Chapter 64

“It’s not like it’s never happened before,” Lianshi was saying. The three of them were making their way back to their suite. “Apparently Iulius the Golden reached Flame Vault by the end of the first semester.”

“Iulius the Golden?” Leonis shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“Hasn’t been reborn in some time.” Lianshi shrugged a shoulder. “A lot of people are looking forward to his return. He was a huge presence right up till he stopped being reborn.”

“I bet Praximar wishes I’d disappear in the same way,” muttered Scorio.

“Or,” said Leonis, throwing an arm around Scorio’s shoulders, “maybe he likes being antagonized and driven to distraction by upstart rapscallions such as yourself.”

Scorio snorted. “And here I was thinking he was a sadist all the time. Turns out he’s a masochist.”

“You know the old adage?” Leonis leered down at him. “The masochist says hurt me, and the sadist says no.”

Scorio frowned up at his friend. “You saying I should stop upsetting Praximar?”

“Nothing would make him more upset. What would he do with all his time?”

To which Scorio could only snort and shake his head.

They turned into their hall and walked in silence to their door. Entered, one by one, and then all of them sank onto the cushions that filled one corner. Lianshi stared at Scorio, a single vertical line between her brows.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

“About what?” Scorio pulled a cushion onto his lap and started fiddling with the seam. “That my one in a million chance has just turned to zero?”

“Doesn’t look good, I’ll give you that,” sighed Leonis, lying back luxuriously. “How did she make Tomb Spark? At this point, she’s just showing off.”

“To make Tomb Spark you need to take your hugely magnified reservoir and compress it back to its original size.” Lianshi’s tone was pensive. “Resulting in an ultra-dense pool that can easily be ignited. It’s no longer a question of getting enough mana, or high-quality treasures. Your reservoir is already huge. It’s simply a matter of using your will to condense, and that’s fueled by an understanding of who you are. There are Great Souls who make Emberling in no time and then get stuck there for ages, or conversely, those who take forever to get there and then burn right through to Tomb Spark in no time at all. Just a question of understanding yourself, accepting yourself, and willing yourself to ascend.”

“That’s it?” asked Scorio. “You just need to understand yourself? I mean, I understand myself perfectly already.”

“It’s not easy,” said Lianshi, tone severe. “It’s not enough to just say words to yourself, or take guesses, or even realize the truth. Apparently, you have to accept it at a soul level. Truly understand who you are.”

“Think of it this way,” said Leonis. “I know it’s bad for me to drink copious amounts of flaywine the night before an important fight. I know I should spend that time working on my Forms instead. But the knowledge isn’t enough. I still indulge in my many glorious vices. I haven’t, ah, Tomb-Sparked my way from knowing to being, or what have you.”

“Huh,” said Scorio. “So even realizing who you are isn’t enough. You’ve got to… what? Believe it?”

“Something like that,” said Lianshi. “And that’s the hard part. Though apparently, Jova managed just fine. Guess she’s been doing her homework.”

“Funny,” said Scorio. “I thought she was just paddling water. Focusing on her skills, her forms.”

“What, you didn’t see her every night in the training circles?” asked Leonis.

“I did. I just… I’ve been thinking of her as a static target. My mistake.”

They subsided into silence.

“Nothing’s changed, though,” said Lianshi at last. “We’re going to harvest your farm tomorrow, then train in the Gauntlet. You’re going to make Emberling, and we’re going to give the Gauntlet our all in five weeks’ time.”

Scorio grimaced. “Why bother? Even if I make Emberling, Jova’s a damned Tomb Spark. She’ll enter the Gauntlet not only invulnerable due to her Emberling power, but now with a Tomb Spark shroud. What out there can even hurt her?”

“She’s just one person,” said Lianshi, leaning forward. “We’re a team.”

“She’ll be going in with a team,” Scorio spat back.

“But not a real team. Jova’s practically a loner. You’ve seen her. Throw her together with three other strangers, and you think she’ll get along with them? Whereas we three have been working together from the beginning. Well, almost the beginning. How many times have we tackled the old Gauntlet now?”

Scorio frowned, wanting to resist her logic.

“We’re a team, Scorio. And if we enter the Gauntlet as one, who’s to say we won’t do better overall because of it?”

“Not to be a pessimist,” said Leonis with an apologetic wince, “but if Jova reaches the end of the tournament—which we all know she will—then the rest of her team will be the other three Great Souls who make it into the top four. That’s the whole reward, after all.”

“Three other random Great Souls,” said Lianshi heatedly, “none of which will be Ravenna. They’ll be even less of a team than any other line-up. They’ll have been competitors right up till the last second, and each will no doubt bring a large amount of pride and resentment to the mix. Which Jova will icily ignore as she goes about doing what she does best: winning by herself.”

“So, what are you saying?” asked Scorio, bouncing his knee angrily. “That four Emberlings can compete against a Tomb Spark? She’s just gained immunity from the Curse for a whole ’nother segment of the run.”

“True,” said Lianshi. “And that’s no small thing. Nor is her ability to ignore damage. But I’ve told you a hundred times now: she’s not actually invulnerable. Not like I can be. She seems that way against Emberling level damage, but if she gets hit by something more powerful, it will leave a mark.”

“We need Naomi,” said Leonis. “Now more than ever.”

“What we need,” cut in Scorio, “is for me to make Emberling already. I’m the weak part of the team. I’m going to drag you all down.”

“Hence your ludicrous plan to use… imperial gel? To concentrate Coal mana to Ruby-level intensity?” Lianshi gave a sharp shake of her head. “Which, incidentally, is still an utterly ridiculous plan. But which!” She held up a hand to forestall protests. “I am not going to harp on about. You nurture your Black Star plants, you make Emberling, we convince Naomi to come back, then we give the Gauntlet our all. What else can we do?”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Leonis looked over to Scorio in mock surprise. “She’s actually quite good at these motivational speeches, isn’t she?”

“Not bad,” said Scorio, unable to resist smiling.

“You two are insufferable,” said Lianshi, and threw a small pillow at Leonis. “You want me to find some other group to join?”

“No!” Leonis raised both hands defensively. “Who else would we tease in your absence? Each other? The horror!”

Lianshi stared venomously at Leonis, whose smile wilted as he shrank back dramatically. “Oh, spare me, great and glorious leader.”

“I’m not the leader,” said Lianshi, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “Scorio is.”

“I am not,” said Scorio automatically.

The other two both turned to stare at him.

“I’m not. I, ah, just… I don’t know, I’m the one desperate enough to drag you into my hare-brained schemes. That’s all.”

“A desperate leader, then,” said Lianshi with a sniff. “Even better.”

“I really want to know what Jova did to Ravenna,” said Leonis, interlacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. “That was wild. The way she… cowered? I’d have bet a hundred octs before this that Ravenna would die before she showed fear to another.”

“Her Tomb Spark power,” said Lianshi. “Perhaps it’s fear-based. Maybe that’s why she missed, as well. Perhaps terror ruined her aim.”

“As if Jova wasn’t intimidating enough,” said Leonis.

A chime sounded, clear and lucid and loud.

“Time for class,” said Lianshi, rising smoothly to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go see if Feng feels voluble enough to shed some light on what just happened.”

Scorio reluctantly climbed to his feet and straightened his robes. “Thanks, guys.”

“Hmm?” Leonis paused in the process of retying his belt. “For what? For being your friends? Surely you’re not thanking us for that. That’d mean the act of friendship is one that’s not freely given, meaning we’d have to start tallying who’s giving more—”

“You’re welcome,” said Lianshi, cutting in. “Now come on. Last thing I want is to be late. Remember what Feng said last Seventhday?”

“Only too well.” Leonis gave his sash a tight tug and stepped off the cushions altogether. “Let’s go learn what the gossips are saying.”

* * *

More weeks passed. The routine gave Scorio’s life structure yet was also unbearable. He tried to lose himself in each endeavor, to increase his pace in his runs, to improve his First Form, to wield his will like a weapon during Instructor Hera’s meditation classes.

And he saw definite improvement. Even Instructor Feng pointed it out, noting with dry approval that his technique, his instincts, and his focus had moved to another level.

Despite the praise, despite his every accomplishment, Scorio was aware of nothing but his failings. For every Cinder he dropped without receiving a blow in sparring practice, he was aware of the Emberlings tearing each other apart with powers he couldn’t compete against. For every lap he ran in the mornings, he thought of how Jova could easily outpace him if she but bothered to exert herself. For every sack of Heartstones he delivered to Jelan, he was aware of the Fat Crickets and better that most of the class was consuming without expending any effort. He practiced the First Form until each iteration left him gasping, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding as he wreaked ruin on his invisible opponents. Struggled against Iron mana with his every spare moment until walking around with a low-level headache became normal.

But it was never enough. Nothing was enough. Leonis and Lianshi learned to stop trying to comfort him, to place his gains in context. More and more he strove alone, chasing elusive goals, impossible dreams. And was defied at every turn by his fractured Heart.

Every now and then he caught sight of Praximar. The chancellor would be watching him, a slight curve to his lips, his amusement barely disguised. The sight of the older man reveling in his struggles only drove Scorio to darker and deeper bouts of training. Resentment burned within his core like a midnight bonfire. It warmed him, burned him, kept him focused.

But nothing mattered. His Heart vented nearly half of everything he poured into it. He could sense his reservoir slowly expanding, but it felt like trying to empty a pool with a sieve. The more he flailed, the more frustrated he became.

The first batch of Black Star proved fruitful; he collected almost four hundred beads of the deepest ebon, which he placed in a heavy burlap sack and brought home. Nox had loomed the whole time, fidgeting and restless, driven near to distraction by the presence of so much mana. He’d warned that the farm was drawing lethal attention, but Leonis, Lianshi, and Scorio had worked swiftly, gathered their riches, and then left before the Imperial Ghost Toad could have acted rashly.

More weeks crawled by. Tournament rounds. Training sessions. Classes. Histories and geographies, common fiends, greater monsters, the powers of hell, and those who defied them. Feng’s clinical commentary rang in his ears, Hera’s admonishments that he was pushing himself too hard. Helminth’s sardonic stare haunted his nights, and over it all loomed Jova Spike, uncaring, distant, impersonal, a force of nature.

The semester began to draw to a close. Excitement was thick in the air, and even those who hadn’t pushed themselves redoubled their efforts. Not only was the end of the tournament in sight, but just after it the fateful Gauntlet run. Everyone spoke of nothing else. Those with House sponsorships remained quiet, refusing to share their privileged information as to what to expect, while those not so fortunate discussed how best to tackle the first four rooms.

Once or twice Scorio sought out Naomi. But her room had been truly abandoned, and he saw no hint of her no matter how long he looked. He spent long evenings watching the steam clouds curling up toward the darkening sun-wire, gazing out over the ruins and replaying his past, his decisions, his mistakes, until the wire went dark, and the rains would fall, spiraling across the inside of Bastion’s cylinder, drenching ruins and city alike in heavy rains.

Leonis sought to persuade him to go out every once in a while, to visit Feiyan and Helena, to try some of the more exquisite restaurants, to spend their allotments of octs. Scorio refused every time.

Lianshi was a more constant and quieter presence. She trained rigorously by his side, as driven as he but for her own reasons. Evenings in their suite she’d sit upon a cushion and read one of her journals, slowly turning the pages and often frowning at what she discovered within the pages.

She never offered to share what she read, and nobody dared ask.

Weeks crawled by, and while Scorio felt his body responding, his will strengthening, his command of mana improving, it never felt enough.

Forced to give up on having Naomi’s help in turning the four hundred beads of pure Coal mana into potent syrup, Scorio visited the alchemist again, and silenced the man’s protests with a heavy pouch of the very octs he’d earned from Jelan for weeks’ worth of Heartstones. The payment had been more than generous, and the man had blinked, taken the large burlap sack, and a week later, delivered to Scorio a massive jar filled with a depthless black fluid that radiated terrible and dangerous power.

Scorio, Leonis, and Lianshi had sat, staring at the huge jar of incredibly pure Coal mana syrup, until Leonis had shaken himself and risen to his feet.

“That is a terrible temptation. Hide it well, my friend. People will sense it and come looking.”

From that moment on, Scorio always carried the jar with him, swaddled in thick blankets within a backpack, never letting it out of his sight.

The final round of the winner’s bracket arrived. Eight contestants fought for the coveted four spots that would form the winner’s Gauntlet team. Scorio felt nothing as he stood in the stands; no anticipation, no excitement, no eagerness to witness the displays of martial power.

This time he didn’t even focus on Jova’s fight; he didn’t want to watch, to witness her mastery. Instead, he turned his attention to the other three combats. All were Emberlings, but somehow that just wasn’t impressive any longer. The battles were as brutal as they were brief. Zala, who had clawed her way to the top after an ignominious first Gauntlet run, eked out a victory over an Emberling who could transform his body into living rock and lava; Kuragin fought a ruinous battle against Chen She, winning at great cost and a terrible amount of bloodshed; and Juniper, the radiant blonde, was defeated by Chloe, a fight in which they both circled each other cautiously until at last, they clashed in an explosion of blows which seemed to go Chloe’s way more by luck than anything else.

“Jova, Chloe, Kuragin, and Zala,” said Leonis as they’d walked away at the end of the extended and celebratory ceremony. “That’s a strong team.”

“Not a team, remember?” Lianshi was pinching the bridge of her nose. Scorio felt a wave of sympathy; Praximar’s hour-long speech about the glories the four winners would earn both in the Gauntlet and thereafter had grated terribly.

“Jova is nigh unstoppable, and weirdly terrifying,” said Leonis, ticking off a finger. “Chloe needs to deliver but one punch to turn into a tornado of attacks that will demolish any foe. Kuragin is a monster, pure and simple, while Zala’s butterflies will destroy anything in time.”

“Sounds impressive,” said Lianshi, “but there are some glaring weaknesses in their line-up. Not much by way of actual mobility.”

“Kuragin can move,” protested Leonis.

Scorio walked in silence, listening, feeling numb.

“True, but the more he uses his technique, the greater a threat he becomes to his teammates,” replied Lianshi. “And think about chambers like the balancing floor, or what we’ve dealt with in the old Gauntlet. How would they fare there?”

Now Scorio did speak. “Jova would power through the room of flying cubes with no difficulty.”

“Sure, but what about the scrolling wall? Being invulnerable to most damage won’t save you from falling into an abyss.”

“Kuragin could grab her, help her climb,” said Leonis. “Like Naomi did for Scorio.”

Which caused Lianshi to wince and glance at Scorio. “True. But my point is this: they’re all excellent at fighting. That’s what the tournament rewarded, right? The ability to go toe-to-toe? But neither Chloe nor Zala are especially mobile. And none of them have worked together as a team to compensate for each other’s weaknesses.”

“They’ve got two weeks,” said Scorio. “Maybe one of them will make Tomb Spark and gain some crucial power.”

“Maybe,” said Leonis. “But tomorrow we gather the second batch of Black Star and then you’re going to make Emberling.”

“Yeah,” said Scorio softly. “Yeah.”

* * *

They headed out at First Clay, the sun-wire congealing into a ruddy hue that cast a baleful red light across Bastion’s cylindrical insides. Clad in functional work robes, they immediately began to jog the moment they left the Academy’s gates, winding their way south toward the ruins and the Old Academy, following familiar routes and moving with quiet purpose.

No jesting, no idle raillery. The intensity of the occasion bled from Scorio to the other two, united them in purpose, and even street vendors shrank back from their expressions. In his pack he carried the tincture from the first batch of Black Star beads; contained within a massive jar swaddled in thick blankets, it radiated fell power. No way was he leaving that behind in his quarters on every Great Soul’s day off. Though it weighed him down, he felt immeasurably comforted to know exactly where it was at all times.

They slowed as they passed a crowd in Ward 4. A young woman with a shock of crimson hair that had been hacked short stood atop a pedestal, shouting passionately to all who would listen, and hundreds had stopped to do so.

“Wait,” said Scorio. “I know her. I saw her right after Imogen’s attack. She was calling for our downfall.”

They stopped and drew closer.

“…the ruins close about our homes like hands around our throats, and what do they do? They celebrate tournaments, they boast about the treasures they’re bringing home from the depths of hell, they eat as much as they can, then throw the leftovers into the trash! Bastion itself will soon be destroyed, and do they have a plan? No! Have they come out to talk to us, to answer our demands, to show any sign of real leadership? No!”

“Doesn’t sound good,” rumbled Leonis.

“For decades they strung us along with their Empyreal Prophecy, and look where that got us? Nowhere, just wasted time, wasted homes, entire neighborhoods and wards lost to the ruins endless hunger. And now that the prophecy was revealed to be a hoax, have they even bothered to sell us a new lie? Of course not! They feel safe, contented in their halls of power, while we must scrape and fight and die to feed them and their lifestyles! And can they even defend us, can their vaunted powers keep evil away from Bastion?”

Angry shouts answered her as she scanned the crowd.

“No, they can’t! Imogen the Woe nearly tore this city apart before they bothered to fight. I lost my parents, my brother, my little sister, my home, all of it in one moment, and has anyone come forth to apologize? To take responsibility? For my pain? For yours?”

The angry shouts grew in number, and Scorio saw faces flush in fury.

“Of course not! Why should they bother? We’re rats to be ignored, roaches to be crushed under their feet! We’re nothing to them but a source of amusement in bed or labor or taxes! They hold us in nothing but contempt, and our pain, our tears, our blood, it only makes them laugh!”

Fists were thrust into the air, and the woman looked over the crowd again, her green eyes gleaming, nodding in approval of the rage.

“I tell you this, brothers and sisters, I tell you that we have revolted against the oppressors before! Garannil did so a century ago, but he failed because he thought it had to be peaceful! Well, his failure showed us—”

Then her eyes locked on Scorio and widened.

And in that second he finally recognized her. The last time he’d seen her she’d been lit by eerie blue moss, her face drained of color, her hair verdigrised in the subterranean illumination. Since then she’d chopped most of that hair off, eaten a few square meals, and substituted her dull fatalism for revolutionary fervor.

Nissa.

“Time to go,” Lianshi whispered, edging backward.

“They’re here! Great Souls!” She pointed right at him. Did she not recognize him? “There! Come to listen, to eavesdrop! Or have they come to answer our questions?”

“Time to go,” agreed Leonis, quickly fading away as the crowd turned to glare at them.

“Why have no apologies been issued?” shouted Nissa after them. “Who will pay for the blood that was spilled? When will we be given the right to rule over ourselves? Oh! They run? They run! That is what they always do—they run when confronted—”

Scorio and his friends raced into the closest alleyway as the roar grew behind them, angry and demanding. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to be chased, but turned off into another street before anyone did so.

They ran till they left the ward behind, and only then did they slow.

Lianshi looked at them both, pale-faced. “The hatred,” she whispered. “Did you feel that? She truly loathed us.”

“I know her,” said Scorio, tone wondering. “She’s a Red Lister, like me. Escaped at the same time I did. Nissa. She was…” He trailed off, shocked, unable to put his roiling emotions into words.

“A Red Lister?” Leonis let out a low whistle. “That’s not good. We need to tell someone.”

“No.” The intensity of Scorio’s emotions surprised him. “I mean - we can’t. About her, specifically. She was thrown down there with me. Showed me this list of names…”

The other two were staring at him strangely.

“Look, just let her… I don’t know. Be part of this revolution. If anyone has reason to be upset, it’s her, and…”

“You’re not making sense, Scorio,” said Lianshi. “She’s whipping that crowd into a mob. If she’s a Great Soul, then there’s no telling how dangerous that could get.”

“I know.” He raked his hands through his hair roughly. “It’s just that… what happened to me, it’s the same thing that happened to her. It wasn’t fair. And… I just want her to have a chance, you know? If the revolution gets crushed, she can be crushed with it. But the thought of handing her over to Praximar to be thrown back through the Final Door for another hundred lives is just… I can’t take on that responsibility.”

His friends exchanged a dubious glance, then slowly nodded.

“Regardless,” continued Leonis, “this anger in the street’s been building. Each time we come out, it’s gotten worse.”

Scorio nodded reluctantly. “Ever since the prophecy failed. And then Imogen’s attack. They know they’ve only got a decade left before Bastion is consumed. Doesn’t look like Praximar and the other Autocrators have been very good at working with them.”

Leonis rubbed at his beard. “You heard the man. He’s invited community leaders to attend the tournament celebrations, and the Houses are spending money on repairs and so forth in the city.”

Scorio resisted the urge to spit. “He says that, but I’ve not seen anything like that out here. And since none of the other students ever leave the Graveyards, how would anyone know better?”

“But they have to know this anger is out here,” said Lianshi, hurrying to catch up. “They have to know the people are upset.”

“Sure,” said Scorio. “The question is: do they care?”

“They might if they knew a Red Lister was riling them up,” said Lianshi quietly, but Scorio scowled and marched on. They continued in silence and reached the ruins shortly thereafter to work their way across the blasted urban landscape.

Other than a few deviations due to incipient dangers, they reached the monolithic bridge without trouble. Scorio ran steadily across, feeling no fatigue, his whole body thrumming with intent. This was it. This was the moment he’d been angling for, his sole hope, his outside chance of even being in the running.

As they reached the bridge’s far side, Scorio slowed, sensing that both his companions had done the same. Turning, he frowned at them. “What’s wrong?”

Lianshi was studying the ruins off to the left, while Leonis had turned completely around to stare behind them.

“Something is different,” said Lianshi. “Emberling senses. I can’t tell what, but something is close.”

“Same here,” said Leonis, “but I’m just feeling uneasy. The Coal mana in the area is incredibly dense. Feels like a beacon.”

“Feels like we’re being watched,” said Lianshi.

Scorio didn’t question them. Instead, he strode off the bridge, moving toward Nox’s collapsed mound.

The ground shivered, a slight tremble that caused fallen stone around them to grate in complaint.

“Earthquake?” asked Leonis.

Movement within the burrow. Nox. The toad came bounding out, his movements galvanic, frantic. “Favorite friends! Below! Below! Kushiwillow eating Black Stars!”

Kushiwillow. Scorio had never heard the term, but whatever it was had the Imperial Ghost toad fleeing instead of fighting it off. Scorio bared his teeth, felt his face flush as fury flooded him, and with a cry, he ran forward.

The ground shivered once more.

Nox leaped atop his plinth, cocked his blind head to one side. The toad’s whole body radiated alarm.

“That the kushiwillow?” yelled Leonis, rushing in behind Scorio. “It’s shaking the earth?”

“No,” said Nox, his voice suddenly very small, very quiet, very afraid. “That much worse. Alben Worm. Come for mana. Flee, favorite friends, flee!”

And with that Nox sprang into the air, an incredible leap that carried it clear from the tip of its plinth, across the square, and onto the closest rooftop.

The three of them froze.

“We need to get below,” choked out Scorio. “We need to protect the Black Stars.”

The ground shivered again.

“We need to get out of here, Scorio,” said Lianshi, tone strong, brassy with fear and conviction. “We need to run!”

“No!” Scorio’s voice shook, and his fingers twitched of their own accord. “Below! Now!”

Everything was happening too quickly, all at once. The air felt jellied, the red light from the sun-wire painting the world in blood, the shadows over-thick, the situation sliding so rapidly out of his control that Scorio wanted to scream. He turned toward the burrow, but a hand clasped his shoulder, held him fast.

With a snarl, Scorio wheeled about, went to knock the arm away, but saw Leonis’s expression. The large man was staring, aghast, at the square’s far side, where something was rising out of the ground.

Scorio felt nausea sweep through him as his throat cramped.

It was a massive white worm. It had somehow burrowed its way right out of the rock to rear up a good ten yards into the sky. Arms hung from its snout, pallid, human arms, whose fingers grasped and flexed as if in anticipation.

But it was the almost-human visage at the very tip of the worm’s snout that caught and held Scorio’s attention. Skin as pale as alabaster, eyes a peerless sky blue without iris or pupil, expressive brows, the scalp bald, the face that of an older man, wrinkled and aged.

But there was no snout. The worm’s head was the man’s torso, massive and muscular, and the seams of his mouth carved down his chest to where his waist blended with the worm’s body. A mouth that peeled open like a flap of raw flesh being flensed from the flank of a corpse, revealing the entire chest and abdomen to be the underside of its lower jaw, from which lolled a massive, sensual, and utterly repulsive tongue as thick as Scorio’s thigh.

“Alben Worm,” said Lianshi, tone lifeless. “We need… we need to go.”

She was right. But Scorio couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot. All his being was drawing him to the burrow, to where the kushiwillow was devouring his precious mana beads.

The Alben Worm licked its disgusting tongue about itself, leaving a glistening smear of slime over its pale flesh, and then began to surge forward, the rest of its body emerging from its hole.

“Damn it, Scorio,” shouted Leonis, tugging at his shoulder. “We need to leave, now!”

And then, there was a flicker of movement. A dark shape leaped off a rooftop, blurring through the air as it arced out, a languorous somersault that dropped it square in the Alben Worm’s path, the impact on stone causing a cloud of dust and debris to blast out.

Angular, black-formed, her tail lashing out with its wicked blade point, the Nightmare Lady stared at the approaching fiend.

“Go below!” she shouted, voice cracking out across the square like a whip. “Save your plants, Scorio. I’ll hold it off.”

Madness. Fierce as she was, the Nightmare Lady was dwarfed by the behemoth that was the Alben Worm. Its arms reached for her, the human visage leering spasmodically, blue eyes glowing with hunger.

Scorio hesitated. The Nightmare Lady could hold it back, couldn’t she? Give him just enough time to go below and fight off the kushiwillow? She was nimble, fast; she just had to keep it distracted for—what—five minutes? Leonis and Lianshi would help him turn the tide below, then they’d return, return in time to save Naomi—

Scorio felt a dull and enervating sensation sweep through him. He wanted to hang his head, to allow his arms to fall limp, to exhale and allow the darkness to sweep him away. For in that moment, he knew his Black Star plants were lost to him, that with them went the last of his dreams, his terrible, fanciful hope that there yet remained a chance of victory.

“Lianshi, Leonis,” he heard himself say, voice stern, brooking no denial. “With me.”

And he unshouldered his heavy pack, dropped it to the ground, and ran from the burrow. Turned his back to its beckoning tunnel, and ignited his Heart with a great and furious sweep of his will, so that its pitted and fractured surface incandesced in a black inferno.

Leonis stretched out his hand and Nezzar appeared in his grip, improbably massive, its hexagonal form blunt and crude yet somehow inspiring awe. Lianshi raced out wide, no doubt seeking a more advantageous approach, fleet-footed, black hair streaming behind her.

And the Nightmare Lady? She remained still, frozen in the crouch in which she’d landed, watching as the Alben Worm surged toward her, rearing up like a huge wave to crash down upon where she waited.

Scorio wished for a weapon. That mangled blade he’d discarded weeks ago, a rock. Anything with which to pummel or slash the fiend, but he knew his best hope lay in his mana-infused fists. Even with the might of a Cinder coursing through his veins, however, he doubted he’d be able to hurt such a massive fiend with blows alone. But he’d do what he could.

The worm fell upon the Nightmare Lady like a collapsing tower, its huge mouth peeling open as its tongue speared forth. But the Nightmare Lady had been waiting for just that, and dodged aside at the last moment, her tail coming up and around, the triangular tip scything through the air toward the worm’s human face.

But she’d underestimated the tongue’s speed. It blurred, corrected course, snaked around the Nightmare Lady’s waist, and yanked her toward its huge maw. Her tail strike was thrown off by the sudden jerk, and she was half inside its mouth before she could recover.

Though he kept running, Scorio was stunned—how did something so massive move so fast? Faster even than the Nightmare Lady?

The worm reared up once more, dragging Naomi into its throat even as her tail lashed and lacerated its sides with blind fury. Each cut caused milky white fluid to burst forward, followed by a thicker, more clotted substance like curds or rancid cheese. The Alben Worm didn’t seem to mind; it pulled her in deeper, its lower jaw rising to mold around her body and force her in.

Leonis powered right past Scorio, closing the distance in a flash, and with a roar he leaped high into the air, his Emberling power carrying him up and past the Alben Worm’s head.

And for the first time, Scorio saw his friend swing Nezzar, and witnessed what the weapon could do.

The runes blazed into life, so bright that they left luminous trails seared in the air behind them, and the blunt tip of the hexagonal club impacted the side of the Alben Worm’s head, which exploded away under the blow like a burst bladder. A great cloud of fluid and soft, pale flesh streamed into the air, and the worm keened as it wheeled about, orienting on Leonis as he fell into a crouch beyond it.

Just as Scorio reached its base. His leap was much less impressive, despite his putting all his strength into it, but enough to cause him to reach up and snag the Nightmare Lady’s ankle. He grasped it with both hands, swung on it, and his weight combined with the worm’s shock and pain caused the Nightmare Lady to tear free of its flexible mouth. They both crashed back down to the ground in a welter of thick, creamy saliva, and the Alben Worm’s keen grew enraged as it drew back.

Scorio sensed the mana in the area begin to shift as if invisible storm clouds were forming, but even as he rose to his feet, he felt a burst of confidence. They could do this. Together, united, they could pummel the worm into submission. Force it to flee.

The Nightmare Lady flipped up to her feet, her movements harsh, rapid, and her tail whip cracked out behind her, sending gobbets of slime flying.

“Run,” she said.

Scorio frowned—was she telling him to leave because he was a Cinder, because he was weak, or—?

A great cone of shimmering light formed around them all, with the worm at its center. It was like being trapped in a cyclone of heat haze, one that encapsulated most of the square. Immediately Scorio felt the storm cloud sensation of the mana begin to quicken.

The Alben Worm, a quarter of its entire head—or human torso, or whatever—gone, reared back from where Leonis was advancing. The massive man twirled the huge club about as if it were a baton and came on, his face that of an executioner.

“Damn it,” hissed the Nightmare Lady. “We need to kill it now!”

“That’s what we’re trying to do!” Scorio shouted back over the growing thrum of wind around them. No, not wind—it was Coal mana swirling around them, under the worm’s control. A huge, roiling cyclone with the worm at its center. “What’s it doing?”

“Killing us,” snarled the Nightmare Lady, and she burst forward, running in a zigzag toward the Alben Worm, bent over low, tail following sinuously in her wake.

Leonis roared and leaped, swung Nezzar, but this time not only did the worm sway out of his way, but a large, curved shield of force appeared in his path, blocking his blow and knocking him back. His roar turned into a surprised cry as he bounced off it and dropped. The Nightmare Lady came in low and tore around the worm, leaping over one of its coils as she went and opening its belly with a slash of her tail.

What could he do? Where was Lianshi? There—she’d worked her way behind the worm, was looking as frustrated as he felt.

The Coal mana was whirling faster and faster. But now it was changing. Heating up, growing toxic, like actual clouds of superheated soot. It was becoming hard to breathe, and he felt his skin begin to burn.

The Alben Worm whipped aside, undulating with preternatural speed, and hit the Nightmare Lady with its tail, catching her mid-leap and slamming her across the square. She hit the cone of force that contained the mana storm and bounced off it with bone-jarring force.

Leonis ran forward, swung his club again, trying to clobber the worm’s flank. Nezzar flared brightly but once more was rebuffed by the suddenly materializing shield.

“Lianshi!” Scorio ran out wide, waved to get her attention. “Run to me! I’ll be the bait!”

Would she understand? There wasn’t time to explain further. The mana storm was growing in speed and power, and every passing second made him feel as if he were being flayed alive. Gritting his teeth against the growing pain, he ran forward, right into the worm’s path, waving his arms at it as he went.

“You!” His shout was barely audible over the growing storm’s scream. “Hey! Down here! Come and get me!”

The Alben Worm rose to its full height, seemed to consider Leonis as he battered at the invisible shield that barred his way, and then the bright blue eyes narrowed as it decided Scorio was too easy and tasty a morsel to pass up.

It dove down, so quickly that Scorio felt his heart lurch up into his throat. Even as his instincts bid him leap aside, his knees bending, his whole body trying to lurch away, he saw the maw open, the tongue snaking forth.

This thing had been fast enough to catch the Nightmare Lady. There was no way he could evade it.

But that wasn’t the plan. He drew forth his chalk and raked a line in the stone before him. The tongue slammed into the sudden wall of force, but just before the worm could react Lianshi dove in, spearing forward as if into a pool, and threw herself right into its mouth.

The Alben Worm jerked back in surprise, then snapped back its tongue and closed its mouth, the lower jaw rolling up to seal Lianshi inside.

“No!” screamed the Nightmare Lady, rushing back into the fight.

The worm froze, the soft flesh of its head and neck working, undulating as if a thousand rollers were trying to compress Lianshi.

Trying to and failing.

And in that moment of surprise, of confusion, Leonis darted around the shield, leaped up, and brought Nezzar down upon the Alben Worm’s head with all his strength.

The club blazed to life a moment before it collapsed the human visage and clove through the rest of the upper torso like a booted foot kicking a huge mushroom apart. Nezzar tore right through with such force that it smashed into the stone ground below, shattering and embedding itself inches into the rock.

Massively deformed, the Alben Worm recoiled, its body shaking and twisting, and with a convulsive spasm, it spat Lianshi forth, so that she fell to the ground, drenched in spit but unharmed.

Scorio rushed to her side, helped her up, and felt the mana storm collapse. With a burbling gargle, the Alben Worm fled across the square, weaving drunkenly, and then dove back into its tunnel. A flash of its tail, and it was gone.

Scorio stood swaying, then dropped down next to Lianshi. He studied his hands—they were crimson from thousands of beads of blood. His robes clung to him, soaked by the blood sweat brought about by the mana storm, and his heart beat powerfully, erratically, lurching in his chest.

Leonis planted Nezzar’s head between his feet and bowed over its pommel, his skin damp and crimson. Lianshi was breathing in rapid gasps, her hair slicked into a chaotic affair by the slime, her eyes wide, the blood sweat mixing with the pearlescent goo.

“You all right?” asked Scorio.

Lianshi raised her hands, stared at the strings of slime that fell from them, then up at him as if unable to comprehend his words.

“Your Black Star plants!” said the Nightmare Lady, and raced toward the collapsed burrow. Leaped at the last moment so that she could drop neatly between the fallen pillars and knife into the tunnel below.

Scorio watched her go. He should follow, he knew. But his legs felt jellied, his whole body, no, his entire spirit ached from the mana storm. Each passing second had felt worse—what would have happened to them if Leonis hadn’t collapsed its head?

None of them spoke. Lianshi suddenly scrabbled at her water flask and poured it over her face, then her hands, then with a cry of disgust tore off her upper robe, revealing the wrap she wore around her chest, her bare, muscled midriff, and hurled the sodden robe away.

“Here,” said Scorio, pulling his own upper robe off.

“Thank you,” said Lianshi mechanically, but instead of putting it on, she used it to wipe slime from her arms and hands, used it to squeeze goo from her long, sopping hair.

Movement. The Nightmare Lady emerged from the burrow, moving slowly, reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her sulfurous green eyes burning at a low ebb. “I was too late. The Black Star plants. They’re… they’re gone.”