The liquid was fiery, immediately intoxicating, rich with a redolent, smoky flavor that made Scorio feel as if he’d downed a cup of soft fire. He could sense the intense mana within it flooding into his system, and setting the cup down, he laughed and gazed out over the crowd, saw that most of those dancing were patterned with the crushed paste, so that they swirled in lavender and fuchsia and blue, losing their human forms and becoming animated patterns that beguiled the eye.
“Let’s dance!” shouted Lianshi, pulling everyone away from the bar, and when Naomi tried to resist Leonis got down on one knee, beseeching her to come with hands clasped before him, so that she acquiesced, mortified, as those around them laughed and cheered with approval.
Time ceased to have meaning. They danced, swayed to the tempestuous music, finding the rhythm, their little group endlessly breaking apart and then reforming. Occasionally they’d meet back at the bar for another round of drinks from Memek, who was delighted to pour them endless cups of burning gold, and sometimes they’d fade back to the walls and there catch their breath, watching the musicians as they plied their wild craft, their number fluid, some taking breaks while others taking their place, the music endless and driving the crowd to ever greater excesses.
The drink went to Scorio’s head, and he found his fears and concerns, the doubts and anger melting away. Dancing in the center of the crowd, he felt his sense of self melt into the music, into the sway of bodies around him, everyone united by the rhythm, the energy that filled the room.
The crowd parted and he saw Lianshi dancing with a young man, his robe barely hanging off his shoulders, chest bare, his face intent as he worked hard to impress her, and when she caught Scorio’s eyes she laughed, part-exhilarated, part-panicked.
Scorio laughed, the crowd closed, and he turned, eyes closed, allowing his thoughts to finally stop, to just be. He felt a hand trace a line across his back and turned, half-expecting to see Helena, but saw a different woman instead, tall and elegant, skin so black it hinted at blue in the magical light, hair assembled in an artful mess above her head, cheekbones glittering as if smeared with the very stuff of stars, her eyes glowing with interest. He bowed low, flattered, but fended her off.
This moment was his and his alone. He wanted to imprint it upon his memory, to crystallize this emotion, this feeling, so that no matter what happened next, he could return to it. This sensation of bliss, of rising euphoria, of success.
Because he’d done it. He’d done more than survived. More than just forced his way back into the Academy. Everything he’d done, every sacrifice, every death in the Gauntlet, every loss, all of it had culminated in House Chimera offering him their sponsorship. His future was bright with treasure, personalized training, endless resources, and the kind of guidance reserved for the most elite of the Academy.
Not that he didn’t still have his challenges before him—his impulsive bet with Jova, Praximar’s warnings. But he knew he could accomplish the impossible. He’d already done so once, hadn’t he?
He’d do it again.
Shouts arose from the side; he looked over and saw Leonis blinking in surprise as three young men stood defiantly before him.
One of them held a knife.
A woman screamed, and the spiraling, whirling music came to a dissonant end.
Scorio hurried over, wishing he’d not drunk so much, to reach Leonis’s side just as his friend raised his hands.
“I’m not sure what I did wrong,” rumbled the big man, “but I’m happy to apologize.”
The youth with the blade, his face encrusted with wild crimson swirls of paste, hocked and spat on the floor. “You’re not welcome here, Great Soul. Get back to your Academy and your luxuries. Is there nothing in this city we can have to ourselves?”
Leonis’s frown widened. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t!” The youth raised the blade. “You understand nothing! You take all, you tell us lies, then you go back to your fancy school and laugh at us! Enough! Your time is coming to an end—get out of here!”
Rumbles of assent came from the crowd that had gathered around them, though Scorio saw that the majority looked confused and frightened.
Feiyan shouldered her way to the fore, her mallet over her shoulder, to glare at the youth. “What’s your name?”
The young man straightened, taken aback by her fierce intensity and air of command. “I—my name’s Makiros.”
“Makiros. I don’t recall seeing that name on the list of The Flame’s owners. In fact, there are just two names there, and mine’s one of them.”
“But—these Great Souls, they don’t belong here, they should leave—”
“No, you should leave. You and your friends.” She lowered her mallet so that it fell into her open palm with a heavy smack. “Now.”
Makiros glanced around nervously, but something in Feiyan’s gaze did the deciding for him. He sneered. “Word’ll get out that this is a place for Great Soul lovers. Music won’t stop this place from burning when the time comes.” And then he turned and made his way toward the exit.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Feiyan, unimpressed. “Music! And everyone gets a free drink at the bar. Memek—line up the cups.”
Tentatively at first, and then with vigor, the music started back up, and slowly the crowd began to move, to stir, to dance once more. Many cheered as they crammed in for their free drink, and Feiyan crooked a finger to Scorio and Leonis, beckoning for them to move over to a wall.
“Did you provoke them?” she asked.
“No!” Leonis looked offended. “I mean, I was speaking with a lady, and then Makiros showed up and got upset. Perhaps he knew her? I don’t know.”
“Could be.” Feiyan rubbed at the side of her face. “You are welcome here. But be careful. The tension in the streets couldn’t be higher after the attack on the city. Your kind is being held responsible for the deaths. Given the failure of the Empyreal Prophecy, I would be surprised if there weren’t protests or an uprising soon.”
Scorio glanced at Leonis, who looked equally taken aback, then both nodded.
“Anyways. Enjoy yourselves.” Feiyan slipped her mallet into its loop at her hip. “And be smart.” And with that, she walked away.
“Uprising?” said Leonis. “We fought Imogen off. Why are they mad at us?”
“Don’t know,” said Scorio, and rubbed at his chin. “Just mind whom you talk to!”
Leonis laughed. “I can’t help myself! But fine! I’ll try to be discrete.” He clapped Scorio on the shoulder and strode back into the crowd.
Hours later, head spinning, body drenched in sweat, heart pounding with joy and exertion, he collapsed into an empty chair at a sparsely populated table, cup of water in hand. For a moment he sat alone, then Feiyan stepped out of the crowd, stocky frame clad in a beautiful black robe, her dark forelock curling across her forehead, and sat down next to him.
“Congratulations,” she said, voice raised so he could hear her over the music. “Helena told me what happened.”
“Thank you.” He smiled at her, feeling affectionate, deciding not to let even her curmudgeonly ways keep him from feeling blissed out. “Apologies for that earlier disturbance. And I wouldn’t have made it this far without your help.”
“I take it you’re not looking to get out to the Rascor Plains anymore?” Her expression was wry as she shook her head. “I worked hard at finding you passage.”
“No, thank you.” Scorio considered. “I’m happy to pay you for the time you spent.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she shouted, raising a callused palm. “Wasn’t the best choice. Tough outfit. Good people, but hard.”
“Yeah? Who?”
She leaned in so she didn’t have to shout so loudly. “Manticore. Decade ago looked like they were going to make their own house, then it all fell apart when their Crimson Earl got herself killed.”