Scorio stepped forward before the Flame Vault could make a terrible mistake and raised his hands and bellowed, “Cowards!”
The crowd faltered, shocked. The shock quickly became outrage, but he didn’t give them a second to pick up their cry. “The dying need our help, and you think only of your pain? Think of theirs! This isn’t the time for your grievances! This is a time to work together, to save loved ones, to do whatever we can to help the wounded!”
Again the crowd faltered, their outrage taken out at the knees. The young woman stared up at him, eyes wide in shock, and before he could speak further, try to locate her in his memories, she pushed back into the crowd and disappeared.
So he bellowed once more: “We’re here to help, damn it! Forget politics, forget right and wrong! Think of those you love! Buildings are collapsed, they’re dying even now as we waste time shouting at each other! When every life is saved, when every wound tended to, then come kick in our teeth. Until then? Work with us! Show us where we can help!”
People eyed each other askance, people muttered, then a heavyset lady, whose robes were dusted almost white from some collapsed building, stepped forward. “A block away, my house, it’s—the walls, they flowed in, my husband, he’s trapped inside—”
More voices arose, a babble of desperation. “My son threw himself out of our window, both his legs are broken—”
“I can’t find Evec, he was in the basement with his firemoth, please—”
“—he yet lives, but he’s coughing up blood—”
“—the door sealed over, I can hear them screaming inside—”
Scorio took a deep breath and nodded, looking to Exero and Famissa, both of whom were regarding him with mixed emotions. “All right,” he said, clapping the Flame Vault on the shoulder as the man allowed his golden flames to dissipate. “Looks like it’s time to get to work.”
The remaining daylight cycles blurred into each other. Became moments of hectic activity, threats of violence, efforts to help the injured, reassure the panicked. Exero, Famissa, and Scorio worked tirelessly in Ward 4, defusing tense confrontations, using their powers to rescue those stranded atop mutated chunks of architecture, stepping up to assert order in loud speeches to groups of wild-eyed citizens.
Scorio didn’t get a chance to familiarize himself with his two new companions, but by watching them deal with tense situations quickly learned that Exero possessed a deep well of patience tinted with mild contempt, while Famissa was prone to letting her temper flare only to quickly forgive or move on.
They worked hard, and when Second Rust gave way to Second Clay, Exero decided they’d done enough.
Weary, they walked back in silence to the Academy. Scorio’s elation had long ago given way to a numb sense of muted horror, which now gave way to wonder: nothing was so strange as to walk north as the sun-wire went dark instead of south.
Famissa paused at a water fountain to wash her face, then turned to him as they resumed walking, hesitant yet curious. “Is it true that you helped the Imperator?”
“I guess so,” said Scorio, finding the fact strange himself. “I did, a little.”
“How?” Exero sounded genuinely baffled. “Imperators are… omnipotent. What could you have done that Sol the Just couldn’t do himself?”
Scorio laughed, the sound raspy from hours spent shouting. “It wasn’t much. Just the timing, I suppose. He and Imogen were squaring off. She was pointing her scepter at him, he aimed his spear at her, and they both loosed these beams of magic that fought for dominance between them.”
“Their Ferula,” said Exero. “Not scepters or spears.”
“Their Ferula, sure,” said Scorio. “Anyway. Imogen was completely focused on the contest. I stepped in and distracted her. It was enough to tip the contest in Sol’s favor, and he established preeminence.”
Famissa’s eyes were wide. “You distracted Imogen the Woe? And lived?”
“That’s her name?” asked Scorio. “The Woe?”
“Yeah. She’s infamous. She and two other Imperators—both associated with House Basilisk—fell during the House Hydra’s push eight years ago to close the Pit.”
Scorio stared at her. “There are two more like her?”
“Sure,” said Exero, tone heavy, resigned. “Unfortunately. Zellair and Joranvyn. They’re out there now, somewhere, hidden away in their domains. Leaving House Basilisk with no end of shame without a single patron Imperator. It was a shocking fall from power, dwarfing even House Hydra’s loss of Imogen.”
So many questions. “Eight years ago. That’s when the, ah, Empyreal Prophecy said we’d close the Pit, right?”
“Right,” said Exero, his tone growing even more subdued. “Didn’t happen.”
“Not for lack of trying though.” Famissa crossed an arm over her chest to grasp her other arm. “You’ve obviously seen how the ruins are growing, right? Well, the Celestial Prophecy was—ah—dug up maybe forty years ago to address that.”
“Is that the term your instructor used, Cinder?” asked Exero, brows lowering. “‘Dug up’?”
Famissa stared defiantly at him. “Fine. Miraculously discovered. Everybody pinned their hopes on it, and all four Houses mobilized to make it a reality. Political disagreements were papered over, resources were deployed, and everyone really thought it would work.”
“Should have worked,” muttered Exero. “Had to have worked.”
“But it didn’t,” said Scorio softly. “What went wrong?”
Famissa shrugged. “Who can say? Nine Imperators launched a coordinated attack on the Pit, Sol and Imogen amongst them. And… they failed. Imogen burned through the last of her Heart, it’s said, to save Sol and some others from the onslaught of a greater fiend. It was a tragedy, an awful sacrifice. She lost her compass in doing so, and disappeared.”
“Her compass?” asked Scorio.
“Sure,” said Famissa, glancing sidelong at him. “The knowledge of right and wrong, the force that aligns all Great Souls against the Pit.”
“Oh.” Scorio rubbed the back of his head. “Didn’t know there was a name for it.”
Exero slowed down to fall in on Scorio’s other side. “She’s appeared randomly ever since to destroy our holdings. An outpost would go silent, and when people went to investigate, they’d find everyone dead or disappeared, and the buildings all…” He gestured at the cancerous architecture they were walking by.
Scorio hesitated. Each question would only reveal his ignorance further. “Our holdings?”
“Our holdings, yes.” Exero raised an eyebrow at him. “Us being the Great Souls. We have different Houses, sure, but we’re all united against the fiends.”
“Got it, got it,” said Scorio, nodding to emphasize that he did.
Famissa was unabashedly staring at him, her green eyes, flecked with gold, wide and unblinking. “How did you… distract her?”
Scorio flushed. “I, ah, punched her Ferula, I guess.”
They walked in silence for a dozen steps, both simply staring at Scorio incredulously.
“You punched her Ferula, you guess,” repeated Exero at last, his tone somewhere between amazement and mockery.
Famissa’s stride slowed as her eyes widened even further. As Scorio slowed in turn, looking back, she caught herself and hurried to catch up, averting her eyes as she blushed. “That’s insane. I mean—” She glanced at him, looked away just as quickly. “That’s the kind of thing I’d imagine a Blood Baron or Charnel Duke doing. Not a—what are you?”
“Cinder,” said Scorio, staring at the ground.
“Wait.” Exero came to a stop. “You’re a bleeding Cinder?”
“Well, I was bleeding earlier, but I think I’ve, ah, healed up since then,” said Scorio, trying for a wry smile. “Get it?”