Scorio’s eyes widened in wonder. He whipped back to the other side and extended his other wing. It felt fantastic, like stretching after a day spent cramped in a chair, the new muscles down his back powerful and possessing deep reserves of energy and stamina that were fueled directly by his Heart.
Scorio let out a second whoop and twisted about again, only to bang one wing into the wall and send a shiver of pain and strangeness down its length, like when he accidentally banged his elbow in precisely the wrong manner.
“Ow, sorry, I mean…”
He furled his wings and stared up. They arced overhead, massive and leathery down the length of his back, reaching nearly to his heels. He gave a few experimental jumps. It felt unwieldy. Scorio frowned, focused, and the wings sank back into his body, the huge muscles shrinking. A moment later, he was his normal scaled version once more, albeit with more of his body now covered in his black armor. Gazing at his arm, he saw a faint, subtle golden luster glowing just above the scales proper, as if they now gave off a spiritual glow.
“All right.” Scorio shook out his shoulders then settled into a crouch. “Let’s see how this works.” He willed his wings to emerge once more. It took a few seconds for them to stretch forth. He glanced up at the hole in the ceiling. This would be tricky.
He took a deep breath, leaped, and flapped his wings once as powerful as he could.
It felt like a hand scooped him up from below and hurled him toward the sky. At the last second he furled his wings behind his back and then he shot up through the hole with a cry of joy. He snapped open his wings again and beat powerfully at the apex of his ascent, propelling him even higher up.
Scorio gave a wordless shout of primal exultation as he flew up. Each beat of his wings propelled him higher, faster, and the golden magma and raw rocks fell away behind him as he twisted from one side to the other, arid air blasting into his face, up toward the stalactites around which he swerved, laughing.
His flight was jerky and marked by a sharp drop after each beat of his wings, but he focused and found that by simply flapping his wings faster he could maintain a smoother trajectory. It was surreal, glorious, magnificent to feel the huge muscles that ran down his back and wrapped around his chest as a second, larger set of pectorals propelling him forward.
Laughing Scorio swooped about the stalactites, pushing himself to go faster. The more he flew the more natural it felt. He flapped his wings as hard as he could, leaped forward, and furled his wings as he threw himself into a spin. Hands crossed over his chest he spun and then fell, spearing down headfirst toward the magma only to snap his wings open at the last moment and pull up into a glide, skimming over the burning gold with reckless glee. He pulled up, flew powerfully toward the cavern ceiling, and furled his wings once more, turning onto his back and into a fall that became a somersault.
He momentarily lost his orientation, panicked, opened his wings, and fell about, beating frantically to try and right himself. Fell a handful of yards then nearly flew straight into a stalactite only to swerve aside with a cry that became laughter once more.
He slowed, lowered his wings, changed the plane of his flapping wings, and realized that he could tread air, hovering in the same place as he rose and fell with each beat.
Laughing weakly, he wiped sweat from his brow. The Curse was milder but still messing with him. Resolving to be more careful, he studied the flow of power through his Heart; the Delightful Secret Marinating Technique variation had an endless stream of Gold falling into his Heart; most went into maintaining his Ignition while the rest fueled his scaled and winged form.
That’s when it truly hit home: his Ignition technique was now theoretically endless for as long as there was mana in the air. Was this how Pyre Lords operated? In the past he’d saturate and then burn what he’d stored in his reservoir, but now his reservoir lay untouched for as long as there was ambient mana to burn.
And his Heart. Its spherical perfection made it so that he vented nothing. All was perfectly burned in service to his power. The conversion ratio of mana to power output was unlike anything he’d ever seen. And his reservoir. It was as dense as before, the hallmark of his having made Tomb Spark, but even in that enhanced state it was now vastly increased in size by his Heart’s expansion.
Awe filled Scorio as he watched his own system maintain itself. Gold mana flowed into his Heart, was split, fed his Ignition and altered form, unceasing and requiring little by way of concentration on his part.
The confidence and surety of a Flame Vault but taken to a ridiculous extreme by this, the Crucible, his cradle of manifestation.
Scorio’s elation slowly faded as he landed atop a towering menhir, halfway up to the cavern’s roof.
He could escape now.
The realization was wild and powerful, and his desire to be free of this golden prison was nearly irresistible. He even rose to his feet rapidly, his body moving of its own accord, wings expanding for their first beat.
But no. He couldn’t just fly upstairs like a fool. The rage and self-loathing from his time imprisoned in the coffin came back to him, but diluted now by his new status and freedom.
He’d been too trusting before. Too complacent and willing to do as others commanded. For all his pride and spurning Praximar and the Academy, he’d simply turned and accepted a new set of masters who’d puppeted him and his friends with equally masterful skill.
What was it that he wished for now more than anything else?
The answer was as cold and clear as a drawn blade reflecting a summer’s day: vengeance.
Against Manticore. Against Dameon especially, but Ydrielle, Simeon, Davelos, and Evelyn had all been party to his humiliation and downfall.
He wanted to find his friends. Were they still at the Chasm? No, they’d have left by now, were perhaps somewhere in the Farmlands if not ready to depart for the Iron Tyrant and deeper Hell. Naomi, Lianshi, and Leonis. He wanted to find them, needed to tell them he yet lived, what had truly happened.
But more than anything he wanted to bring justice to the architect of all this. Praximar. Seated in the center of his web, a spider pulling strings and manipulating all and sundry to his own twisted ends.
Scorio closed his eyes and shuddered with loathing. He’d been a fool. A naïve, trusting, hopeful fool, and he’d paid the price. His extended stay down here in the Crucible had ultimately proven to be a superior way to temper his body and rise to Flame Vault than any other method he could imagine, but he’d never forget what had brought him here in the first place:
Treachery and betrayal most foul.
So: he would escape into the Fiery Shoals but keep a low profile. First he needed information. For how long had been he been down here? Several months, easily. Perhaps more? Five? Six? His mind shuddered at the lost expanse of time. Then he needed to discover what the repercussion had been for Druanna’s attack on The Celestial Coffer. See if anybody knew where Manticore was, and how best to get in touch with his friends.
He’d have to be careful. He’d been a prominent part of The Coffer’s debacle, and his high profile meant that most would know what he looked like. If possible, then, he’d try to listen in on conversations until he had a sense of the world above.
Emotions roiled within him. Chagrin, anger, and fear. It wasn’t that he wished for a second to stay down here a moment longer, but rather…
No.
Scorio stood and squared his shoulders. He’d made mistakes, and now he would rectify them and provide restitution. Whatever had happened in his absence had already taken place. Hiding from the turn of events would do nothing. He would rise, discover the lay of the land, and then set about exacting his revenge.
But most importantly he would learn from all this. Never again would he blindly trust anybody who said they had his interest at heart. Never again would he allow himself to be used as a catspaw in their schemes.