Etheren lowered himself into a fighting crouch, hands closed into loose fists before him, face half-turned away, eyes turned to their corners to keep track of him.
Scorio wanted to laugh, to hop up and down a few times, to shake out his arms. Instead, he closed his eyes, blocked out all the sound, the distant conversations, the sense of pressure that came both from so many people watching him and his own internal pressures.
He recalled his long and lonely runs through the ruins. That fire that had led him through so many conflicts. That had guided him to victory, again and again. Thought of Leonis, fist gripping the front of Scorio’s robes, his gaze challenging, demanding.
I can do this, he thought, and the last of his fears fell away. He summoned his Heart, and it hung before him as if it had always been there, just waiting to be acknowledged. Around them swirled different streams of mana, and Scorio reached out with calm surety to guide a great stream of Iron into his core. Drew it in, heavy and comforting, till he could draw in no more, then with a flexion of his will he packed in another gust all the same.
The first chime sounded, crystalline and pure.
Scorio, eyes closed, sought to expand the reservoir of his Heart. He saw now the hairline fractures through which mana immediately began to seep. Swallowing his anger, his irritation, he swept in more Iron. Felt his Heart swell, pushed near to bursting. Saw more Iron seeping out.
The second chime.
He needed to win this fight. But he needed to win with great finality. Needed to impress upon the House representatives that he was worth betting on, worth sponsoring, spending their resources, and showering with treasures.
More mana. Felt the Iron swell his Heart further, saw the increased pressure cause it to vent faster. He’d not be in this predicament if he’d been treated fairly. But there was no fairness. There was only that which you could take out and seize.
The third chime sounded, and Scorio caused his Heart to ignite. It lit in a great rush of transparent gray flames, wreathed like a bonfire, and strength and power flooded his frame, a sense of invincibility, as different from a Coal burn as Amber was from First Clay.
His eyes snapped open, and he saw that Etheren was already sprinting toward him, letting out a battle cry, eyes wide in anger and determination.
Scorio let him come. Swept more mana into his Heart, shoring up its losses, packing it tight again, causing the flames to leap higher, his strength to grow, his fists to feel like great rocks, his legs yearning for movement, for release, to charge forth and meet Etheren in the center of the ring.
The other Cinder came right at him at full pelt, a thousand Great Souls watching, the crowd roaring, the sound swelling around them like the waves of an ocean in a bottle-neck cove, smashing about them, inducing a madness of its own, demanding spectacle, demanding a sight worthy of the event.
No plan. No conscious intent. But the power in Scorio could be held back no longer. Silent, he burst forward, three huge strides, each step feeling like it should shatter the ground, and then he leaped.
Etheren’s eyes widened as he drew close, head tilting back, his planned blow abandoned, skidding to a stop.
For a moment, a terrible, perilous second, Scorio felt himself hang in the air above the other Cinder, eight feet off the ground, and knew in his heart what this was that hawks felt in the second before the plunge.
Then he came crashing down like a landslide, like a collapsing building, and with every ounce of his strength, he drove his fist into Etheren’s face, the blow coming from the hips, his whole body turning and falling into the punch.
Etheren tried to block, flung up his arms, but Scorio slammed his fist right through his guard and smashed his knuckles square across his jaw.
He felt bone break. Felt the other man’s cheek jelly. Etheren’s head snapped down and aside, the force ripping through his body and causing it to lift off the ground and turn as if the violence was delayed, had to run down his length. The Cinder’s head turned and dropped as his body rose and spun, and then Scorio landed in a crouch just a second before Etheren fell heavily to the ground.
Breathing heavily, Scorio rose to his feet. Etheren’s neck was twisted unnaturally, but still, he recalled Leonis’s words and raised his fists, the fire that consumed his Heart wreathing his mind, his thoughts, his soul. He prepared for the other to rise somehow, for his head to turn back around, for the fight to continue, but then Etheren’s body faded away, and Scorio was left alone on the sparring circle.
Silence. Scorio lowered his hands and turned to stare at the arena’s audience. A thousand faces stared back, and for a moment he wondered if he’d done something wrong, broken some rule, disqualified himself. He felt a rising, crawling panic, a certainty that they’d throw him through the Final Door again, laugh at his protests, tell him he didn’t belong, that the nature of his victory proved him an outsider—
But then he heard a bellow that had to be Leonis’s, a smattering of applause broke out, and this seemed to galvanize the others who began to yell their approval, the sound building and building till the crowd’s roar washed over him like wildfire.
Scorio gasped, smiled in shock, then let the expression fall away as he turned in a slow circle. Not everyone was clapping. Not everyone was cheering. But enough people were that he felt the flush of victory, felt his heart tremble as his Heart guttered out, and then the Hell Whip’s voice spoke out once more.
“Victory goes to Scorio, who will take Etheren’s place in the tournament.”
The arena faded from view, and Scorio awoke upon the bier. Reflexively he tensed against the onset of pain, but nothing happened; he lay at his ease, unhurt, body hale and whole.
Sitting up, blinking in confusion, he realized that of course he’d not be wounded, he’d won, and then realized further that the whole assumption was based on a fallacy; he’d awoken from the original Gauntlet without pain. It was only the ancient murder trial in the Old Academy that left one with lingering psychic anguish.
“You did it!” Lianshi slid off her bier and skipped over to him, grinning widely. “What a blow! Where did—”
“Do not leave your biers, students,” came Helminth’s voice. “We return to the basilica only to reset the Arena. Contestants, prepare yourselves for your next round.”
Lianshi beamed at him as she gripped his arm tightly, then hurried back and up onto her bier. Naomi sat up just enough to give him a curt nod of approval, and on his other side, he caught sight of Leonis just in time to see the massive man give him a wink.
Then darkness swept up and claimed him once more.
Chapter 49
The Arena reappeared as before, massive red walls encircling the shadow-wreathed floor, but now the darkness was filled with countless sparring circles, each identical to the last, each in its own island of light and complete with two contestants. So massive was the arena that it was able to accommodate all thirty-two circles, the walls rearing up around them like cliffs from whose heights gazed the spectators.
Scorio dragged his gaze to his own circle’s far side and examined his opponent. He’d seen him around the Academy, a solitary, reserved figure that never seemed to walk with others, who sat alone to eat in the mess hall, but who was in none of his classes. Of medium stature, his defining feature was the long braid he wore down to the small of his back but which here, in the Gauntlet, now hung loose like a curtain of shadow, straight and coarse. His skin was toned like First Bronze, his mouth sensitive, his poise and balance such that even while merely standing he exuded a dancer-like grace.