He pounded into the caverns, lightheaded, feverish, rising into his scaled form as he went, unsure of his intention, what he was capable of, and then staggered to a stop.
Queen Xandera’s body lay half-in, half-out of her bed of coals. Magma gouted forth from the stump of her neck in thick, gelatinous bursts.
Bravurn stood over her corpse, her head held in one hand by a horn, a long blade in the other. He studied her visage with dispassionate focus, and then glanced sidelong at Scorio, and threw the head away.
“There,” he said. “A little housekeeping was evidently in order. Thank you, Scorio, for bringing this matter to my attention.”
“You…” Scorio’s eyes were glazed, rounded to horrified moons. “You…”
“She was mine,” said Bravurn sharply, sheathing the blade. “Mine to enjoy, mine to toy with, and mine to dispose of. She was a relic of a bygone age, an anachronism, and, clearly, a traitor. Her word proved as worthless as her service. The world is better for her death.”
Scorio couldn’t tear his gaze from the severed head. It lay on its side, facing away, dark and somehow still possessing an innate majesty that even death couldn’t dim.
Bravurn tilted his head to one side. “What is the matter, Scorio? You seem strangely affected. Does her death distress you? Do you wish to make an issue of this? Do you wish to press me on my actions?”
Oh, but he knew. Bravurn’s tone was strangely heated, almost lascivious. The man’s eyes burned like coals, and he moved toward Scorio, as if inviting violence.
“If you have a problem with my authority, Scorio, you need only let me know. Tell me you object, and unlike Plassus, I will all too gladly teach you why our traditions are upheld, why the weak bend knee to the strong.”
Scorio tore his gaze free and stared at the Blood Baron. A rushing roar filled his ears as if a storm were only now starting up, a razor wind that would flense all reason and rationality from his mind.
The Iron Tyrant spread his arms. “Come, Scorio. I am right here. You’ve yet to miss your mark. Praximar is dead, Plassus bemused. Why not try your hand against me? Let loose that rage. Come at me, Boy. Take your shot.”
Scorio felt power and fury curdle his blood. His shoulders rose and fell, his chest worked like a bellows, and his talons yearned to sink deep into Bravurn’s body.
He yearned to smell the man’s blood boil and burn.
But no.
Scorio allowed his scaled form to slip away. That intoxicating strength fled him, that fevered faith in his ability to destroy all foes. He blinked, dazed, and stepped back.
“No?” Bravurn’s disappointment was evident. “Very well. You retain some modicum of rationality. I admit myself surprised. But tell me: how did you arrange this? What did she tell you? Tell me of your conversations, and I will reward you with more Gold mana than you’ll be able to burn in what little remains of your time alive.”
“Damn you and your Gold,” said Scorio. He walked slowly toward the door, his body shaking.
“Insults are the refuge of the weak,” sniffed Bravurn. “How typical.”
“Oh, she did tell me one thing.” Scorio looked over his shoulder at the Blood Baron. “She told me how pathetic you were. How she laughed at you after your every visit.”
Bravurn’s face darkened.
Scorio raised a hand in parting and left.
Valdun rushed up then stepped aside, confused. Other Great Souls watched him depart but made no effort to stop him.
Scorio made his way down. Halfway to his rooms Naomi found him. She came rushing out of a side tunnel, frantic, took one look at his expression and hugged him tight. Crushed him to her chest, face buried in his neck, and he hugged her back, thankful for her presence, her warmth, her love, her everything.
No words. Naomi led him back through the tunnels and barked at anyone who sought to stop them, who tried to relay which important personage wanted him to come speak with them.
They entered their cluster. Lianshi, Leonis, Ravenna, and others were present, but Naomi snarled and they cleared out.
Scorio could only think of Xandera. Her massive corpse, the glowing interstices of her armored form fading even as he’d stared.
Her magma blood.
The last of her kind.
The last iteration of herself.
Dead.
And for what? So that he could convince Plassus to allow a draw? So that he could convince Plassus to throw in with Aezryna? Was that worthy of her death?
Sickened, hollowed out, Scorio allowed Naomi to lead him to his bed. He sat, numb, felt her draw his boots off, then lay down and rested his head on her shoulder. He stared out at nothing as she caressed his hair, fingers tracing lines across his scalp.
He was dozing off when Naomi stiffened.
But unlike all the other interruptions she didn’t order this intruder out, so Scorio sat up and saw that a drudge had entered his room.
It glowed softly in the dark, its heat muffled by its dusty outer shell. Three feet tall, only roughly humanoid, without features or distinguishing marks, Scorio couldn’t tell if this was the one who’d watched his match or any of the other score of drudges he’d walked by since arriving.
Scorio. Queen Xandera’s voice sounded in their chamber, soft and faint as if she called up to him from the bottom of a deep and ever deepening pit. I don’t have much time. You must listen.
He slipped from the edge of the bed to his knees. “Xandera? You’re not dead?”
I fade. My consciousness lingers in the blazeborns I once commanded, but it is a dying echo. Soon I will be forever gone. I am pleased that you survived your duel.
“It’s because of you. You saved me.” Tears burned in his eyes. “It wasn’t worth your sacrifice.”
It was. I lived in the hopes that one such as you would one day come. A Great Soul with an even greater heart. My life was circumscribed, and my attempts at covert rebellion doomed. With you, however, there is hope. You must aid me.
“How?” It felt surreal to be staring at the crude drudge and feeling so much emotion. “What can I do?”
The drudge’s form rippled, its chest swelled, and then a roughly patterned spherical rock emerged and fell into the drudge’s crude hands. It was just large enough that Scorio wouldn’t have been able to enclose it within both hands.
This is my last creation. A queen egg. It is me. You… The voice faded away, and for a moment Scorio feared she was gone. Infuse it with Gold mana, or greater yet. Infuse it, then awaken it with your flame. Return me to life. My memories will…
Scorio waited, then leaned closer to the drudge. “Yes?”
I will… ah. Her sigh was deep and melancholic, yet filled also with a glimmering sense of joy. I return to Acherzua. Life was… life was so beautiful…
Scorio remained frozen, staring at the drudge. It extended its arms and placed the egg in Scorio’s palms. It was warm, its black surface stippled with bumps and depressions, and surprisingly heavy.
A queen egg.
Scorio glanced at where Naomi watched, wide-eyed, then turned back to the drudge, only to see it slowly leaving his chambers.
He studied the egg. Gold mana and his own flames. Was that really all it required to hatch? And then what? What exactly would emerge, and what would his responsibility be to that blazeborn?
“You must hide it,” whispered Naomi, tone urgent. “Quick. Before Alain or anyone else discovers it.”
Scorio cast around, drew out his leather pack from under his bed, and gingerly placed the egg within. “Do we need to keep it warm? Is there a time limit on how long till it must be hatched?”
Naomi’s helplessness mirrored his own. “I don’t know.”
“We should hide my pack. Somewhere nobody will find it. Keeping it in my backpack under my bed won’t do.”