Scorio’s own raging heart seemed to quieten, and he gazed in awe as Sol floated above them both, his robes rippling, his long hair draped over one shoulder. He was justice incarnate, his brow furrowed with the weight of his cares, his jaw stern, his gaze unflinching.
Imogen snarled up at him, diminished, and then a seam of darkness opened behind her.
“You are dead to me,” she hissed, and hurled herself backward.
Sol darted forward, spear outstretched, but the dark seam widened enough for her to plunge into it and disappear.
Sol drew up short, his expression thunderous, but then he sighed.
Across Bastion, the dark fog was lifting. Burning away beneath the sun-wire’s brilliant glow. Scorio let out a choking exhalation, still wrestling with the power that threatened to sunder his spirit, and saw that Imogen’s mutations remained. Everywhere he looked he saw nonsensical construction. Inverted buildings, buildings with their rooms extruded to the surface, upside-down staircases rising to the sky, towers extending perpendicular to the ground.
Not all of Bastion. Not even most of it. But entire swathes. Enough to change the character of the city.
Sol hung in the air, his halo shrinking then disappearing altogether, and the raging might of his aura lightened till Scorio could feel it no longer.
But breathing had become a laborious chore. The air was superheated, thick like honey, and the very act of inhaling was nearly impossible. He felt like he was drowning.
He dropped to one knee, sweat coursing down his face, chest wheezing, locked up. His vision doubled and he felt his Heart straining, straining, on the verge of bursting into a hundred chunks of ruined spirit.
Sol landed before him, his boots silent on the stone. Stood before him, and Scorio raised his eyes with great effort.
“Know peace,” said the Imperator, and extended his hand. The raging mana within Scorio’s Heart flew to the man’s palm, a draining that brought immense relief. Scorio let out a groan as the pressure disappeared, the heat cooled away, and his chest unhitched so that he could breathe deep.
Sol studied him, gaze inscrutable. “You’ve damaged your Heart, old friend. Both before and now. It seems you will never learn moderation, Scorio.”
Scorio forced a grin as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Guess I’ve never been content with the way things are.”
“You never have, no.” Sol brought his golden spear down till its tip rested before Scorio’s breast. “But your abuse has weakened the foundations of your soul. As you are, you’ll never advance beyond Tomb Spark.”
Scorio stiffened, the wickedly sharp spearpoint just barely pricking his robes. “I… I would find a way to deal with that when the time came.”
“No doubt you would.” Wry amusement entered Sol’s eyes. “But you’ve earned better.”
And his spear glowed with golden energy which gathered, grew, then flowed into Scorio’s chest.
It was like having a cool cloth placed upon a burning brow, bringing sweet relief to a discomfort Scorio had learned to ignore. He felt his Heart grow more solid, the huge fractures he’d just dealt it sealing over, and a soothing sensation suffused him.
“There,” said Sol, raising his spear to prop it on his shoulder. “A second chance. I’ve returned your Heart to the way it was before Imogen paid her visit. Only fair, since that’s what you’ve given the rest of us.”
“Thank you.” Scorio hesitated. Should he remain kneeling? But pride pricked him, and he rose to his feet. “Though I fear it won’t help in the long term. I’m a Red Lister. The Academy won’t have me. I’ll be forced to continue training as before if I’ve any hope of advancing.”
“I’ll speak with the Academy,” said Sol. “Hell is better served by your being properly trained instead of going rogue.”
Scorio felt his heart swell as he took a step back. “You can do that? I mean, you will?”
Again Sol allowed himself a smile. “Few are the Great Souls who will deny an Imperator’s request. And this one is made all the more reasonable for your having tipped the balance in our favor. Imogen…” He paused, and Scorio got the impression he was about to say something else. “Imogen was always very strong. The loss of her Heart only unfettered her already terrible power.”
Scorio’s eyes widened. “Loss of her Heart? How—I mean—can you tell me of my past? I know nothing about what I did, who I was. Can you—?”
Sol’s smile grew bitter. “There is much for you to relearn, Scorio. I trust that you will do so quickly. Perhaps in time, we will meet again, deeper in Hell, and then we will speak at length. But for now, you have my thanks. That will have to suffice.”
Scorio bowed his head and bit back his frustration. A thousand questions were welling up within him. What did Sol remember about his past lives? How could one channel mana without a Heart? Where had Imogen gone? Could she have opened the Portal?
But all of them were overwhelmed by a single emotion: gratitude. He took a deep breath, his chest swelling anew, and tears prickled in his eyes as he met Sol’s gaze once more.
Then a thought occurred to him. “Imperator Sol. If I may ask for one more favor.”
The older man’s expression was inscrutable. “You may ask it, though I may refuse.”
“I was trained by another outcast in the ruins. Naomi, known as the Nightmare Lady by those who fear her. She left the Academy of her own will because she was treated unfairly by the staff. She’s native-born to Bastion, ignited her Heart without being tied to the Archspire, and she was never given a fair chance. Please—could you ask for Naomi to be readmitted with me? Without her help, I’d never have survived.”
Sol inclined his head. “I’ll speak with her. What happens thereafter will depend on our conversation.”
Scorio bowed. “Thank you.”
“Bastion and Hell itself owes you a debt of gratitude, Scorio. It’s the least I can do, seeing as you’ve earned the undying enmity of an Imperator.”
Scorio’s smile died on his lips. “Right. Yes. You think she’ll come back?”
“Not any time soon.” He turned to gaze out over the city, and a gentle breeze stirred his hair. “I’ve asserted preeminence over her here. She’ll not return till that fades. But you never know.” He sighed and looked down. “I lost the ability to predict her actions a long time ago.”
Scorio pursed his lips, unsure as to what to say, but was saved from platitudes by the imminent arrival of the White Queen, who was descended from the sky, her golden angel wings beating powerfully.
Sol turned to greet her, and Scorio saw him visibly lock his pain away, so that when the White Queen alighted on the rooftop he was nothing but unflinching majesty.
“You came,” said the White Queen, dropping to one knee and bowing her head. “Thank you, Imperator.”
“Rise, Nova.” Sol’s voice was kindly. “I regret that I couldn’t come sooner. I was almost too late.”
“But you weren’t.” Nova stood straight and smiled, the expression transforming her serene, remote beauty into something vital, making her human. “Thank the ten hells.”
“I will inspect the old Archspire and the Portal,” said Sol. “Ensure that Imogen was unable to destabilize them permanently. Then I must leave. Allies pay for my absence by the minute.”
“Of course.” Nova looked at Scorio with her washed-out blue eyes.
“This Cinder proved instrumental in our victory,” said Sol. “He distracted Imogen at a critical moment.”
“Is that so? Your name?”
“Scorio, Charnel Duchess.” And unsure of what was appropriate he bowed low. Staring down at the ground, he half-expected for her to recognize him, to condemn him, or mention some old memory.
“You have our thanks, Scorio.” Her tone, if anything, was tinged by the same warmth with which she’d addressed Sol. He straightened slowly in wonder, having expected a more complex reaction, but saw no recognition in her eyes. “For a Cinder to play such a role in the disputes of Imperators is unheard of. I look forward to witnessing your rise to power.”