Lianshi was muttering curses and rubbing at her shoulders as she also sat up, but she caught Leonis’s somber mood. “That bad?”
“What was bad?” asked Scorio, looking from one to the other.
“Wasn’t what I expected,” allowed Leonis with a sigh. “But that’s history now, right?”
“Right,” said Lianshi.
“What is?” Scorio scowled. “If you think you can start an Emberling club and keep me out—”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Leonis somberly, and his uncharacteristic gravity silenced Scorio. “For better or worse. But yes. I’m an Emberling now. Felt the same thing you described, Lianshi. My Heart kept drinking in mana, but no matter how much I poured into it the damn thing wouldn’t saturate. Then the fight began, and I was trying to ignite, and…”
“And your trial began,” said Lianshi softly.
“Yeah.”
“So?” Scorio’s irritation did as much as his burning Heart to rid him of the last of the headache. “Your powers?”
“My powers.” Leonis blew out his cheeks, then frowned and Scorio felt his Heart ignite, a palpable expansion of force that blew past him like some manner of ghost wind. A second later, a stone club appeared in his hand. But a stranger club Scorio had never seen; it was massive, a yard long and uniform in diameter for its whole length. It was hexagonal, with three of its panels inscribed down their length with glowing orange runes.
It had to weigh hundreds of pounds, but Leonis held it easily by the grip that emerged from its base. He turned it about, holding it in both hands, mouth pursed once more as he studied it.
Scorio watched his friend, the silence growing between them, and bit the inside of his cheek. He thumbed his palm and fought the urge to leap off his bier and move over to Leonis, to provoke him into action, into speech. Instead, he cleared his throat and glanced at Lianshi, who seemed content to wait.
Scorio resigned himself to silence, unsure as to what was going on. He had so many questions, but beyond that, a sense of annoyance was growing within him. Placing one hand into the palm of the other, he cracked his knuckles, then did the same for his first hand. Still, Leonis just turned the club around, running his fingers over the light gray and pitted surface.
Scorio sighed loudly, drummed his heels on the bier, and finally, Leonis looked up, his expression turning wry.
“You’ll understand soon enough,” he said, voice deep, resonant. “But yes. This is Nezzar.”
“Nezzar,” said Scorio. “That’s from one of your titles. The Wielder of Nezzar.”
“I think Nezzar was what allowed me to accomplish so much,” said Leonis softly. “In my first life, that is. It’s followed me here, into hell.”
“Is that… a good thing?”
“I don’t know.”
Lianshi’s tone was firm. “It is what you make of it.”
“True.” Leonis sighed, then sat up straight. “True.”
“What do those runes mean?” asked Scorio. “Can you read them?”
“I can,” said Leonis, but made no effort to explain further.
They sat in silence for a spell longer, and then Scorio hopped of his bier. “Well, do you want to try another go at the Gauntlet? See how far we get this time? Maybe with Nezzar, you can reach the ogre that’s been giving Lianshi so much trouble.”
“No, I don’t think so. Go ahead, both of you, if you want.” Leonis was studying his hexagonal club once more. “I’ll wait for you here.”
“I’m good,” said Lianshi. “There’s only so many times I want to be torn apart.”
“Then…” Scorio trailed off. They’d already been through the Gauntlet twice. “Perhaps that’s enough for today. If you guys are sure.”
“I’m sure,” said Lianshi softly.
“Yeah,” said Leonis, though Scorio wasn’t even sure he’d heard the question.
“Go ahead,” said Lianshi. “I can tell you want to. We’ll wait for you.”
Scorio pursed his lips. His irritation warred with his sympathy for Leonis. They’d come here to train. They only had five Eighthdays left.
But Leonis’s expression tugged at him. Conflicted, somber, reflective. No, far more complex than that. Scorio had never seen such depth to his friend’s face. Not sorrow, exactly, nor regret, but somewhere between wounded pride, deep chagrin, and old, old pain.
What by the ten hells happened in the trial?
“No, let’s get back,” said Scorio before realizing he’d decided. “We can take a good soak and then get an early dinner.”
Leonis looked up, bemused. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” He stepped up to his friend and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. We should relax, celebrate a little. With your hitting Emberling, Naomi in the wings as a particularly vicious example of the rank, and my sure to hit Emberling before the final Gauntlet run, we’re in great shape.”
Lianshi and Leonis exchanged a look.
“At least he’s confident,” said Lianshi.
“C’mon.” Scorio grinned. “We can stop at that favorite stall of yours and get fire pepper ices on the way back. My treat.”
Leonis snorted. “You’re making me feel like a child.”
“You said it, not me.” Scorio forced a grin. “You coming? Offer won’t last long.”
Leonis raised Nezzar. He held it aloft as if it weighed less than a reed, then opened his hand, and it faded rapidly from view, the runes taking longest to disappear. “Fire pepper ices sound good. Lianshi?”
“No, thank you.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “Last time you convinced me I spent the worst night of my admittedly very, very short life thus far in the bathroom. You indulge.”
“Your loss,” said Leonis, his hearty tone ringing false. “How about I buy you some candied skrellen teeth instead?”
Lianshi stuck her tongue out at him, and Leonis laughed, and for a second Scorio thought they might be transitioning to a lighter mood, but as they filed out between the biers, he glanced back once, and with his darkvision saw Leonis’s somber expression once more.
Whatever had happened to his friend, it would clearly not be easily forgotten.
1
True to his word, Scorio joined his friends on the next Seventhday to watch the tournament. He couldn’t deny being excited; after two rounds of the loser’s bracket hashing out who would continue, it was finally time for the winners to have another go at each other. With only thirty-two left, and all of them Emberlings, there were no longer any contenders who hadn’t proved themselves against worthy opponents time and again.
Every fight would be worth watching. Analyzing. Discussing at length. But there was only one fight Scorio wanted to watch. One opponent he wanted to observe. One woman he’d started to see as his nemesis. The obstacle he had to overcome, the impossible standard he had to not only meet but exceed.
Jova Spike.
Despite his own incredible focus on his pursuits, he’d now been at the Academy long enough to absorb the culture, overhear the quiet conversations, notice the subtle trends that warped their cohort. Which students were the natural leaders, who generated enough pull to develop followings, which students were loners, which constantly generated rumors and jealous whispers, which were emulated, hated, loved.
But out of their nearly five hundred members, only one name consistently was spoken with a mixture admiration, awe, reverence, and disdain. The yardstick against which everyone, even the greats like Accardi, Zala, Kuragin, and Chen She, measured themselves.
Jova Spike.
She had only two close friends and didn’t bother with acquaintances. Plenty of people followed her about, ran with her, sat at her dining table, clustered around her in class. Plenty of students went out of their way to do her favors, gift her their personal treasures, seek to earn a moment of her approval.
But through this noise, through this attention and focus, she sailed through with steely focus. Polite, unassuming, reserved, and as searingly intense as the blue tip of a gas fire, she spoke little and laughed only when she was with either Zala or Juniper.