was a larger version of the one in which he’d dueled Feng, but this hardly held his attention.

Instead, it was the arena around him that stole his breath away; the sparring circle stood like an island in an ocean of darkness that was bounded on all sides by a vast oval wall of pale red stone that rose some thirty yards to where the first seats ringed the entirety of it, with ever more rising behind.

The sky was dark, featureless, but the entirety of the sparring circle was lit by a pale and clear light that banished all shadows. The floor was composed of rough flagstones that might have been cut coral, and no retaining wall bound its circumference. It had to be some forty yards across, with nowhere to run, no features to use against his foe.

Etheren stood tall and resolute on its far side, jaw clenched, pale eyes focused on him with something akin to rage, perhaps hatred.

The arena was so vast that the thousand souls that had manifested on the stands to watch only took up the lower few rows of seating; above them stretched endless empty benches that culminated some hundred yards above the first. How many would it take to fill such a space? What sort of events had been held here in the past that something so vast was needed? The very scale of the arena was intimidating, and Scorio tore his gaze away from the spectators, their faces small and blurring into each other, to center himself and once more meet Etheren’s gaze.

“The rules are simple.” Helminth’s voice rang out from an invisible source up on high. “Anything is allowed. Victory takes place when your opponent yields, touches the ground outside the ring, or is rendered unable to fight. This being a mystical space, you have no need to fear unleashing your full abilities upon each other; no injuries will remain when you awaken. The fight will begin on the third chime, interfering in another combat will immediately disqualify you from the tournament, and there will be one bout. Good luck, contestants.”

Etheren lowered himself into a fighting crouch, hands closed into loose fists before him, face half-turned away, eyes turned to their corners to keep track of him.

Scorio wanted to laugh, to hop up and down a few times, to shake out his arms. Instead, he closed his eyes, blocked out all the sound, the distant conversations, the sense of pressure that came both from so many people watching him and his own internal pressures.

He recalled his long and lonely runs through the ruins. That fire that had led him through so many conflicts. That had guided him to victory, again and again. Thought of Leonis, fist gripping the front of Scorio’s robes, his gaze challenging, demanding.

I can do this, he thought, and the last of his fears fell away. He summoned his Heart, and it hung before him as if it had always been there, just waiting to be acknowledged. Around them swirled different streams of mana, and Scorio reached out with calm surety to guide a great stream of Iron into his core. Drew it in, heavy and comforting, till he could draw in no more, then with a flexion of his will he packed in another gust all the same.

The first chime sounded, crystalline and pure.

Scorio, eyes closed, sought to expand the reservoir of his Heart. He saw now the hairline fractures through which mana immediately began to seep. Swallowing his anger, his irritation, he swept in more Iron. Felt his Heart swell, pushed near to bursting. Saw more Iron seeping out.

The second chime.

He needed to win this fight. But he needed to win with great finality. Needed to impress upon the House representatives that he was worth betting on, worth sponsoring, spending their resources, and showering with treasures.

More mana. Felt the Iron swell his Heart further, saw the increased pressure cause it to vent faster. He’d not be in this predicament if he’d been treated fairly. But there was no fairness. There was only that which you could take out and seize.

The third chime sounded, and Scorio caused his Heart to ignite. It lit in a great rush of transparent gray flames, wreathed like a bonfire, and strength and power flooded his frame, a sense of invincibility, as different from a Coal burn as Amber was from First Clay.

His eyes snapped open, and he saw that Etheren was already sprinting toward him, letting out a battle cry, eyes wide in anger and determination.

Scorio let him come. Swept more mana into his Heart, shoring up its losses, packing it tight again, causing the flames to leap higher, his strength to grow, his fists to feel like great rocks, his legs yearning for movement, for release, to charge forth and meet Etheren in the center of the ring.

The other Cinder came right at him at full pelt, a thousand Great Souls watching, the crowd roaring, the sound swelling around them like the waves of an ocean in a bottle-neck cove, smashing about them, inducing a madness of its own, demanding spectacle, demanding a sight worthy of the event.

No plan. No conscious intent. But the power in Scorio could be held back no longer. Silent, he burst forward, three huge strides, each step feeling like it should shatter the ground, and then he leaped.

Etheren’s eyes widened as he drew close, head tilting back, his planned blow abandoned, skidding to a stop.

For a moment, a terrible, perilous second, Scorio felt himself hang in the air above the other Cinder, eight feet off the ground, and knew in his heart what this was that hawks felt in the second before the plunge.

Then he came crashing down like a landslide, like a collapsing building, and with every ounce of his strength, he drove his fist into Etheren’s face, the blow coming from the hips, his whole body turning and falling into the punch.

Etheren tried to block, flung up his arms, but Scorio slammed his fist right through his guard and smashed his knuckles square across his jaw.

He felt bone break. Felt the other man’s cheek jelly. Etheren’s head snapped down and aside, the force ripping through his body and causing it to lift off the ground and turn as if the violence was delayed, had to run down his length. The Cinder’s head turned and dropped as his body rose and spun, and then Scorio landed in a crouch just a second before Etheren fell heavily to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Scorio rose to his feet. Etheren’s neck was twisted unnaturally, but still, he recalled Leonis’s words and raised his fists, the fire that consumed his Heart wreathing his mind, his thoughts, his soul. He prepared for the other to rise somehow, for his head to turn back around, for the fight to continue, but then Etheren’s body faded away, and Scorio was left alone on the sparring circle.

Silence. Scorio lowered his hands and turned to stare at the arena’s audience. A thousand faces stared back, and for a moment he wondered if he’d done something wrong, broken some rule, disqualified himself. He felt a rising, crawling panic, a certainty that they’d throw him through the Final Door again, laugh at his protests, tell him he didn’t belong, that the nature of his victory proved him an outsider—

But then he heard a bellow that had to be Leonis’s, a smattering of applause broke out, and this seemed to galvanize the others who began to yell their approval, the sound building and building till the crowd’s roar washed over him like wildfire.

Scorio gasped, smiled in shock, then let the expression fall away as he turned in a slow circle. Not everyone was clapping. Not everyone was cheering. But enough people were that he felt the flush of victory, felt his heart tremble as his Heart guttered out, and then the Hell Whip’s voice spoke out once more.

“Victory goes to Scorio, who will take Etheren’s place in the tournament.”

The arena faded from view, and Scorio awoke upon the bier. Reflexively he tensed against the onset of pain, but nothing happened; he lay at his ease, unhurt, body hale and whole.

Sitting up, blinking in confusion, he realized that of course he’d not be wounded, he’d won, and then realized further that the whole assumption was based on a fallacy; he’d awoken from the original Gauntlet without pain. It was only the ancient murder trial in the Old Academy that left one with lingering psychic anguish.

“You did it!” Lianshi slid off her bier and skipped over to him, grinning widely. “What a blow! Where did—”

“Do not leave your biers, students,” came Helminth’s voice. “We return to the basilica only to reset the Arena. Contestants, prepare yourselves for your next round.”

Lianshi beamed at him as she gripped his arm tightly, then hurried back and up onto her bier. Naomi sat up just enough to give him a curt nod of approval, and on his other side, he caught sight of Leonis just in time to see the massive man give him a wink.

Then darkness swept up and claimed him once more.