“Drink it! Drink it all, Scorio, drink it down!”
Barely knowing what he was doing, Scorio opened his mouth, tilted his head back, and drank the whole bitter concoction to its last drop.
Chapter 21
Waves of fire rolled through Scorio, driving his thoughts before them, extinguishing his sense of self, his sense of his body. Time lost meaning, and all he could do was cling to a spar of consciousness that was knocked spinning about within the eddies and vortices of the Coal mana that raged through him.
All that remained was an overwhelming sense of purpose: he had to remain afloat, he had to stay atop this raging storm of mana. He couldn’t let it slip his control completely, couldn’t let the raging waters flow away.
Despite it being the cause of his torment, he had to hold the mana within his Heart, to remain a willing prisoner of his own undoing. Groaning, gasping, he fought to keep it together, his mind, his will, this esoteric purpose, though why he had to do this he could no longer remember.
Insubstantial, translucent, hanging above him, was a massive heart of black stone. At times it swelled so that he felt himself bodily within it, and at times it contracted so that it hung high in the air, out of reach, tantalizing.
As the black waves buffeted him, he yearned to reach it, intuited that within its faceted walls he’d find peace. But each time it expanded he felt the same cruel sense of betrayal, realizing that it was a false harbor. That it was in some way the cause of this agony.
Occasionally his whole body would shudder, and he’d feel himself retching, as if the act were taking place a hundred miles away, over the edge of the horizon. Other times he’d feel cool liquid being dribbled past his lips, liquid which he desperately sought more of, even as it provoked his stomach into horrendous cramps.
It was an eternity while it lasted, and he had no idea if it was an hour, a few minutes, days, or even weeks.
Mind blasted, thoughts shredded, body diffused and stolen away from him, he simply weathered the pain. Resisted the urge to let go, to give up. Held on, because in the end that was the only act he could claim as his own, the only way to have agency in this horrendous fever dream, so hold on he did, until, at long, long last, the fever broke.
His eyes had been open for some time, he realized, but he’d been staring up at nothing, unseeing. Blinking, he focused, and saw a rough expanse of rocky wall, the undersides of the ridges dimly colored red.
His whole body ached as if he’d been worked over methodically with a cane. He was parched, his throat desiccated to the point of feeling cracked. Every muscle in his core burned as if he’d swallowed live coals. Groaning, he rolled slowly, carefully onto his side, then pushed his way up to sitting.
“There you are,” said Naomi, who sat off to one side, eyes opening from what had clearly been a meditative stance. “And somehow still alive.”
“Don’t count on that yet,” he croaked. “Water?”
She nodded to his side, and he fumbled a half-full pail, almost knocking it over. The thought of spilling that precious water was the most terrifying thing he could imagine, so he grasped at it with both hands then raised it, shaking, to his lips.
Only to see that a pale, insubstantial charcoal fire was burning across his skin.
He startled, nearly dropped the pail, then set it roughly down to stare at his palms.
“Saturation,” said Naomi, tone pleased. “I knew you’d do it if you didn’t die.”
Scorio looked up the length of his arms, down at his body, and saw that he was enveloped in the same, gray fire all over, flickering and dancing an inch off his skin. He couldn’t feel anything—there was no heat—but now that he was focusing, he felt the difference in his Igneous Heart.
A ponderous heaviness that demanded his attention.
Summoning it into his mind’s eye, he saw the same ghostly fire wreathing its faceted body.
“Did I do it? Ignite?”
“Not yet.” Naomi unfolded herself and rose to stand, stretching languorously. “You’re primed and ready to go, however. Your Heart is at Saturation. All you need do now is take the final step.”
“How do I do that?”
“The state you’re in?” She smiled. “You need but apply the lightest amount of tension and it’ll blaze. Luckily for you. Not like you could manage anything more. Now, stand up if you can.”
Clumsily he drank from the pail, allowing himself four deep pulls before forcing himself to set it aside. Then, body shaking, feeling weak to the point of debilitation, he rose unsteadily to his feet.
“What do I do?” he rasped.
Naomi moved to stand before him. “We’re going to go through our standard striking and blocking drill. Start slowly. Just go through the motions. And then I’ll pick up the pace.”
“All right.” Scorio forced his knees to bend, to stand in his combat stance. A deep, shaky breath, then he raised his fists.
They’d worked on this every day for weeks. Naomi would slowly strike at him in an established pattern, alternating between a set combination of sixteen jabs, hooks, uppercuts, and elbows. He’d parry, using his forearms, pushing her blows away with his palms, turning and blocking in the same manner each time.
Naomi began the sequence. A slow jab, a follow-up punch from the other hand, left elbow, right uppercut.
Scorio felt drunk, barely able to focus. But repetition had served its purpose; his hands moved almost of their own accord, slowly but surely deflecting her blows.
It was mesmerizing, the fire—he wanted to simply stare at it, how it burned across him, but refused to allow himself the luxury. Especially as Naomi began to slowly build up speed, coming at him with greater assurance.
He met her pace, barely aware of what he was doing, moving in time with her as if they danced, and all the while he felt his Heart burning, raging within him.
She began to move even faster. Normally he’d have little trouble with this pace, but already he was suffering, his exhaustion causing his limbs to shake, his focus to blur. But still, he met her blows, and as he did a roar began to build up in his ears, the sound of his blood rushing through his veins, perhaps—and he found his thoughts being consumed by that sound as if they were kindling for that fire.
Naomi watched him with fixed intensity, her gaze unwavering as her fists and elbows came at him ever quicker, pushing him harder, testing his edge.
Somehow, he kept up, even as the roaring within him grew in volume, his sense of his body fading away, so that he no longer felt the contact of his wrist upon her arm, his forearm crossing his chest to block her elbow.
She said something, but he couldn’t understand the words. He was burning, the roar overwhelming everything, drinking in the world.
Her first blow slipped past his defenses and cracked across his chin. Scorio didn’t let it distract him; if he lost the rhythm, he’d be buffeted by a dozen more in quick succession. Parried the next three, then the fourth slipped through and her uppercut caught him in the chest.
He staggered but felt nothing. His hands flew up again, but his defenses were increasingly ragged, falling apart before her tenacious onslaught, an attack that only grew faster, peeling him apart, battering his arms away, pounding him again and again with her blows.
And then his Heart was there, before him, laid over Naomi, and he felt it before it happened, had a second’s premonition to prepare himself before the insubstantial flames that wreathed his stone heart went whoomph! and the whole world changed.
His aches, the pain, the misery, and discomfort sluiced away. Strength flowed into its place, his muscles swelling with renewed vigor, his vision clearing, his chest unlocking. Sweet air poured into his lungs, erasing the stitch that had pierced his side, and it was as if a lifetime’s accumulation of suffering was washed away.
Even as the Heart continued to burn before him, his arms picked up speed, and when Naomi stepped in to clock him across the temple with a tight hook, he simply pressed his curled-up arm tight against the side of his head, absorbing the blow without pain, and stepped into her, driving her back.