Chapter 67

Scorio awoke into a tomb of hammered copper. Steady, deliberate, he climbed into a crouch, leaped for the opening, and immediately felt the difference in having reached Emberling.

Even without igniting his Heart, his body was stronger, its athletic ability vastly increased. He soared up through the square hole to land lightly in a crouch beyond it, the leap near-effortless, his balance perfect as he dropped to the copper ground.

Two green eyes burned in the near distance; the Nightmare Lady was walking toward him, unhurried, her tail lashing eagerly behind her elongated form.

Scorio rose to his full height. He’d run out of mana before reaching the basilica, had been forced to drop his new form. But now he set his will to gathering more Coal into his Heart, gathering it about his fractured core with great, imperious sweeps.

“When I first saw you, I thought you weak,” called out the Nightmare Lady as she drew close. “Weak of body, weak of mind, weak of spirit. That was my undoing. I underestimated you and fell for your trap.”

Scorio didn’t answer. He focused on gathering ever more of the rich Coal mana into his Heart, whose reservoir had suddenly grown so voluminous that he felt like he’d never finish.

“Then I thought you merely cunning; I decided to punish you for your temerity with rigorous training. Harsh beyond what most would tolerate.” The Nightmare Lady stopped before him, perhaps ten yards off. “I was confident you would crumble and cry mercy. Yet you didn’t.”

Scorio breathed slowly, deeply, forcing his mind to calm, his spirit to become tranquil. The more she talked, the longer he had to fill his reservoir.

“But you persisted, and in time risked everything to become a Cinder. Again I revised my opinion. You were cunning, yes, persistent beyond all else, but also wildly reckless. But your gamble paid off, and again you surprised me. Cinder. No mean accomplishment.”

Slowly she lowered herself into a crouch. Her great, segmented tail stilled behind her, its triangular blade hovering over her head, its wicked tip aimed at him.

“Then came the Imperators, and you somehow managed to wrest a readmission to the Academy from that madness. But that was your first mistake. To return to that cesspool, that nest of vipers. I followed you but knew the venture was doomed. And I was proved right.”

Scorio wanted to reply, to argue, but held his peace. What use were words? She wasn’t talking with him, but at him. Let her. He’d focus on drawing in the mana, compacting it, seeking that elusive point of saturation where he could ignite.

“But still you persisted. Impossible. And now this. You stand before me an Emberling. Of equal rank to me. And I tell you true—it rankles. Once I could have slapped you around on a whim. Now? Well. That remains to be seen.”

Beads of sweat prickled on Scorio’s brow. This was untenable. How was he supposed to fight, to defend himself, when it took this long to fill his reservoir? Then again, that was the whole objective of a Cinder, to enlarge their capacity to its utmost limit. But perhaps using the imperial gel and the Delightful Secret Marinating technique had proven… excessive… on that front.

“You need to return to the Academy,” Scorio heard himself say. “We need you to be part of our Gauntlet team.”

Her green, burning eyes narrowed. “To what end? Why should I dance to their music? What would I gain?”

“Jova Spike has promised to tell me of my past if I beat her at the Gauntlet run.”

“Your past is yours.” She placed one hand on the copper floor, the huge column of pale golden light illuminating one side of her, making her black figure appear oily and slick, and leaving the other half near invisible. “I’ve told you. I’m done risking myself for your cause.”

“Is that why you’ve been monitoring me all this time? Why you risked fighting the Alben Worm?”

Her eyes narrowed further, and he saw the tips of her talons sink into the metal. “Don’t mistake my base compassion for a willingness to humiliate myself further.”

“A contest, then,” said Scorio. Still, he poured mana into his Heart, trying to outpace the amount vented so that he could reach capacity. “If I defeat you in combat now, you come. If I don’t, you can go back to wasting your time.”

“Clever,” said the Nightmare Lady. “Alas, I can sense you desperately drinking in mana. How fractured has your Heart become, Scorio? I think you’re out of time. I accept your contest, and it begins… now.”

The Nightmare Lady surged forward, hurling herself with arms and legs right at him, but faster was her tail. Its wicked blade flew at him, tip aimed right at his chest.

No thought. No time to plan. Scorio bent his will to his Heart and commanded it to ignite. With a whoomph it did so, his Heart disappearing behind a veil of pale black flames, then scales erupted across his arms, his robes disappeared as his hands turned into sinuous gauntlets, and terrible power flowed into him, a deluge compared to that which he’d felt as a Cinder.

Scorio snapped his hand up and caught her tail, stopping it cold. He closed his fist just below the base of the blade. Its tip nicked the broad muscle of his chest, the slightest scratch that caused a bead of black blood to swell and roll down.

The strength coursing through the Nightmare Lady’s tail was tremendous; she yanked it back even as she kept coming, seeking to haul him off his feet. So he simply released it, his talons emerging as he did so, six inches long and white-tipped, the sensation of heat radiating down into his palms.

Then she was on him. Her own clawed hands—puny-looking in comparison to his own—lashed at his face, raked at his chest, then furled into a fist to come at his jaw in a mighty cross.

Scorio gave ground, bemused. Had she grown slower? Or always been this slow, and he slower yet? He raised his scaled arms, which deflected her attacks with impunity, blocked each blow with precision, then swayed aside so that her cross missed by an inch.

Stepped back and hopped up, knees to chest as her tail whipped under him. Landed and threw the first blows of his own.

A simple combination. Jab, jab, cross. The blows flew from him, his strength full behind each, and the Nightmare Lady blocked the first and decided to not block again. His knuckles crunched into her black exoskeleton, near-shattering it across her forearm. She tumbled backward, movements haphazard, then threw herself into a sideways roll only to burst up, her tail acting as a spring, hurling herself into the air against all probability and moment to fall upon him with terrible speed.

But Scorio found himself able to track her. He pivoted, saw her tail lancing down at him from the left, the true attack, the screaming demon that fell upon him no more than an attention-grabbing feint.

So he threw himself aside, under the tail, came up on both feet, and hurled himself at her as she landed.

Again the Nightmare Lady gave ground, swaying and dodging, tail flashing out at him, seeking to impale him from every side, from behind, even. Scorio felt his enjoyment grow, his anger with it, and with greater and greater violence, he smashed her blade aside until at last he saw the opportunity and brought his claws to bear.

The white-hot talons sheared through her segmented tail, causing a gout of dark blood to burst forth as the large triangular blade crashed to the ground and tumbled away, the stump of tail still attached to it flexing and flopping from side to side.

The Nightmare Lady leaped back with a cry, her tail lashing and casting sprays of blood with each flex, to drop into a crouch and regard him with something akin to utter hatred.

Scorio didn’t sneer. Instead, he stared at his burning claws and flexed them, causing their white-hot tips to ripple. Then he glanced up at her. “Give in?”

The Nightmare Lady screamed and ran at him, pushing herself to the bleeding edge of her capacities. Her blows came in a flurry, a storm that he less saw and more intuited, weaving and slashing his own claws at in a frenzied parry.

Some of her attacks got through, but any that landed on his scales were deflected. Still, she gouged open three deep, parallel grooves across his chest, cracked her knuckles so hard across his temple that he staggered, then clubbed him around the back of the head with the remnants of her tail.

The blow was prodigious. Scorio lurched forward, right into her killing blow: a taloned thrust into his gut that would have pierced right to his spinal column.

But he was made of sterner stuff now. His head cleared, his wits remained sharp throughout, and he caught both her wrists with his clawed hands, stopping the thrust and imprisoning her other at the same time.

The Nightmare Lady screeched and beat at him with her segmented tail, but Scorio ignored the blows. Hunched his shoulders, tucked in his chin, and applied pressure on her wrists. He felt them creak, the black surfaces bend beneath the pressure. Slowly, inexorably, he forced her down, first into a half-crouch, then to one knee, then both.

Her tail cracked against his back, hammered at his legs, beat at the sides of his head. But Scorio ignored the impacts and stared down into her horrific visage.

“It’s over,” he growled. “Surrender.”

“Never,” she hissed and lunged forward to head-butt him.

The blow would have cracked rock. Scorio fell back, released her arms, and through the explosion of light that filled his vision saw a shadowed form leap at him.

Instinct caused him to sway aside and slam his fist forward. Something heavy fell upon his arm, claws scrabbled at his shoulders, raked at his chest, then clasped his wrist.

Blinking away the pain, Scorio saw that his fist was buried deep in her gut, just as she’d tried to do to him. Steam was rising from the wound as his claws caused her blood to boil.

The Nightmare Lady stared down in something akin to fascination, and then she looked up and met his gaze. “Not bad,” she croaked, releasing his wrist. “But you forgot about one thing.”

Scorio narrowed his eyes. “What thing?”

“Did you hire the circus?”

Scorio blinked, and in that second of confusion, the Nightmare Lady’s claws passed through his throat.

The pain was terrible, sudden, but worse was the sense of his very being gouting out through the wound, great jets of blood and vitality streaming forth, faster than he could countenance. Desperate, he reached up with his free hand, pressed his white-hot claws to the flesh, some mad hope driving him to cauterize it, something—but it was too late.

Scorio blinked, sagged. The Nightmare Lady’s grin was wide, but he met it despite the pain. He wanted to speak but couldn’t, couldn’t do anything but summon his rapidly disappearing strength to bend down and then thrust his embedded fist straight up through her torso, the wicked claws shearing through organs and who knew what else, to close around her heart and shred it.

The Nightmare Lady’s sulfurous green eyes widened, and then she was gone, disappearing right off his arm.

Scorio staggered back again, then fell. Lay there, clicking and gagging, blood pooling around him, waiting for the world to go dark, which it finally, mercifully did.

With a gasp, he awoke upon the bier. Reached up immediately with his hands, which had reverted to their human form—and clasped at his neck. Unbroken skin met his touch, but still, he coughed and fought off the urge of being strangled.

“Easy,” said Leonis by his side. “Ignite. You’ve done this before.”

Scorio summoned his Heart and sought to set it to burning, but the mana reservoir was too low; he willed it to burn, but nothing happened.

Instead, he closed his eyes, massaged at his neck, and worked on breathing smoothly. The pain was terrible, dwarfing the scrapes and cuts that he felt across his body, but slowly it dimmed, and at last, he was able to draw a deep breath without triggering another bout of coughs.

“Guess it didn’t go well,” said Leonis, helping him up to sitting.

“No, it went all right,” rasped Scorio, rubbing at his neck. He gazed over at where Naomi sat hunched over, hair waterfalling before her face. Lianshi was by her side, looking tentative and desiring to be helpful without quite knowing how. “At the very least, she died before I did.”

Leonis’s eyebrows rose. “You’re serious? Well. With these new abilities of yours, it looks like the odds of our doing well in the Gauntlet just rose a notch.”

“Maybe higher than that,” said Scorio. He coughed again to clear his throat, but the pain wouldn’t quite go away. “Naomi agreed to accompany us.”

“She did?” Leonis spun around. “That true, Naomi? You joining us on the Gauntlet run?”

Naomi looked up and glowered at Scorio. “I cut your throat.”

“True.” Scorio smiled sweetly at her. “But I stole your heart.”

“Bastard,” hissed Naomi.

Lianshi raised both hands and stepped back. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I’m joining you all on your Gauntlet run,” said Naomi, angrily sweeping her dark hair over one shoulder. “Made a foolish bet with Scorio, and technically, just technically, lost.”

“You should have learned by now not to bet against me,” said Scorio, getting off his bier.

“Truth,” said Leonis. “And this means we’ll all be entering the Gauntlet as Emberlings. At the very least that puts us in the top third of the contestants.”

“Better than that,” said Lianshi. “I doubt any of them have trained as hard or as extensively together as we have, remember?”

“We’ll destroy the opposition,” said Naomi in a surly voice. “I won’t have it any other way.”

“Agreed,” said Scorio. “Fortunately for us, the run is in two weeks’ time.”

“Why ‘fortunately’?” asked Lianshi.

“Because I need to work on igniting my Heart. It’s taking me forever right now.”

Naomi snorted. “Is that all? There’s a trick to it, you know?”

“Oh?”

“Condense it back to its original size. Or had you forgotten? That’s what’s required to make Tomb Spark.” Her smile was saccharine. “Might as well do that while you’re at it.”

“Jova Spike did,” said Scorio, and he was gratified to see Naomi’s shock.

“She did what?”

“Made Tomb Spark,” said Leonis, tone heavy. “Now she’s not only invulnerable to most damage, but can scare her opponents into losing their minds in some weird way we haven’t quite figured out.”

“And acquired her shroud,” said Lianshi. “On top of everything else.”

“Oh,” said Naomi, then gave a sharp shake of her head. “Never mind, then. Shall we just skip the whole thing?”

“No,” said Scorio. “We’re going to beat her. Somehow. I don’t know how, but we’re going to make it work.”

“In the next two weeks?” Naomi raised an eyebrow. “Good luck.”

“Two weeks in which to master our Emberling abilities,” said Lianshi. “If we all focus on them—if you’re willing to show us what you’ve mastered, Naomi—we’ll be able to enter the Gauntlet even stronger than we are right now.”

Naomi sighed. “Fine. If I haven’t been expelled for missing so many classes. I haven’t been back in… eight weeks?”

To which nobody had a ready answer.

“That’s Praximar’s decision,” said Lianshi at last. “And I can’t begin to guess whether he’d prefer to expel you or let you be part of a Gauntlet run that he hopes will be a source of humiliation and failure.”

“Such a great guy, Praximar,” said Leonis. “Just the best.”

“We’ll talk to him.” Scorio considered his own words, then nodded. “He hates me. Or, better yet, wants me under his heel. I’ve avoided him since our last meeting, but it’s time we spoke. And I think I have the angle that will compel him to be generous.”

“You do?” Naomi crossed her arms, skeptical. “Will wonders ever cease?”

Scorio could only grin. “Just come back with us, and join me when I go talk to him. And let me talk, and don’t try to rip his face off.”

“That’s asking for a lot.”

“Then you should have won our sparring match, hmm?” Scorio strode between the biers, past where she stood. As he drew level with her, he winked, causing her expression to turn thunderous.

“Best of three,” she called out after him.

Scorio laughed but kept on walking.

* * *

Nobody challenged them as they approached Chancellor Praximar’s office. The luxurious hallways were moderately busy, but other than a few subtle glances, Scorio and Naomi made their way without difficulty.

“This isn’t going to go well,” muttered Naomi by his side. “Nor do I want to be here.”

“Relax.” Scorio forced a polite smile to a clerk of some kind who was hurrying past with a stack of folders clutched to their chest. “Don’t remember this floor being this busy last time.”

“End of the semester,” said Naomi. “Half the class is being dismissed, remember? That means a feeding frenzy as every organization worth a damn tries to snap them up. That and all the ceremonies. Great Souls love nothing more than their ceremonies. Praximar lives for them, and the end-of-semester celebration takes an entire Eighthday. Important Great Souls come in from the depths of hell, the winners of the tournament and those who did best at the Gauntlet run are feted—it just goes on and on.”

Scorio looked sidelong at his friend and smirked. “You sound enthused.”

To which she only curled her lip at him in something very akin to a silent snarl.

The chancellor’s office, it turned out, was very busy. Upon approaching the double doors, Scorio saw a dozen people seated at the waiting chairs, many with thick folders or sheaves of papers on their laps, all of them looking impatient. A stand had been set beside the doors, behind which a familiar man stood, scribbling something in a massive ledger.

Scorio’s breath was suddenly loud in his own ears, and he came to an abrupt stop as he stared at the man, an animalistic growl almost starting up at the base of his throat.

“Scorio?” Naomi’s tone had turned tentative. “What’s wrong?”

“That man,” said Scorio in a shaking tone. “He was in the holding cell when Praximar… stole my power.”

It felt utterly insufficient to put it that way, but Scorio didn’t know how else to express it.

“He’s just Praximar’s head servant,” said Naomi, hand on his arm. “Breathe. Your best revenge against him is to destroy the Gauntlet.”

The clerk had sensed Scorio’s stare. He looked up, his face paled, and then he immediately looked back down at his scroll.

“You’re saying I shouldn’t tear his head off here and now?”

“Alas, that would be…” Naomi searched for the right word. “Impolitic. Breathe. Get it together.”

Scorio did just that. He inhaled shakily, forced his hands to relax out of the fists they’d clenched themselves into, and looked away from the man as Naomi stepped up to him instead.

“Excuse me,” she said. “We’re students in this year’s cohort. We’d like a word with the chancellor.”

“I can imagine,” said the clerk, his voice nasal, his disinterest a thin veneer over his own intense emotions. Was that fear? Anger? Distaste? “However, Chancellor Praximar is inundated with pressing affairs. If you’d care to make an appointment, I will see to it that you can have fifteen minutes of his time.”

Scorio repressed a grimace and fought back the urge to grab the man by the neck. Before he could bark out a response, Naomi spoke. “An appointment. All right. When is the next available time slot?”

“Let’s see.” The clerk flipped a few pages, traced his finger down the rows, and then finally glanced up with something akin to sadistic amusement. “Four weeks hence. Your name?”

“That won’t do,” said Scorio, his voice almost a snarl. Now he did step in and glared at the man, who shrank back behind the lectern. “This is urgent.”

“I—ah—then I suggest you take it up with one of your instructors,” said the clerk, his voice rising in volume and pitch. “If they wish to escalate the matter, they’ll have access to the appropriate channels!”

Those seated were openly staring now, but Scorio ignored them all. “How about this?” Scorio leaned forward, pinning the man with his stare. “Stick your head in the door and tell the chancellor that Scorio wishes a quick word. I guarantee he’ll want to see me.”

“And if I don’t?”

Scorio didn’t answer. He simply breathed deeply and began to draw mana into his Heart. He felt the air around him grow fever-warm, and stared at the man so fiercely that sweat appeared across the servant’s brow.

“I—this is most unusual,” said the man at last. “But since you insist.”

“Thank you,” said Naomi.

The clerk slipped out from behind the lectern and up to the double doors. He knocked rapidly, then cracked the door open and slipped inside.

The weighted door swung shut behind him with a click.

Scorio crossed his arms, rested his weight on his heels, and waited.

“Nice stare,” said Naomi, leaning in. “I felt worried for the man.”

“With reason.”

One of the doors opened and the clerk slipped noiselessly back out. He insinuated himself behind the stand and smoothed back his immaculate gray hair. “The chancellor will be pleased to see you after he is finished with his current visitor. If you’ll step aside?”

“Here,” said a gray-haired man in military garb, his tone indignant, as he rose to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for three entire cycles. There’s rioting in the streets, people are dying, and now these students get to cut ahead of me?”

The clerk’s nostrils widened tremendously as the skin over his face seemed to harden and flush. He fixed the gentleman with wide eyes, and said in a deathly whisper, “I do not question the chancellor’s requests, Captain Neffen. I am but an instrument of order, which I seek to implement as best I can, when I can, under conditions that are not always optimal.”

“To hell with optimal conditions,” huffed the old man, but he sat back down. “Damned politicians.”

Scorio and Naomi stepped to one side, and for the next fifteen minutes stood in silence, studying a large painting that adorned the wall, its frame nearly as impressive as the canvas itself, which portrayed the culmination of a great battle in the depths of hell. A heroic figure limned in radiant light stood in the center of the chaos, gazing with bleak sternness at a dark figure that had fallen back against the rocks, a golden sword impaled in his chest. Around them, horrific monsters reared back in dismay, while handsome men and women, many of them gravely wounded, looked ready to cheer.

“The Death of Arch Fiend Marchon,” read Scorio quietly, the words engraved on a bronze plaque. “Anno 323.”

“Want to wager nobody even remembers who Marchon was?” asked Naomi. “I’ve never heard him mentioned, and that’s having sat in several years’ worth of history classes.”

“Arch Fiend.” Scorio rubbed at his chin. “Lianshi mentioned True Fiends, too. What the Imperators are fighting at the Pit?”

“That’s advanced material, though. You’ll not learn anything else about them in our introductory classes.”

“Do you know anything about them?”

Naomi shrugged one shoulder. “Not really. I’m not that invested in what’s happening on the other side of hell. Bastion’s been hell enough by my reckoning.”

The double doors opened, and a delegation of men and women emerged, all of them bearing the golden House Kraken crest on their robes. They had clearly just finished saying their goodbyes and turned as they emerged to walk down the hallway in a tight group, some of their expressions tight with annoyance, others serenely indifferent.

“Student Scorio,” said the clerk with a voice akin to octs being clicked down upon a counter. “Please enter.”

Scorio stared at the man as he walked by, and with Naomi stepped inside Praximar’s office.

Who was standing to one side of the large office, his huge desk illuminated by the bright light of Amber, its surface now busy with piles of documents and rolled-up scrolls. Praximar was at a sideboard, stoppering a cut crystal decanter, and turned with a genial smile to regard the both of them.

“Scorio and Naomi. What a delayed delight. To be honest, I had expected your visit weeks earlier, but I should not have underestimated your obstinacy. Please, be seated.”

Scorio stepped up beside the half-dozen chairs arrayed before the desk, but remained standing. “Chancellor Praximar. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“Oh, no thanks are necessary.” Praximar made his way back to his desk and sat in his chair with obvious relief. “You have been much on my mind, Scorio! A clever ploy, to speak to House Chimera before I could whisper sweet nothings in Selena’s ear. But I fear you’ve cut off your ear to spite your face. You’ve trained hard, I’ve heard, but not yet reached Emberling. That puts you at a disadvantage, does it not?”

“Perhaps,” said Scorio, schooling his features to grim neutrality.

“And Naomi! Now that is a surprise. I’d heard you’d fled our Academy for more suitable climes. You’ve missed a tremendous amount of schooling. I assume you’re here to beg for clemency?”

“I’d rather die than beg,” said Naomi sweetly, “so on that score you’re wrong.”

Praximar’s smile hardened. “That being so, I fear your academic career might be over. It’s imperiled by your truancy.”

“I’ve come to ask your leniency on that front,” said Scorio. “Naomi is to round out my team of four when we attempt the Gauntlet in two weeks’ time. Without her, I’d be at a disadvantage.”

“But only if you lack her presence? How amusing. Your other two companions would be Lianshi and Leonis? Solid choices, if uninspired. No, I’m afraid we must maintain standards here at the Academy. One simply cannot skip nearly a third of the semester and then expect to return as if nothing had been amiss.”

“Are you so sure, Chancellor?” Something in Scorio’s tone, his mild amusement, his confidence, caused Praximar’s eyes to narrow. “After all, it cannot be of great benefit to the Academy if the public learns that natural-born students are so disdainful of its utility that they choose to leave it of their own accord.”

“You apprehend the source of my annoyance,” said Praximar smoothly. “But this is the second time she’s walked away. We are not so forgiving or lenient with our reputation.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to have her wash out?” asked Scorio, running a finger along the top of the chair and then inspecting it for dust. “To have her take part in a compromised team, and fail to make the cut? To wash out with the lower half of the cohort, and to thus be discarded out of hand by the Academy, instead of the other way round?”

Naomi was staring straight ahead, lips pursed, jaw clenched.

“An interesting argument,” murmured Praximar. “But you are far too full of surprises, Scorio. I would not put it past you to reach Emberling before the Gauntlet run, and, with Naomi’s assistance, do sufficiently well to pass the cut-off mark.”

“Perhaps. But I’ve sworn an oath to Jova Spike that I’ll leave the Academy of my own volition if I don’t make it farther into the Gauntlet than she does.”

“Is that so?” Praximar sat up, eyes gleaming. “Well, that was an improvident wager.”

“So I propose the following. Allow Naomi to join my team, and if we fail to do better than Jova Spike, she and I will both allow you to frame our leaving the Academy in whichever terms you wish.”

“You would swear a Heart Oath to this?”

“I would,” said Scorio.

“Naomi?”

“Sure,” she said, voice dry, disinterested. “Another lie won’t make a difference.”

“Intriguing.” Praximar rubbed a finger over his lips. “Though I can’t help but wonder what your game is, Scorio. You cannot be in your right mind if you think you stand a chance against Jova Spike and her team. Foolish bravado, perhaps? Some desperate hope that she’ll suffer an accident early on within the Gauntlet, allowing your more average results to surpass hers?”

“Does it matter?” Scorio held Praximar’s gaze with utter disdain. “You want me out. You want Naomi out. My reputation is already in ruins. None of the four Houses will offer me employment. What better way to round out your victory than having us both agree to whatever tale you choose to spin? A more complete victory I can’t imagine.”

“Yes, which is why I hesitate. You’re a Red Lister, which means amoral desperation, true, but not necessarily rank idiocy.”

Scorio spread his hands wide in mock innocence. “Don’t underestimate the power of human stupidity.”

“Oh, I try very, very hard not to, my boy. But I am always surprised, nonetheless. Very well. I simply cannot fathom how you will best Jova Spike in this competition, Cinder that you are. I’ll have an oath drafted and sent to your quarters for your signature. Naomi may return to the Academy for the duration of the term, with the understanding that the failure of your team to win the entirety of the Gauntlet challenge will place the terms of your discharge completely at my discretion.”

Scorio bowed his head. “I wish you much fun in crafting something suitably depraved. If you’ll excuse us?”

Praximar’s expression hardened. “You are dismissed. Enjoy your last two weeks at the Academy, children. As much as you despise it now, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable lives looking back at these days as an all too short golden age.”

To which Naomi just snorted.

Praximar’s frown deepened, but before he could speak further, Scorio grabbed Naomi’s hand and dragged her out of the chamber.

Out through the double doors, past the seated petitioners, and to the hallway’s end. Only once they turned the corner and entered the stairwell did he let go.

“I need a shower,” said Naomi with a shudder. “Or perhaps a purgative with which to scrub clean my insides. I feel soiled for just having spoken with that man.”

“Good thing you spoke so little,” said Scorio. “One more sentence—or noise, even—and we’d have been out of luck.”

“Pah. He’d have stomached any number of insults if it meant having complete control over our fates. He’s going to spend the next two weeks fantasizing about the lies with which he’ll ruin our futures forever.”

“Hope he enjoys it. Our victory will be all the sweeter for it.”

Naomi stopped descending the steps to stare at him. “I’m all for determination, Scorio, but you’re verging on delusion. We’ll make a good accounting of ourselves. Four Emberlings. I wager we’ll place in the top twenty-five percent of our cohort. But win the entire Gauntlet? You’re mad.”

Scorio stopped and looked back up at her. “I’ve made it this far.”

“Against all odds, yes, and at terrible expense to your Heart. You’re venting easily more than half of everything you draw on now. How long will you last in the Gauntlet? And we’re still just Emberlings. Jova Spike is a Tomb Spark. That means she’s not only stronger and faster than ever before, but she has a damned shroud at her disposal.”

“I know,” said Scorio, face beginning to flush. “These are all facts that I’m well aware of.”

“You know, but you don’t understand.” Naomi sighed, shoulders slumping. “Look. I… I admire you, all right, for having made it this far. You’re like a force of nature. You just don’t know when you’re beat. And yes, I know it’s gotten you to Emberling and all that. But each sacrifice costs you more. And you’ve nothing left to sacrifice now. Nothing left to exchange for more power. All that’s left is the crucible that is the Gauntlet, where you’ll be going up against a Great Soul who has made none of the sacrifices and instead simply accrued ever more power. She’s a Tomb Spark with a whole Heart, while you’re an Emberling with a broken one.”

Scorio tongued his cheek angrily and stared down at the stone steps. “If I’d listened to you, I’d never have made it this far.”

Naomi winced. “All right, true. But you’d not be in so much trouble, either. Praximar is going to destroy us. Your Heart is closer to shattered than whole. This life of ours is a marathon, Scorio, not a sprint. And the Gauntlet will be your reckoning.”

“So you say.” Scorio fought to keep the anger from his voice and failed. “And when it’s all over, if you’re proved right, I’ll let you lash me along with everyone else. Until then, I don’t want to hear it. I just want you to give it your all. Can you do that?”

Naomi sighed. “Fine, Scorio. Yes. I promise. I will.”

“Good. Because we’re wasting time. We could be training.”

And with that, he turned to continue descending the steps. But his Heart felt like ashes, and his mind was a desolate wasteland, bereft of all hope. What chance did he have?

Practically none.

But he had no alternative now, either.

If I fail, he thought, it won’t be for lack of trying. I’ve two weeks left to achieve the impossible. Let’s see if I can pull off one last miracle.