“Hence your ludicrous plan to use… imperial gel? To concentrate Coal mana to Ruby-level intensity?” Lianshi gave a sharp shake of her head. “Which, incidentally, is still an utterly ridiculous plan. But which!” She held up a hand to forestall protests. “I am not going to harp on about. You nurture your Black Star plants, you make Emberling, we convince Naomi to come back, then we give the Gauntlet our all. What else can we do?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Leonis looked over to Scorio in mock surprise. “She’s actually quite good at these motivational speeches, isn’t she?”
“Not bad,” said Scorio, unable to resist smiling.
“You two are insufferable,” said Lianshi, and threw a small pillow at Leonis. “You want me to find some other group to join?”
“No!” Leonis raised both hands defensively. “Who else would we tease in your absence? Each other? The horror!”
Lianshi stared venomously at Leonis, whose smile wilted as he shrank back dramatically. “Oh, spare me, great and glorious leader.”
“I’m not the leader,” said Lianshi, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “Scorio is.”
“I am not,” said Scorio automatically.
The other two both turned to stare at him.
“I’m not. I, ah, just… I don’t know, I’m the one desperate enough to drag you into my hare-brained schemes. That’s all.”
“A desperate leader, then,” said Lianshi with a sniff. “Even better.”
“I really want to know what Jova did to Ravenna,” said Leonis, interlacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. “That was wild. The way she… cowered? I’d have bet a hundred octs before this that Ravenna would die before she showed fear to another.”
“Her Tomb Spark power,” said Lianshi. “Perhaps it’s fear-based. Maybe that’s why she missed, as well. Perhaps terror ruined her aim.”
“As if Jova wasn’t intimidating enough,” said Leonis.
A chime sounded, clear and lucid and loud.
“Time for class,” said Lianshi, rising smoothly to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go see if Feng feels voluble enough to shed some light on what just happened.”
Scorio reluctantly climbed to his feet and straightened his robes. “Thanks, guys.”
“Hmm?” Leonis paused in the process of retying his belt. “For what? For being your friends? Surely you’re not thanking us for that. That’d mean the act of friendship is one that’s not freely given, meaning we’d have to start tallying who’s giving more—”
“You’re welcome,” said Lianshi, cutting in. “Now come on. Last thing I want is to be late. Remember what Feng said last Seventhday?”
“Only too well.” Leonis gave his sash a tight tug and stepped off the cushions altogether. “Let’s go learn what the gossips are saying.”
1
More weeks passed. The routine gave Scorio’s life structure yet was also unbearable. He tried to lose himself in each endeavor, to increase his pace in his runs, to improve his First Form, to wield his will like a weapon during Instructor Hera’s meditation classes.
And he saw definite improvement. Even Instructor Feng pointed it out, noting with dry approval that his technique, his instincts, and his focus had moved to another level.
Despite the praise, despite his every accomplishment, Scorio was aware of nothing but his failings. For every Cinder he dropped without receiving a blow in sparring practice, he was aware of the Emberlings tearing each other apart with powers he couldn’t compete against. For every lap he ran in the mornings, he thought of how Jova could easily outpace him if she but bothered to exert herself. For every sack of Heartstones he delivered to Jelan, he was aware of the Fat Crickets and better that most of the class was consuming without expending any effort. He practiced the First Form until each iteration left him gasping, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding as he wreaked ruin on his invisible opponents. Struggled against Iron mana with his every spare moment until walking around with a low-level headache became normal.
But it was never enough. Nothing was enough. Leonis and Lianshi learned to stop trying to comfort him, to place his gains in context. More and more he strove alone, chasing elusive goals, impossible dreams. And was defied at every turn by his fractured Heart.
Every now and then he caught sight of Praximar. The chancellor would be watching him, a slight curve to his lips, his amusement barely disguised. The sight of the older man reveling in his struggles only drove Scorio to darker and deeper bouts of training. Resentment burned within his core like a midnight bonfire. It warmed him, burned him, kept him focused.
But nothing mattered. His Heart vented nearly half of everything he poured into it. He could sense his reservoir slowly expanding, but it felt like trying to empty a pool with a sieve. The more he flailed, the more frustrated he became.
The first batch of Black Star proved fruitful; he collected almost four hundred beads of the deepest ebon, which he placed in a heavy burlap sack and brought home. Nox had loomed the whole time, fidgeting and restless, driven near to distraction by the presence of so much mana. He’d warned that the farm was drawing lethal attention, but Leonis, Lianshi, and Scorio had worked swiftly, gathered their riches, and then left before the Imperial Ghost Toad could have acted rashly.
More weeks crawled by. Tournament rounds. Training sessions. Classes. Histories and geographies, common fiends, greater monsters, the powers of hell, and those who defied them. Feng’s clinical commentary rang in his ears, Hera’s admonishments that he was pushing himself too hard. Helminth’s sardonic stare haunted his nights, and over it all loomed Jova Spike, uncaring, distant, impersonal, a force of nature.
The semester began to draw to a close. Excitement was thick in the air, and even those who hadn’t pushed themselves redoubled their efforts. Not only was the end of the tournament in sight, but just after it the fateful Gauntlet run. Everyone spoke of nothing else. Those with House sponsorships remained quiet, refusing to share their privileged information as to what to expect, while those not so fortunate discussed how best to tackle the first four rooms.
Once or twice Scorio sought out Naomi. But her room had been truly abandoned, and he saw no hint of her no matter how long he looked. He spent long evenings watching the steam clouds curling up toward the darkening sun-wire, gazing out over the ruins and replaying his past, his decisions, his mistakes, until the wire went dark, and the rains would fall, spiraling across the inside of Bastion’s cylinder, drenching ruins and city alike in heavy rains.
Leonis sought to persuade him to go out every once in a while, to visit Feiyan and Helena, to try some of the more exquisite restaurants, to spend their allotments of octs. Scorio refused every time.
Lianshi was a more constant and quieter presence. She trained rigorously by his side, as driven as he but for her own reasons. Evenings in their suite she’d sit upon a cushion and read one of her journals, slowly turning the pages and often frowning at what she discovered within the pages.
She never offered to share what she read, and nobody dared ask.
Weeks crawled by, and while Scorio felt his body responding, his will strengthening, his command of mana improving, it never felt enough.
Forced to give up on having Naomi’s help in turning the four hundred beads of pure Coal mana into potent syrup, Scorio visited the alchemist again, and silenced the man’s protests with a heavy pouch of the very octs he’d earned from Jelan for weeks’ worth of Heartstones. The payment had been more than generous, and the man had blinked, taken the large burlap sack, and a week later, delivered to Scorio a massive jar filled with a depthless black fluid that radiated terrible and dangerous power.
Scorio, Leonis, and Lianshi had sat, staring at the huge jar of incredibly pure Coal mana syrup, until Leonis had shaken himself and risen to his feet.