“How can he be so dangerous?” he whispered. “He’s just a—a Flame Vault, I guess, but how he survived the Crucible, how he emerged and—he must have had help.”
“A traitor?” Praximar mulled this over. “Unlikely. Nobody knew of our plans, not even myself. Unless you suspect Simeon or Ydrielle?”
“No, no.” Dameon raked his fingers through his hair. “No, they’re solid. There’s no benefit in this for them. Then…?”
“He is a Red Lister.” Praximar sipped his drink demurely. “And an uncommon one at that. Did you know he’s only been reborn five times? Unheard of. Especially when you consider he’s never risen above Blood Baron. I’ve researched his past. There’s precious little but signs of censorship. Whomever he’s been in his past lives he consistently made powerful enemies. A trend that I can now easily understand.”
Dameon didn’t return Praximar’s smile. Again he visualized the paths to the future. If he refused to set forth in utter ignominy on foot his next best chance of survival was to take a whale ship directly to the Fiery Shoals and await Simeon and Ydrielle. But even that fell from golden clarity to dark and menacing bronze. Exasperated he searched amongst the many paths that involved his remaining in Bastion. Almost all were an unbelievable crimson.
But there. Deep in the midst of options he found an improbable sliver of silver. Not assured, but far better than bronze and worse. Biting his lip pensively, he traced its course. House Kraken featured prominently. Not for the first time he restrained the urge to curse his gift’s vagueness. This chance of victory required approaching Kraken’s leadership and offering them reprieve from their weighty obligations in exchange for setting a trap. But why…?
“You’re thinking of something,” said Praximar quietly. “What does your gift tell you, my friend?”
Dameon sat slowly. “Nothing of immediate and practical use. But my best chances of survival lie in approaching House Kraken.”
Praximar grunted in surprise. “Is that so?”
“Which… could make sense. Chimera is unlikely to become involved with this situation, and Basilisk is gone.” Dameon glanced at the chancellor. “Correct?”
Praximar spread his hands with a disarming smile. “I’ve reliable intelligence that Eira was last seen licking her wounds in the Virulent Warren. What elements remain are negligible or excel at remaining unseen.”
“Then that leaves Kraken. Scorio will need allies before coming at us. He’ll look to those who hate us most.”
“House Kraken would qualify.” Praximar ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “But their leadership is sworn to not oppose us.”
“Right, right.” Dameon rose to his feet, paced to the door, then turned back. “But not all of Kraken is sworn. Perhaps he has friends amongst the lower ranks? Former classmates from his year?”
“Hmm.” Praximar considered. “Easy to determine, but yes. I recall Octavia snapping up over thirty promising students.”
Dameon nodded slowly. “If we use Kraken to set a trap, there’s a good chance of our all walking out of this alive.”
“I’m happy to hear that my survival is instrumental to your long-term success.”
“Of course it is,” lied Dameon. “We need to act quickly. Somehow Scorio poses a threat to us all. I can’t believe it, but… there it is.”
“We have our own secret weapons,” said Praximar. “If possible, I would welcome the opportunity to reel him. A little chat before we send him back to the Archspire would do wonders for my spiritual balance.”
“You and me both.” Dameon scowled. “The man’s a monster. You should have felt his Heart. It was… oppressive. And for him to have reached Bastion so quickly? Azurith’s orbit would have taken him farther away. I can’t understand it.”
“I think we can agree that it will be a pleasure to tear the answers out of him.”
“Yeah.” Dameon rubbed at this stubbled jaw. “Absolutely.”
“The setup is simple.” Praximar considered. “Ydrielle cast him into the Crucible within her prism. It must have shielded Scorio from the Gold mana and perhaps… filtered it, during his immurement, so that when it finally failed he was able to process the mana without immediately dying. I admit I find that far-fetched, but the facts are as they are. Which, of course, means we must begin testing Ydrielle’s prism on other Academy members and see if we haven’t accidentally discovered a means for advanced temperament.”
Dameon wanted to wave away these academic considerations. Scorio was out there right now and thirsting for blood. Gone to ground like a louse in a sheepdog’s pelt, hidden till he bit. He’d survived the Crucible, had killed Davelos—Davelos!—and then assassinated Evelyn before knocking Dameon’s castle right out of the bleeding sky.
“The man has no limits,” he said. “Nothing is sacred to him. He’ll destroy anyone and everyone for his revenge.”
“Which is why he’s a Red Lister,” agreed Praximar. “He’s congenitally unable to respect tradition, the way things should be and are. It is in his nature to destroy. I recognized it from the first and sought to remove him from the board, but alas.”
Dameon rubbed at his jaw, took three strides, turned. “House Kraken. We must summon Octavia and force her to help us in setting up this trap. We have to kill him fast before he…” Dameon trailed off, unable to voice aloud the impossibility.
“I will send for Octavia. I do so enjoy my audiences with her. Such impotent fury, such neutered strength.” Praximar chuckled. “It’s a true delight, I’ll confess, to see such a powerful figure forced to bend knee. Ah, the perquisites of authority. And don’t you fear, Dameon, I won’t forget who helped make all this a reality. Did I tell you that the latest class includes Thaddeus Grim? It’s been seventy years since he was last reborn. Reached Crimson Earl the last time, and his resonance ability is literally quite stunning.” Praximar all but rubbed his hands together as he sat forward. “It’s a sign, my friend. The greatest of us are yet to return, and if I can but hold this place together a little longer, keep the hearth fires burning, then they shall be called in from the dark. Who knows who may appear in next year’s class? Which figures from legend… perhaps even Iulius the Golden. Can you imagine? It will have all been worth it, our sacrifices, our being forced into all this distasteful politicking…”
Dameon tuned the older man out. He’d heard these rambles plenty of times before. Again he dove into his future paths, and again he snarled at the sight of so much crimson. He’d known there were risks in helping Praximar. The paths had shown him as much. But the payoff had been too grand to ignore, the quickest way to achieve his goals.
And damn it, was it too much to ask? For him to be recognized for his ability, his talents? He’d achieved Imperator in his third life. He remembered well that dizzying climb to power. Remembered helping establish the Red Keep alongside his boon companions.
But ever since… nothing higher than Pyre Lord.
The fact grated on his nerves, tormented his soul. Pyre Lord! Praximar might gloat like a bloated toad, but he, Dameon, had known true power, had established preeminence, had hollowed out his own Dominion, had—
Dameon closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe easy. Scorio would not stop him. This was his last life, his last big bid for Imperator. The Academy only had eight years left. Praximar could dream, but Dameon dealt with the cold, brutal reality: ascend now, or nevermore.
He just had to crush Scorio. A man he’d never met, not through all his past lives.
“…bring us to our surfeit of justice,” concluded Praximar contentedly. “Dameon?”