Of course, she wasn’t there. The curtains blew in with the damp breeze that presaged the rain that was to fall at Second Clay. Her massive bed was covered in tangled sheets, but the disorder was old. Her most precious belongings were gone, hidden, no doubt, where no casual scavenger would find them.
A great and painful feeling arose within his chest, making it hard to breathe, and Scorio stepped out onto her balcony. Lowered into a crouch, back against the doorframe, and stared out over the ruins. At the great tendrils of cloud that were just starting to curve up toward the rust-hued sun-wire, that would eventually form great spirals about that glowing strand and coalesce into the evening’s rainstorms.
Scorio felt blank, hollow. He gazed out over the city. Here and there, nonsensical architectural follies reflected the warping Imogen had visited upon its corpus. Towers dissected, their innards revealed, a series of arches extending out to nothing, a street that ran up the side of a building and then along the underside of an inverted bridge.
How had it come to this? How had he gone from last night’s pinnacle of elation to this crushing place of doubt and despair? Praximar must have known of his theft for several weeks. Kayla must have conferred with him, told him the truth. But he’d bided his time. Waited, watched, then dropped his hammer the second he saw Scorio about to succeed.
His bleak despair constricted and became fury. What a rat bastard. To wait like that. To let Scorio taste sweet success before stealing it away from him. Was it rank sadism? Hatred? Did he loathe Scorio for being a Red Lister, or for surviving his punishment? Perhaps it was the indignity of being forced to take Scorio back, unable to argue with Imperator Sol’s decree?
Scorio pursed his lips. And if he found Sol? Explained the situation? Would Sol intervene?
No.
Because at the heart of it all, the most bitter element was that he’d actually done the crime. He’d tried to put it behind him, thought it forgotten, but the deed was his.
Scorio had stolen, had fought innocent guards, had been part of the team that had even apparently killed some of their numbers.
As much as he hated Praximar, he couldn’t escape that fact.
He’d broken the law. He’d been willing to take part in a criminal enterprise, and the consequences were his to bear.
Scorio sighed and stared out over the city once more, past the ruins to the vibrant, living part of Bastion. He watched as dots moved about the streets, carts rolled along the axial avenues that curved overhead to disappear behind the glow of the sun-wire. Ten thousand souls going about their business, each a universe unto themselves.
And him, here, alone, having to grapple with consequences.
Should he take Praximar’s oath? His immediate reaction was to say no; he wanted in no way to agree to any plan of Praximar’s, to become his accomplice, to put himself further under the man’s heel.
But that was pride talking.
The longer Scorio sat there, watching the great curves of steam rise from the canals, the longer Scorio realized there was a deeper truth at stake.
He’d committed the crime. It was his burden to bear. If he lied further, if he engaged in even greater duplicity, he’d only make things worse.
He’d broken the law, sure. But to continue to deceive would bury him forever in a web of lies and obligations.
No. He’d refuse Praximar’s oath. Which meant House Chimera would withdraw their sponsorship, tarnishing his reputation permanently.
Which meant no regimen of rare treasures and healing pills.
Which meant he’d have to find a way to win the next round of the tournament without House Chimera’s help.
And, in turn, that he’d have to run the Gauntlet on his own strengths alone. With a fractured Heart that was venting forty percent of its mana. A venting that would make it nearly impossible to reach Emberling.
Scorio buried his face in his hands and groaned. He had no chance at beating Jova without reaching Emberling. But he couldn’t force his Heart to expand to its maximum if it vented almost half of all the mana he poured into it.
To counterbalance that loss, he’d need a monumental amount of mana. The Academy’s allotment of one Black Star pill would never suffice.
His heart was pounding, pounding, and his pulse roared in his ears like some forest fire. He couldn’t sit still, so leaped to his feet and gripped at the stone balustrade of the balcony. All the power he’d developed, the successes, the improbable victories. All of it for nothing.
Praximar was going to take it all from him with a sneer.
Scorio’s shoulders rose and fell as he breathed deep. There was no way out. The trap was perfect. Without Chimera, he couldn’t win. Couldn’t make Emberling. Without Emberling, he couldn’t beat Jova. Without beating Jova, he had to leave the Academy, and would never learn the truth of his past.
He’d be back on the streets, his reputation ruined, his Heart broken, destined to labor in obscurity for years just to undo the damage he’d done to himself to achieve this chance.
And all because Praximar loathed him for being a Red Lister.
Which he’d been born into, a heritage completely outside his control.
With a snarl, Scorio slammed his fist down on the stone railing. Staring out over the city, he seethed with impotent fury. What could he do? The question beat at him like the hammer upon an anvil, over and over again, but no answer was forthcoming.
He was beat.
But he’d not go meekly. He’d not fade graciously into the ruins. If Praximar thought he’d won, that he’d destroyed this Red Lister’s hopes, then Scorio would simply have to live up to the title.
Red Lister.
He’d kill Praximar. If it was the last thing he did. He’d find a way. And in that moment, just before he plunged the dagger home, he’d stare into Praximar’s eyes and see none of that contempt, that self-righteous disgust. He’d grip him by the throat and force him to admit he’d made a mistake, to apologize…
Scorio let out a cry of chagrin and wheeled away from the balcony, staggering back into the apartment. What madness was this? How could he, a broken Cinder, hope to kill a Pyre Lord?
Scorio stared sightlessly at the room. But what else was there? Ask Helena and Feiyan for employment? Return to his mean room in the ruins to train quietly, slowly, to mend and grow strong over the next five, ten years?
His eyes burned and he clenched his hands into fists. He fought the urge to destroy Naomi’s apartment, to shatter the furniture, to hurl the table, dash the bottles and books to the floor.
He wanted to lash out, to break, to destroy. For a wild moment, he toyed with the idea of simply racing deeper into the ruins, to hunt down the greatest predators, to fight them one by one till he died, venting his rage in blood and shattered carapaces till he was no more.
The idea had a terrible allure. To let go. To allow his fury to own him. His lungs were a bellows, his breath as hot as fire.
But it all felt futile.
He’d bet it all on each escalating wager, never knowing that Praximar had been toying with him all along.
With a moan, Scorio dropped to his knees. He didn’t want to kill Praximar. He didn’t want to destroy random monsters in the ruins. He just wanted to grow, to dominate, to wrest the truth from Jova, to… to become himself, whoever that was.
“You look terrible,” said Naomi, and he jerked upright to see her standing in the doorway. “And also like you’re not planning to leave anytime soon.”
“Naomi,” he breathed, struggling to his feet.
“No,” she said, raising a hand and cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear it. I just want you out.”
Scorio hesitated, mouth open, wanting to protest, to argue with her, but in her eyes, he saw flat animosity. His own words from the night before rang in his ears, mocking him, and he hung his head.
“All right.” His voice sounded dead even to his own ears. “My apologies for trespassing here.”