Lianshi giggled and pulled Naomi away, draping an arm around her shoulder. “I have much to learn from your techniques.”
Naomi blushed furiously as self-awareness flooded her, but smiled self-consciously as she allowed Lianshi to lead her down the hallway. Scorio and Leonis followed at a short distance.
“How are you doing?” asked Leonis, tone sober.
“All right. Nervous. I need this win.”
“Yeah, you do. But I think you’ve a good chance. The loser’s bracket is a tough crew, but each of them is there because they’ve already lost once. Sixty-four men and women looking to regain their honor and prove themselves better than everyone else. They’re going to be under a lot of mental pressure. You can exploit that.”
“Yeah,” said Scorio softly as they merged with the other students heading toward the basilica. A few cast him sidelong glances, but most seemed preoccupied with their own conversations. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if I lose. I can’t wait years to continue advancing.”
“Don’t think that way,” rumbled Leonis, voice pitched low so that only Scorio could hear. “Take strength from your accomplishments. You’ve done more in a few months than anyone else here, including the new Emberlings. Who survived being thrown through the Final Door?”
“All right, yes, I understand,” said Scorio.
“No. You need to hear this.” Leonis stared straight ahead as they walked together. “I don’t think you appreciate how incredible your successes have been. You survived a literal death sentence. You forced Naomi of all people to begin training you. I can’t even get her to smile. You found a way to farm Black Star flowers. You brute-forced your way to Cinder through sheer bloody-minded determination. You discovered the other, ah, older run, then took to it like a drunkard to a pool of unrefined flaywine. But all of that’s nothing compared to what you then did. You helped an Imperator defeat Imogen the Woe. You played a part in that. You had the wits to survive when even the White Queen was taken, and then the discipline to wait for your moment. Which you took, and which made all the difference.”
Leonis grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him out of the flow of the students into a side alcove. He set him against the wall, his strength irresistible, and stared at him with a sober, grave look that Scorio had only seen him manifest in the Gauntlet. “You need to internalize those facts, my friend.” He thrust a finger into Scorio’s chest, right above his heart. “You need to understand what it is you’ve done, because it’s our actions that define us, and yours speak volumes as to the manner of man you are. You said that both Sol and Imogen recognized you from previous lives. That Imogen allowed you to remain alert and yourself because of her memories of you. Think on that. What that means. You’re an individual of such presence and power that an insane Imperator chose to respect you and enjoy your presence.”
Scorio inhaled deeply, transfixed by Leonis’s stare. It was so intense that it was almost a glare, pinning him to the wall. “Yes,” he said at last and gave a curt nod. “I hear you.”
“No, you don’t. I can tell. You think those deeds happened by luck, or that anyone else could have done them. And you’re right, to a degree. Any one of us could have pulled off one of those accomplishments. Jova, whomever. But you did them all. Back-to-back, you accomplished the impossible, again and again. And now you’ve a new trial before you. But you need to understand: this fight is just another stepping stone on your path toward success. You’re going to win. After what you’ve been through? This is nothing.”
Leonis grabbed a fistful of Scorio’s robes, pulled him away from the wall, then thrust him back hard. “You hear me?”
“Yeah,” said Scorio.
Leonis glowered, pulled him away, shoved him back harder against the wall. “You’re not convincing me. Where’s that damn fire, Scorio? You showed me more fire when I told you to ease off your training back in the ruins than you’re doing now.”
Scorio inhaled again, and his chest felt tight, his stomach fluttery, and his palms prickled. He felt again that spark of resolve, remembered his rage when he’d thought his friends were telling him to not take advantage of his scant resources. How he’d been willing to cross to the Old Academy all by himself and risk physical and spiritual destruction to keep honing his skills.
How this one fight was only the next obstacle. The next hurdle he had to leap over to continue his fight.
“You’ve been given nothing but bad cards since you reincarnated,” said Leonis, tone hard. “And you’ve played them to your best advantage, again and again. So now your Heart is ruined, and you need to win this fight to earn a chance at healing it. Take it. Whoever volunteers to fight against you, crush them. Destroy them. Manifest that rage, that will to power, and grind them to the finest powder. You hear me, Scorio?”
“Yeah,” said Scorio, and a prickling fire washed over his skin, his hands curling into fists. “I do.”
“There it is,” said Leonis with a predatory smile. “There’s the look I’ve come to fear and love.”
“I’ve got this,” said Scorio, pushing off the wall. Leonis released him and stepped back. “Thank you, my friend. I needed that.”
“Nah,” said Leonis, brushing off Scorio’s shoulders with quick sweeps of his hand. “You had it all along. Let’s go.”
They were at the back of the crowd now and hurried to reach the basilica before it was too late. It was passingly strange to enter the Aureate Hall here, to see the walls and roof undamaged, the murals gleaming and vivid, the trees growing in their massive stone containers verdant and straining toward the crimson light of First Rust.
But then they swept through the double doors and into the basilica, and the sound hit him like a wave, an ocean of movement and voices, students filtering between the biers to find their own, the excitement palpable, the tension rich and provocative.
But it wasn’t just students. Nearly as many strangers were there, moving to claim biers as well, clad in august robes of the main Houses, along with errant Great Souls who had chosen to watch the student fights.
Leonis led the way confidently down to their original biers, close by the base of the Archspire, and Scorio slowed as they drew close to trace the height of that wondrous spike that climbed so high into the air. Allowed his gaze to travel over the high, impossible domes, along the far-away balconies wreathed in ivy, the resplendent and impossible glory of this one, single, massive chamber, the adumbrated lockers, the shafts of ruddy light streaming down from the high windows, the air alive with energy and melding voices.
“Greetings, Class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three!” Chancellor Praximar’s voice rolled across the room, silencing all conversation and drawing every pair of eyes. He’d stepped up onto the far stage upon which Scorio had first seen him, and was clad in a gorgeous robe of beige that was so heavily encrusted with golden filigree and diamonds that it appeared more a suit of armor than ceremonial vestments.
Students stood to attention beside their biers, their knots breaking apart so that soon the silence was absolute.
“What a time to be alive! History is in the making, and I believe that your class will witness events beyond the norm. Era-defining moments that will be studied in future history classes, if any of us remain to study them. Bastion itself is only now starting to recover from a grievous attack, one which was repulsed only at grave expense. A living legend, Imperator Sol, journeyed here from the Abyss itself to give us succor, leaving his comrades in arms to fight alone for precious days. A gift for which we, and every soul in Bastion, shall be forever grateful.”
Scorio felt his skin prickle as stares were turned upon him. Would Praximar mention his role? Would he single him out? Scorio found himself fervently wishing he wouldn’t, and stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.