“Easy,” said Leonis, resting his elbow on Scorio’s shoulder so that he could lean on him. “Stay focused.”
“If I were any more focused, I’d catch on fire,” Scorio muttered, which made Leonis chuckle.
“Remember,” said Naomi, rounding on them so that they formed a small huddle. “We’re looking to win the highest team average. That’s our true strength. If Scorio can beat Jova, all well and good, but if he’s part of the team that makes it the farthest, collectively, then he has a real chance of earning a reprieve regardless.”
“You hear that, Scorio?” Lianshi poked him in the gut. “Team score. No stupid heroics.”
“But I’m a stupid hero,” said Scorio, half-distracted. “What can I do?”
Leonis snorted again, then pushed off Scorio and slapped him gently upside the head. “You’re many things, my friend, but that’s not one of them.”
“Remarkably,” continued Naomi, as if she’d not been interrupted, “we’re the only team here to have had over twenty Gauntlet runs. Everyone else has had but the one. They’re anxious, nervous, overwhelmed, even, by what they now face. Whereas we’ve done this enough times to make it feel almost routine.”
“Different Gauntlet,” said Leonis.
“Same principles. And the one we ran was tougher.” Naomi stared at each of them in turn. “You’re unrecognizable from the Cinders or Chars I first met. Each of you has overcome incredible obstacles to reach this moment—”
“Hey, she’s pretty good at this motivational thing,” said Leonis, then raised his hands defensively as Naomi took a threatening step toward him. “No, no, I’m just saying, it’s kind of shocking, given how negative you usually are—”
“Leonis,” warned Lianshi. “You’re actively lowering your chances of doing well by asking Naomi to break one of your bones before the Gauntlet starts.”
“Don’t compliment the Nightmare Lady,” said Leonis with a grin. “Got it.”
Both women rolled their eyes.
Praximar was mounting the distant stage, dressed so resplendently that he looked like a mobile treasury. Behind him came the instructors, the final chief dignitaries, and other important-looking people.
“We’re almost out of time,” said Scorio, cutting into the banter. “But I just want to say one thing before this begins.” He paused, and suddenly the words were gone, stolen from him as he looked up at Leonis’s bluff, honest face, at Lianshi’s open expression, at Naomi’s suspicious stare. A great emotion began to arise within his chest, like a drowning swimmer trying to reach the surface. He felt his eyes prickle, his face flush, and a tremor shook his jaw till he clenched it tight.
“No need for words,” said Leonis, tone soft, wrapping one arm around Scorio’s shoulders and gathering Lianshi in with the other. “We know what you’re going to say, and you’ve no need to say it.”
“Agreed,” said Lianshi. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done with my full heart. I’m so proud of you all. What we’ve accomplished. What we’ve become.”
“A killer team,” said Naomi, tone harsh. “Top competitors, whether anybody recognizes it or not.”
Scorio inhaled sharply and bowed his head. It was too much. The words were there, just out of reach, words of gratitude and love. His heart thudded in his chest; his breath caught tremulously in his throat. He wanted to tell these three how much they meant to him. How they had changed everything for the better, made all this possible. The sheer force of his gratitude was overwhelming.
But in the end, he only managed a couple of words, simple but so raw with emotion that they said it all. “Thank you.”
Leonis pursed his lips and gave a sharp nod. Lianshi’s own eyes filled with tears as sympathy and affection suffused her expression, and he felt Naomi squeeze his shoulder painfully hard.
Then Praximar began to speak, and the moment passed, the four of them separating to turn and stare at the distant stage.
“Greetings, friends, colleagues, and distinguished visitors.” Praximar’s voice, as always, rolled out over the entirety of the basilica with practiced ease. “Though I have been chancellor of the Academy for more years than I care to remember—and if you recall the exact number, pray, don’t remind me—I never cease to feel a terrible excitement when this day comes. A day in many respects like all others, but in one, singular manner utterly unique. For though the ten layers of hell go about their infernal business as always, here, in Bastion, we gather to celebrate the labors of five hundred adamantine souls. We gather to honor their efforts, their talents, and to witness the culmination of everything they have learned. We gather, dear friends, to pay witness to greatness in the making.”
Praximar lowered his arms and beamed out over the crowd. “Now, many of you may think the results of this final, grand test to be predetermined. But it is never so. As everyone is aware, the upper fifty percent of the class will proceed to greater training, but this does not mean those who are currently Cinders or who fared poorly in the tournament are without hope. For each year comes with its crop of surprises, men and women who rise to the occasion, seize their luck, wrest every ounce of advantage from their circumstances, and pass those whom all others had deemed assured of winning through.”
A murmur passed through the cohort, some looking reassured, others frowning.
“Yet in the whole, those who have dedicated their days and nights to training, to bettering themselves, to developing their powers will have their reward today. The spoils of victory more often than not go to those who train the hardest, and the harder you train, the luckier, you’ll find, you become. So I salute every moment you spent laboring through the long cycles of the day and into the night. Each drop of sweat, each moment when you pressed on, thinking you had nothing left. That fight when you summoned your last reserves to wrest an unlikely victory against a superior foe. The hours you spent studying when your body cried for sleep, the long, timeless moments sunk deep in meditation—meditation that no doubt often seemed nothing but a fruitless, frustrating task with no reward.”
He scanned the crowd, expression grave, nodding slowly as if in agreement with his own words. “You have labored greatly, and your instructors speak of each one of you with admiration and respect. Your work, students, your efforts, are noted, seen, and appreciated. For outside these halls a war is being waged, a millennia-old conflict that is finally drawing to a close. Our Imperators inhabit the tenth layer of hell, and with dauntless courage now face the Pit itself. And though their battles take place in dimensions we cannot fathom, in realms we cannot understand, still, it is being waged, and we are closer to victory than we have ever been. Closer, my friends, to finally seeing the Infernarch rise from the ashes of the Pit, and lead us all to the one place we’ve yearned for but never known: home.”
More murmurs, mostly from the balconies.
“And this is a war into which you will be stepping. Your efforts here at times may even have seemed academic, a game: work hard, win the next round, earn another reward. All to what end? Patronage, a good position in one of the Houses, the esteem of your peers and instructors. The vague hope of one day being a hero akin to the mighty legends whose example inspires us even today. But soon, dear friends, you shall step out into hell, lift up your own arms, and take part in that eternal war. Perhaps amongst your number today stands the Great Soul who shall push the war to its terminus point. Perhaps amongst your number stand brave men and women who shall one day be studied by future students. You are all legends in the making, and today, this day, is perhaps but the first great moment in your own, personal story.”
Even Scorio felt a frisson of excitement at these words; he fought it, scowled, but felt his spirit rise.