And with that the chancellor stepped forward, palm outstretched.
Scorio wrenched himself back, from one side to the other, but he couldn’t get away.
“You will pay for inconveniencing me.” The chancellor’s voice grew soft as he placed his hand upon Scorio’s chest.
“Get off!” shouted Scorio, thrashing again. “Get your hand off me!”
“Hmm.” The chancellor closed his eyes, his brow furrowing, and a slight smile appeared on his lips. “Let us see… there it is.”
And without warning, Scorio felt shards of pain tear through his chest, as if he’d birthed ragged knives of crude iron in his heart. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so intense that he could only let out a strange wheezing gasp as his every muscle spasmed.
Something precious flowed out of him, a source of vitality, a power, he didn’t know what—but it flowed from him, and in his mind’s eye, he saw that ragged chunk of black stone once more, saw streams of crimson light pour from its facets and into the chancellor’s palm.
The moment was infinite while it lasted, and when the chancellor at last removed his hand, he dropped, knees giving way, to hang from his wrists, head low, gasping in horror. It felt as if the chancellor had taken a razor to the inside of his skin and scraped every ounce of flesh away, had sucked the marrow right out of his bones, had violated him in a way he couldn’t even understand.
“There,” said the chancellor, stepping back and drawing in a shuddering breath. “I shall take that as payment for the inconvenience you’ve imposed upon me.”
Scorio could only fight for breath; his strength fled from him, his body grew cold as if he’d been held in icy water for an hour.
“Compose yourself,” snapped the man in white. “Try and meet your end with just a little dignity.”
“Have him cast through the Final Door,” said Praximar, smoothing down his black robes. “I shall ascend to my quarters and cleanse myself. Report back when you are done, Petros.”
“Yes, Chancellor.” The man in white bowed his head reverently as the chancellor made his way out, and once he was gone barked out with curt impatience, “Guards, toss this filth through the Final Door. Be wary. He placed eighteenth out of this year’s incarnates, so don’t take any chances, even if he’s mewling like a wretch now.”
And with that, he strode out of the holding cell.
Both guards entered right after, their expressions hard. “All right, Red List,” said one of the men. “Let’s get this done.”
Scorio’s mind felt shattered. His core, some place deeper even than his beating Heart, felt ravaged and bereft. He tried to raise his head, but it was all he could do to glower at both men through his own hair.
They released him from the manacles and half-dragged him out into the hallway. Back to the stairway and then down again they went, both men impossibly strong, almost carrying him between them so that his feet barely touched the ground.
Down they went, the stairs seeming interminable, down into the darkness, the orbs of light growing rare, so that they passed through seas of darkness between the occasional island of light. Down, down, until at last, they stepped out into a crude corridor that led to a massive iron door.
“Wait,” rasped Scorio, the sight of the doorway sending a cold bolt of fear into his innards. “Tell me what’s going to happen. What’s on the other side?”
“You’re about to find out,” said one of the guards. “That’s the Final Door. Once you go through it, you never come back out. If it’s of any comfort, you won’t last long. Nobody does.”
“Damn you!” His cry echoed off the walls, and now he did buck and kick, hauling at his arms with everything he had.
It was like trying to pull iron spikes out of stone. His strength was completely gone, and the little resistance he managed made him want to vomit.
The rusted door was ponderous, massive, and gave a sense of crude strength. Its surface depicted interlacing bands as tall as Scorio’s hand, as if some impossible weaver had knitted the door together, under and over, again and again.
One of the guards clamped a hand around his neck and drove him to his knees while the second approached the door, drawing a massive, golden key from under his robe. There was no keyhole, but the guard simply pressed the head of the key to a shallow rectangular groove in the door’s surface.
Immediately the outlines of every band glowed red as if an inner furnace had been lit, and the door swung outward, exhaling a great breath of musty, mineral dampness and rot.
Scorio stared at the darkness beyond. For a moment he’d thought it was like the Gauntlet, a magical wall he’d have to pass through, a portal perhaps to another location, but no—it was just a cavern on the far side, lit only by the faint light stemming from the hallway.
There was no point in arguing further. No point in proclaiming his innocence. All he could do was struggle futilely as the guards picked him up and dragged him to the open door. Struggle and kick and grunt as they lifted him and hurled him into the darkness.
He fell hard, crashing down onto his side, but with supreme effort turned and began crawling back toward the door.
He was too late.
It swung closed with a slam that shook the ground and caused dust to fall from the hidden ceiling above.
Scorio fell against it, pressed his brow and palms to the pitted surface. “Damn you!” He hammered his fist against the door. “Damn you all!”
No sound filtered through. No distant echo of footsteps retreating, nothing.
The only sound in the silence was his harsh, ragged breathing, and the booming beat of his heart.
“Damn it,” he whispered, turning around and sitting against the door. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared out into the darkness. He’d caught a glimpse of a cavern, large but not impossibly so. Large enough not to echo, at any rate. But with the door closed, he couldn’t even make out his own body.
Scorio’s mind raced even as his soul ached. Those indolent moments spent on the bier with Leonis and Lianshi seemed a vanishing dream sandwiched between the horrors of the Gauntlet and the anguish of the holding cell. Would his friends come for him? They’d tried to intervene. Or would they give him up for lost? Even if they wanted to help, would they be able to find a way to open this door, to pass those guards? Not at their current level of strength. That instructor alone would have no trouble stopping them cold.
Perhaps when they gained some power, then.
The hope felt faint even to Scorio.
He sat there, brooding and shivering, staring out at nothing, not thinking, just turning his rage over and over as if it were an object he held in his hands.
A Red Lister. A villain. Scorio the Scourer. What else had he been called? The Abhorred? Bringer of Ash and Darkness? He frowned, considered. Did he have it within him to earn such titles? Be called the Quencher of Hope and whatever else?
A deep, fundamental part of his spirit rejected the very idea. No. There had to be a mistake. Especially when you considered the other information the Archspire had revealed. He’d not reincarnated in two hundred years? What was that about? And only six total incarnations?
It was all off. How could nobody else see that? There had to have been a mistake. Every one of the other seventeen Great Souls had all died within the last six years. Been reincarnated over a hundred times.
It made no sense.
He grimaced, fighting to control his anger, to keep it locked down, but he couldn’t—he let out a bark of fury and pounded his elbow into the door.
The damn thing was so heavy, it didn’t even shiver.
Fine. If they wanted to create an enemy, they were on the right track. Slowly he levered himself back up to his feet and stood, irresolute, staring out into the darkness. Whatever the chancellor had done to him had sapped Scorio of his strength, and on some deeper, more profound level, of his vitality. He felt not just weak, but delicate; the cold seeped into his flesh, and he couldn’t stop shaking.