Chapter 54

They searched the ruins to no avail. Traversed the shattered streets, visited Naomi’s old, slanted apartment, called her name out over the broken courtyards and dust-choked alleys.

As Amber gave way to Second Bronze, then Second Rust, Scorio asked Lianshi and Leonis to return without him.

“Without you?” Leonis wiped a streak of ash from his face. “What are you talking about?”

“I need a moment. Just some time. I’ll follow after. Please.”

“Come on, Leonis,” said Lianshi, taking his arm. “Let’s give him some space.”

Leonis frowned but allowed himself to be dragged away.

Scorio turned and retraced his steps. He thought at first he might return to his own crude chamber but found himself walking toward Naomi’s tower once more. Climbing the angled staircase all the way to the top, he stepped across the landing and entered her room once more.

Of course, she wasn’t there. The curtains blew in with the damp breeze that presaged the rain that was to fall at Second Clay. Her massive bed was covered in tangled sheets, but the disorder was old. Her most precious belongings were gone, hidden, no doubt, where no casual scavenger would find them.

A great and painful feeling arose within his chest, making it hard to breathe, and Scorio stepped out onto her balcony. Lowered into a crouch, back against the doorframe, and stared out over the ruins. At the great tendrils of cloud that were just starting to curve up toward the rust-hued sun-wire, that would eventually form great spirals about that glowing strand and coalesce into the evening’s rainstorms.

Scorio felt blank, hollow. He gazed out over the city. Here and there, nonsensical architectural follies reflected the warping Imogen had visited upon its corpus. Towers dissected, their innards revealed, a series of arches extending out to nothing, a street that ran up the side of a building and then along the underside of an inverted bridge.

How had it come to this? How had he gone from last night’s pinnacle of elation to this crushing place of doubt and despair? Praximar must have known of his theft for several weeks. Kayla must have conferred with him, told him the truth. But he’d bided his time. Waited, watched, then dropped his hammer the second he saw Scorio about to succeed.

His bleak despair constricted and became fury. What a rat bastard. To wait like that. To let Scorio taste sweet success before stealing it away from him. Was it rank sadism? Hatred? Did he loathe Scorio for being a Red Lister, or for surviving his punishment? Perhaps it was the indignity of being forced to take Scorio back, unable to argue with Imperator Sol’s decree?

Scorio pursed his lips. And if he found Sol? Explained the situation? Would Sol intervene?

No.

Because at the heart of it all, the most bitter element was that he’d actually done the crime. He’d tried to put it behind him, thought it forgotten, but the deed was his.

Scorio had stolen, had fought innocent guards, had been part of the team that had even apparently killed some of their numbers.

As much as he hated Praximar, he couldn’t escape that fact.

He’d broken the law. He’d been willing to take part in a criminal enterprise, and the consequences were his to bear.

Scorio sighed and stared out over the city once more, past the ruins to the vibrant, living part of Bastion. He watched as dots moved about the streets, carts rolled along the axial avenues that curved overhead to disappear behind the glow of the sun-wire. Ten thousand souls going about their business, each a universe unto themselves.

And him, here, alone, having to grapple with consequences.

Should he take Praximar’s oath? His immediate reaction was to say no; he wanted in no way to agree to any plan of Praximar’s, to become his accomplice, to put himself further under the man’s heel.

But that was pride talking.

The longer Scorio sat there, watching the great curves of steam rise from the canals, the longer Scorio realized there was a deeper truth at stake.

He’d committed the crime. It was his burden to bear. If he lied further, if he engaged in even greater duplicity, he’d only make things worse.

He’d broken the law, sure. But to continue to deceive would bury him forever in a web of lies and obligations.

No. He’d refuse Praximar’s oath. Which meant House Chimera would withdraw their sponsorship, tarnishing his reputation permanently.

Which meant no regimen of rare treasures and healing pills.

Which meant he’d have to find a way to win the next round of the tournament without House Chimera’s help.

And, in turn, that he’d have to run the Gauntlet on his own strengths alone. With a fractured Heart that was venting forty percent of its mana. A venting that would make it nearly impossible to reach Emberling.

Scorio buried his face in his hands and groaned. He had no chance at beating Jova without reaching Emberling. But he couldn’t force his Heart to expand to its maximum if it vented almost half of all the mana he poured into it.

To counterbalance that loss, he’d need a monumental amount of mana. The Academy’s allotment of one Black Star pill would never suffice.

His heart was pounding, pounding, and his pulse roared in his ears like some forest fire. He couldn’t sit still, so leaped to his feet and gripped at the stone balustrade of the balcony. All the power he’d developed, the successes, the improbable victories. All of it for nothing.

Praximar was going to take it all from him with a sneer.

Scorio’s shoulders rose and fell as he breathed deep. There was no way out. The trap was perfect. Without Chimera, he couldn’t win. Couldn’t make Emberling. Without Emberling, he couldn’t beat Jova. Without beating Jova, he had to leave the Academy, and would never learn the truth of his past.

He’d be back on the streets, his reputation ruined, his Heart broken, destined to labor in obscurity for years just to undo the damage he’d done to himself to achieve this chance.

And all because Praximar loathed him for being a Red Lister.

Which he’d been born into, a heritage completely outside his control.

With a snarl, Scorio slammed his fist down on the stone railing. Staring out over the city, he seethed with impotent fury. What could he do? The question beat at him like the hammer upon an anvil, over and over again, but no answer was forthcoming.

He was beat.

But he’d not go meekly. He’d not fade graciously into the ruins. If Praximar thought he’d won, that he’d destroyed this Red Lister’s hopes, then Scorio would simply have to live up to the title.

Red Lister.

He’d kill Praximar. If it was the last thing he did. He’d find a way. And in that moment, just before he plunged the dagger home, he’d stare into Praximar’s eyes and see none of that contempt, that self-righteous disgust. He’d grip him by the throat and force him to admit he’d made a mistake, to apologize…

Scorio let out a cry of chagrin and wheeled away from the balcony, staggering back into the apartment. What madness was this? How could he, a broken Cinder, hope to kill a Pyre Lord?

Scorio stared sightlessly at the room. But what else was there? Ask Helena and Feiyan for employment? Return to his mean room in the ruins to train quietly, slowly, to mend and grow strong over the next five, ten years?

His eyes burned and he clenched his hands into fists. He fought the urge to destroy Naomi’s apartment, to shatter the furniture, to hurl the table, dash the bottles and books to the floor.

He wanted to lash out, to break, to destroy. For a wild moment, he toyed with the idea of simply racing deeper into the ruins, to hunt down the greatest predators, to fight them one by one till he died, venting his rage in blood and shattered carapaces till he was no more.

The idea had a terrible allure. To let go. To allow his fury to own him. His lungs were a bellows, his breath as hot as fire.

But it all felt futile.

He’d bet it all on each escalating wager, never knowing that Praximar had been toying with him all along.

With a moan, Scorio dropped to his knees. He didn’t want to kill Praximar. He didn’t want to destroy random monsters in the ruins. He just wanted to grow, to dominate, to wrest the truth from Jova, to… to become himself, whoever that was.

“You look terrible,” said Naomi, and he jerked upright to see her standing in the doorway. “And also like you’re not planning to leave anytime soon.”

“Naomi,” he breathed, struggling to his feet.

“No,” she said, raising a hand and cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear it. I just want you out.”

Scorio hesitated, mouth open, wanting to protest, to argue with her, but in her eyes, he saw flat animosity. His own words from the night before rang in his ears, mocking him, and he hung his head.

“All right.” His voice sounded dead even to his own ears. “My apologies for trespassing here.”

And with that he crossed the room as she stepped aside, making his way to her door. His rage was gone, having sluiced away at the sight of her face. Now he was an effigy made of regret and bitterness, self-recrimination and loathing. Had he expected sympathy from her? A second chance? He thought he’d been ready to argue for it, to plead his case, but now that just made him feel all the pettier.

So he’d just go.

Scorio passed through the doorway, out onto the landing, when she called after him.

“They screwed you, didn’t they?”

He stopped, jaw clenched, staring down the steep stairwell.

“I warned you.” He heard his own rage in her words. Scalding and raw. “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Scorio inhaled deeply. Her words were lashes across his shoulders, but he welcomed them. Deserved them. Still, he made no move to turn, to speak.

“You were such a fool,” she hissed, moving closer, no doubt standing in the doorway now. “The moment they allowed you back into the light, oh, how you ran up to them, like a scorned pup, tongue wagging, eyes bright with adoration. Pills and elixirs, a hot pool, a chance to sit in on some classes, and everything they’d done to you was forgotten.”

Scorio gritted his teeth, wanted to protest, but the words were ashes in his mouth.

“You’re just like every other reborn Great Soul,” she said, voice growing low and venomous. “Convinced of your own divinity. I thought your experiences here in the ruins would have changed that. Given you some insight into the nature of this world. But no. All it took was one crooked finger and you forgot it all in exchange for—what? A chance to be a House’s latest pet?”

Scorio frowned, looked back at her over his shoulder. “You went running, too.”

Naomi shifted up into her Nightmare Lady form, faster than thought, and her tail lashed out, blurring through the air to wrap around his neck, the segmented joints pressing cruelly into his throat and lifting him right off the ground.

“I went because of you,” she seethed, drawing closer, talons clicking on stone, eyes burning in the gloom. “Which only makes me the greater idiot.”

Scorio wheezed, clutched at her tail, his head pounding, legs kicking a good foot off the ground. “No,” he hissed. “Not… true.”

The Nightmare Lady cocked her head to one side, the manner akin to that of a bird of prey. “What would you know, pup?”

Motes of black were dancing in his eyes, and his head felt as if it were swelling. “Like me… you… dream… of power.”

Without lips, she couldn’t frown, but her eyes narrowed to slits. For a moment he thought she’d disembowel him, her claws flickering, but then her tail loosened, and he fell through its coils to crash into a crouch upon the landing.

Breathing deeply, Scorio massaged his throat and stared up at her. “You want power.” His voice was hoarse, and it pained him to speak, but he pressed on. “Like me. Power to determine your future. To defend yourself. And you thought there was a chance to wrest some from the Academy. To use it. Just like I did.”

“Then we were both fools,” she whispered, stepping back toward her doorway. “Both fools. There is nothing for us at the Academy but abuse and control. It’s a slaughterhouse, and every student a heifer they’re fattening for the cull.”

“Maybe.” Scorio sat, back against the wall, one arm propped on a knee, hand still to his raw throat. “But you know as well as I do that’s where the power is. Out here? Scraps.”

She withdrew into the doorway altogether. “Then if you like it so much, what brings you here? Sniveling and looking ready to punch the floor?”

Scorio felt the flicker of anger return, the reminder as to his fate, and smirked bitterly. “Because you were right. Praximar screwed me.”

She snorted. “I’m surprised it took him this long.”

“He was just biding his time. But he’s got me tied over a barrel.”

“So you came to apologize.” Her tone grew derisive. “Now that you’re being cast out, you came running to your old friend Naomi to ask her forgiveness.”

Scorio considered. “Yeah. But forget it. I don’t ask for your forgiveness. I don’t think I deserve it. But I’ll still apologize.”

The Nightmare Lady snorted, the sound strange coming from her nasal slits. “Don’t play with me.”

“I’m not. My mistakes have come to roost. Given how many I’ve made, it’s shocking I’ve made it this far.”

“Which mistake?” she asked reluctantly.

“Stealing from House Chimera. The vials. Praximar found out. He’s going to tell them if I don’t swear a Heart Oath to throw the tournament and then flush out of the Academy at the year’s end.”

The Nightmare Lady considered, and then chuckled. “Nicely done, Praximar.”

Scorio frowned but fought down the surge of anger. “Very nicely done. Now either I agree to his plan and become further enmeshed in his plans, or I reject them, lose Chimera’s patronage, and flunk out of the Academy at year’s end with a ruined reputation.”

The Nightmare Lady settled down into a crouch, her carapace gleaming darkly, her spindly arms propped on her knees. “Welcome to the real world, Scorio the Abhorred.”

“Yeah.” He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me.”

“What are you going to do?”

He didn’t know how he could tell, given that her voice remained the same, but he sensed that she’d returned to her human form. Scorio pursed his lips, then sighed. “I’d gotten as far as trying to figure out how to kill him.”

This drew a surprised laugh from her. “Kill Praximar? I knew there was a reason I didn’t find you totally repellant.”

Scorio cracked open an eye and grinned at her. “Careful. You’re going to make me think I’ve a chance of earning your forgiveness.”

“None,” she snapped, curling her black hair back over an ear. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t admire your seemingly endless capacity for stupidity.”

“So you don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a great idea. I just don’t think you have a chance in hell.”

“That’s the conclusion I was reaching myself. I could just take his offer and go Chimera all the way, though I doubt they’d reward me highly for losing. It might be better than nothing, though.”

Naomi made no comment but just watched him carefully.

“But… that would make me feel utterly disgusting, so that’s out, too.” He frowned. “Which means refusing his offer and washing out. With my Heart so badly fractured, there’s no way I can beat Jova in the final Gauntlet run without Chimera’s help. I’m done.”

“For one who fought all the odds to get into the Academy a second time, you give up surprisingly quickly.”

Scorio’s frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Naomi shrugged a shoulder. “Just that I’ve never heard you give up before.”

Scorio leaned forward. “My heart vents forty percent of all mana I take in. And with just base-level Black Star pills, I’ll never be able to consume enough to expand to my greatest capacity. You telling me there’s another way to make Emberling?”

“No,” she said quietly. “Not that I know of. But I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Scorio paused. He knew her well enough to hear the tone of finality in her voice, to sense the distance that had been lurking in the wings and only now stepped fully into view.

“Yeah, I guess I will.” Slowly, laboriously, he pulled himself up to standing. Naomi rose smoothly to her feet as well, her expression composed, neutral, guarded. “You mind if I stop by on occasion, just to say hello?”

She inhaled slowly, considering him, then shook her head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’ve known since we met that you were trouble, Scorio. That with your confidence and recklessness you’d take me places I didn’t want to go. Even back to the Academy. So in a way, I guess I should thank you for last night. For reminding me who you are, and why I should have listened to my first instincts and stayed away from you.”

Scorio felt her words like a punch to the chest, but still, he forced himself to smile. “Harsh. Coming from the Nightmare Lady.”

She didn’t smile in return.

“Well, at least I got to apologize. Thank you for… everything, I suppose. Take care of yourself, Naomi.”

“You too, Scorio.” She hesitated, as if she wished to say something more, and then shook her head, stepped back into her apartment, and closed the door.

Scorio remained still for a long, long time. Despite his words, he’d believed that she’d have come round to his side once more. That he’d have somehow charmed her, or that she’d have taken pity on him, or that she’d have felt his outrage over what had happened, and that she’d have agreed to help. To train him, or provide him with a solution, offer him, perhaps, her Sapphire vials.

But no.

He stared at the closed door and felt another sliver of hope within his breast die.

Naomi had done far more for him than he could ever have hoped for. She’d trained him, given him the means to advance, stood by his side, even followed him into the Academy.

But she’d help him no more.

Slowly, reluctantly, he tore himself away and descended her steps. Didn’t see the floors as he passed them by, and found himself outside, blinking in the ruddy light of Second Clay.

Without options, without a plan, without hope of progressing.

Scorio inhaled deeply and stared up at the dimming sun-wire and the spirals of mist that were already curling up to encircle it.

“I won’t give up,” he swore to himself. “I won’t.”

Turning, he began the long walk back to the Academy. But despite his vow, his heart felt leaden, his mouth felt full of ashes, and he couldn’t see anything before him but all the doors that had been slammed in his face.