By the time the sun-wire darkened altogether, he’d harvested a dozen small Heartstones, all of them from predators that had thought him easy prey. The fiends wrecked his blade, however; apparently, beings infused with mana were incredibly tough to kill with regular weapons. With a sigh of regret, he resigned himself to either buying a better sword or using his own fists; the sword itself was notched and dull from just one day’s hunting.
He was walking deeper into the ruins when the darkness fell, and the sudden drop in temperature caused the funnel clouds to darken and unleash their rain, which fell in driving curtains across the street, cool and soothing. Scorio welcomed the wetness and didn’t change his pace, but kept walking.
He saw but didn’t register the native wildlife around him—the floating jellies that drifted along one wall, the shells encrusted along the floor of an avenue, a side street so filled with barnacles that he could barely see a path down its length.
None of them would render Heartstones of sufficient value.
He’d missed a whole day of classes. How many could he skip before he got in trouble? One at least wouldn’t be enough.
He climbed and crossed broken rooftops, dropped down into narrow courtyards, and passed through dark, empty houses. Skirted around the circumference of large plazas, and balanced his way across spindly bridges that arced out over glowing cracks in the ground.
At last, drew up short and blinked. He’d traversed nearly the entire length of the ruins, right down to the end, and before him lay the Portal, the hub that held the sun-wire’s end, and the great buildings that encircled the cylinder’s bottom, massive and dark and dour.
Amongst them, the Old Academy.
Scorio considered. Praximar had released an official statement declaring that the ancient building had been sealed off, protecting the old Archspire from further tampering. But he felt drawn to the building, to its ancient secrets, to the hope it had once represented.
Turning, he looked back at the distant, living portion of the city. Already the night lights were coming on, dappling its expanse in cool pools of copper and soothing gray. If he turned back now, he’d still be only horrendously late.
But something told him Praximar wouldn’t expel him for being tardy. Not when he was poised to shatter Scorio’s spirit on a far greater altar.
Scorio lowered himself into a crouch, the rain sweeping over him, and waited. At first, he didn’t know what for, but slowly it came to him: a sense of expectation, that something was imminent, and should happen soon.
But it didn’t.
Naomi didn’t step out of the darkness in her Nightmare Lady form.
His expression soured as he realized that he’d been waiting all this time for her to do so, to have changed her mind and decided to help him. He wanted her to emerge so he could apologize again, smooth over her hurt, tell her she’d been right all along, earn her forgiveness, and then rail against the Academy together in righteous indignation.
But if she was watching him, she never emerged from the darkness.
Scorio crouched down upon the rooftop and gathered up a fistful of damp cindered stone. Scowling, he crushed the flakes to dust, which he allowed to slowly trickle into the air and be caught by a breeze that plumed the grit away.
Fine. He’d continue with his plan. Would find a way to brute force his way to victory. Because Naomi was right about one thing: he might be beat down, but he wasn’t beat.
“Not dead yet,” he whispered, rising to his feet and discarding the rest of the dust. He moved to the edge of the roof, swept Coal into his Heart, and sparked it afire with a flex of his will. Power flooded into him, traitorous, truant power, and he stepped over the shallow retaining wall to fall into the void beyond.
Down two stories to land on the street that arrowed its way toward the huge bridge. The impact sent a shock of pain through his legs, but that quickly faded. Praximar had said the Old Academy was sealed off, but damn Praximar and his lies. He’d investigate for himself. For within lay that ancient Gauntlet, and who knew what other treasures? They’d been so enamored of the sole find that they’d ceased to explore.
Time to find out what else the old Academy was hoarding.
His every footstep crunched into the silence. Purposeful, focused, unhurried, he reached the broad bridge. Was it only a few weeks ago that he and the others had fought their way across, defeating the toad to gain entry into the Academy?
Could have been a lifetime ago.
Scorio crossed the bridge, the wind tugging at his robes, and saw movement at the far end, within the hollow morass of collapsed columns and roof. A stirring within the ink-dark depths.
Scorio didn’t slow but reached into his robes to draw forth his nubbin of chalk. It felt like an old friend, one he’d set aside, thinking it no longer necessary within the civilized climes of the new Academy, but now, palming it once more, a welcome return.
On he walked, down the center of the bridge, watching the shattered building. More movement, and then the huge toad bestirred itself and emerged into the sullen light of Second Clay to perch atop a rough boulder.
As big as a cart, its empty ocular ridges extending out into horns, its whole body gleaming with slowly coagulating Coal mana, it oriented on him, settling in, its broad slit of a mouth conveying emotion that Scorio couldn’t read. Dark amusement? Wariness? Attentiveness?
“We going to have a problem?” called Scorio as he drew closer.
The toad adjusted its weight once more, sticky digits rippling on the rock, the seam of its lips undulating subtly.
The toad’s voice was a reverberating croak. “Favorite friend alone?”
Scorio frowned. Would he be admitting weakness? Inviting an attack? Just how valuable might the toad’s Heartstone be? For some reason, the thought disgusted him. “For now, sure.” He felt an impulse to throw in a threat, a promise of pain if the toad tried him, but refrained.
Again the toad resettled itself upon the boulder, its soft, pale gray throat working. “No problem.”
“Good,” said Scorio, moving forward once more but angling out wide to create as much distance between the toad and himself as possible. “Appreciate it.”
The toad swiveled as Scorio strode past it, keeping him in sight, and it was when Scorio was past that he felt in the most danger; how easy would it be for the toad to send its huge tongue flying at his back when he thought himself safe?
But it made no move, and soon was lost from sight. Unsettled, unsure as to how to feel about that interaction, Scorio broke into a jog, eager now to get into the Old Academy. Ran lightly up the great staircase to the colonnaded front, and there stopped.
Praximar hadn’t been lying. The huge front doors were sealed with dense gray stone, the surface of the doors emerging from the sealant like a shipwreck from the surface of a lagoon.
Frowning, Scorio circled wide to their customary entrance and found that similarly blocked. He stepped up and touched the new rock—it was cool and unnaturally smooth. Frown deepening, Scorio stepped back and looked up. The windows were sealed as were errant cracks.
Stubborn, he circled the Academy, taking his time as he walked all the way around its wings and into its accessible inner courtyards. Pried and poked, climbed to first floor balconies, even attempted to break through weaker looking parts of the architecture, only to discover more obdurate stone behind each access point.
Night was almost upon him when he finally reached the front again. Nothing. Praximar, or whichever Great Soul the chancellor had tasked with this responsibility had been thorough to the extreme. Rubbing at his jaw, Scorio scowled and dropped into a crouch. Damn it! The old Gauntlet was his best weapon in this impossible battle. How was he supposed to eke out some manner of advantage without it?