“That is a terrible temptation. Hide it well, my friend. People will sense it and come looking.”
From that moment on, Scorio always carried the jar with him, swaddled in thick blankets within a backpack, never letting it out of his sight.
The final round of the winner’s bracket arrived. Eight contestants fought for the coveted four spots that would form the winner’s Gauntlet team. Scorio felt nothing as he stood in the stands; no anticipation, no excitement, no eagerness to witness the displays of martial power.
This time he didn’t even focus on Jova’s fight; he didn’t want to watch, to witness her mastery. Instead, he turned his attention to the other three combats. All were Emberlings, but somehow that just wasn’t impressive any longer. The battles were as brutal as they were brief. Zala, who had clawed her way to the top after an ignominious first Gauntlet run, eked out a victory over an Emberling who could transform his body into living rock and lava; Kuragin fought a ruinous battle against Chen She, winning at great cost and a terrible amount of bloodshed; and Juniper, the radiant blonde, was defeated by Chloe, a fight in which they both circled each other cautiously until at last, they clashed in an explosion of blows which seemed to go Chloe’s way more by luck than anything else.
“Jova, Chloe, Kuragin, and Zala,” said Leonis as they’d walked away at the end of the extended and celebratory ceremony. “That’s a strong team.”
“Not a team, remember?” Lianshi was pinching the bridge of her nose. Scorio felt a wave of sympathy; Praximar’s hour-long speech about the glories the four winners would earn both in the Gauntlet and thereafter had grated terribly.
“Jova is nigh unstoppable, and weirdly terrifying,” said Leonis, ticking off a finger. “Chloe needs to deliver but one punch to turn into a tornado of attacks that will demolish any foe. Kuragin is a monster, pure and simple, while Zala’s butterflies will destroy anything in time.”
“Sounds impressive,” said Lianshi, “but there are some glaring weaknesses in their line-up. Not much by way of actual mobility.”
“Kuragin can move,” protested Leonis.
Scorio walked in silence, listening, feeling numb.
“True, but the more he uses his technique, the greater a threat he becomes to his teammates,” replied Lianshi. “And think about chambers like the balancing floor, or what we’ve dealt with in the old Gauntlet. How would they fare there?”
Now Scorio did speak. “Jova would power through the room of flying cubes with no difficulty.”
“Sure, but what about the scrolling wall? Being invulnerable to most damage won’t save you from falling into an abyss.”
“Kuragin could grab her, help her climb,” said Leonis. “Like Naomi did for Scorio.”
Which caused Lianshi to wince and glance at Scorio. “True. But my point is this: they’re all excellent at fighting. That’s what the tournament rewarded, right? The ability to go toe-to-toe? But neither Chloe nor Zala are especially mobile. And none of them have worked together as a team to compensate for each other’s weaknesses.”
“They’ve got two weeks,” said Scorio. “Maybe one of them will make Tomb Spark and gain some crucial power.”
“Maybe,” said Leonis. “But tomorrow we gather the second batch of Black Star and then you’re going to make Emberling.”
“Yeah,” said Scorio softly. “Yeah.”
1
They headed out at First Clay, the sun-wire congealing into a ruddy hue that cast a baleful red light across Bastion’s cylindrical insides. Clad in functional work robes, they immediately began to jog the moment they left the Academy’s gates, winding their way south toward the ruins and the Old Academy, following familiar routes and moving with quiet purpose.
No jesting, no idle raillery. The intensity of the occasion bled from Scorio to the other two, united them in purpose, and even street vendors shrank back from their expressions. In his pack he carried the tincture from the first batch of Black Star beads; contained within a massive jar swaddled in thick blankets, it radiated fell power. No way was he leaving that behind in his quarters on every Great Soul’s day off. Though it weighed him down, he felt immeasurably comforted to know exactly where it was at all times.
They slowed as they passed a crowd in Ward 4. A young woman with a shock of crimson hair that had been hacked short stood atop a pedestal, shouting passionately to all who would listen, and hundreds had stopped to do so.
“Wait,” said Scorio. “I know her. I saw her right after Imogen’s attack. She was calling for our downfall.”
They stopped and drew closer.
“…the ruins close about our homes like hands around our throats, and what do they do? They celebrate tournaments, they boast about the treasures they’re bringing home from the depths of hell, they eat as much as they can, then throw the leftovers into the trash! Bastion itself will soon be destroyed, and do they have a plan? No! Have they come out to talk to us, to answer our demands, to show any sign of real leadership? No!”
“Doesn’t sound good,” rumbled Leonis.
“For decades they strung us along with their Empyreal Prophecy, and look where that got us? Nowhere, just wasted time, wasted homes, entire neighborhoods and wards lost to the ruins endless hunger. And now that the prophecy was revealed to be a hoax, have they even bothered to sell us a new lie? Of course not! They feel safe, contented in their halls of power, while we must scrape and fight and die to feed them and their lifestyles! And can they even defend us, can their vaunted powers keep evil away from Bastion?”
Angry shouts answered her as she scanned the crowd.
“No, they can’t! Imogen the Woe nearly tore this city apart before they bothered to fight. I lost my parents, my brother, my little sister, my home, all of it in one moment, and has anyone come forth to apologize? To take responsibility? For my pain? For yours?”
The angry shouts grew in number, and Scorio saw faces flush in fury.
“Of course not! Why should they bother? We’re rats to be ignored, roaches to be crushed under their feet! We’re nothing to them but a source of amusement in bed or labor or taxes! They hold us in nothing but contempt, and our pain, our tears, our blood, it only makes them laugh!”
Fists were thrust into the air, and the woman looked over the crowd again, her green eyes gleaming, nodding in approval of the rage.
“I tell you this, brothers and sisters, I tell you that we have revolted against the oppressors before! Garannil did so a century ago, but he failed because he thought it had to be peaceful! Well, his failure showed us—”
Then her eyes locked on Scorio and widened.
And in that second he finally recognized her. The last time he’d seen her she’d been lit by eerie blue moss, her face drained of color, her hair verdigrised in the subterranean illumination. Since then she’d chopped most of that hair off, eaten a few square meals, and substituted her dull fatalism for revolutionary fervor.
Nissa.
“Time to go,” Lianshi whispered, edging backward.
“They’re here! Great Souls!” She pointed right at him. Did she not recognize him? “There! Come to listen, to eavesdrop! Or have they come to answer our questions?”
“Time to go,” agreed Leonis, quickly fading away as the crowd turned to glare at them.
“Why have no apologies been issued?” shouted Nissa after them. “Who will pay for the blood that was spilled? When will we be given the right to rule over ourselves? Oh! They run? They run! That is what they always do—they run when confronted—”
Scorio and his friends raced into the closest alleyway as the roar grew behind them, angry and demanding. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to be chased, but turned off into another street before anyone did so.
They ran till they left the ward behind, and only then did they slow.