Mercifully, when Scorio could take no more, he fell asleep. Each time he began to rouse himself some defensive measure dragged him back down, so that existence became a miasma of darkness and hatred, a slurry of dreamscapes and memories, of regrets and futile vows of vengeance.
This endless reverie was finally broken by a light appearing under the doorway. The heavy bolt was drawn back and then Praximar was there, alone, a lantern in hand. The chancellor stepped inside, closed the door, then set the lantern on the floor and considered Scorio.
Who was so relieved to see the other man he almost forgot his loathing.
“Hello, Scorio.” For a long while the older man just considered him, then he sighed. “Almost I regret your being trapped in there. But you’re simply too troublesome to be left loose in your cell. Knowing you, you’d somehow find it within yourself to achieve Dread Blaze or some other impossibility. No, far better to keep you locked up in there, safe and sound.”
He lapsed into silence again.
“You know, it’s almost tragic. You’ve clearly got such potential. Every year I see a new crop of students appear atop their biers, and almost all of them are so eager to just do what they’re told. They’re like prize stallions, determined to be the fastest down the race track but never dreaming of the world outside the stadium. They take their pills and elixirs, compete in the tournaments, seek to master themselves, to earn patronage, notoriety, even, but all within accepted constraints.
“You, however. You don’t even know the meaning of the word tradition. But I’ve done my research into your past. Oh yes. I’ve access to many secret tomes meant only for the eyes of the Academy’s Chancellor. I’ve read about your past lives. Did you know that each and every time you’ve been reborn you’ve been nothing but trouble? Impetuous, arrogant, reckless to an extreme, consumed by anger, and willing to do anything—anything at all?—to achieve your arbitrary goals? Yes, there’s a reason you’re a Red Lister.
“But if you’d only proven a little more tractable. If you’d been willing to work within the established order of things. You’d have been an asset, Scorio. You could have made a real difference in our war. Because, whether you believe me or not, that’s my sole concern. Defeating the Pit. But you know as we are we stand no chance.” Praximar scoffed. “We’re being thrown back in the Telurian Band of all places by this Blood Ox. Our last hope of destroying the Pit resulted in three Imperators lost, and the remaining Imperators lack the will and resolve to assay another assault.”
Praximar scowled for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “There’s so much you can’t begin to conceive of, Scorio. You’ve never even left the Rascor Plains. You know nothing of the higher struggles that consume our kind. The True Fiends who reside in the Pit and can go toe to toe with even an Imperator. The—the—bah.”
Praximar waved a hand of dismissal and turned away. Frowned at nothing then looked back. “It galls me, you know. That each year I nurture the candle of hope that an Iulius the Golden will be returned to us, a Moravius the Black, but instead we get… you. Why? Does the Archspire mock us? I’ll not lose hope, though pressure is growing insurmountable to direct all resources away from Bastion to the front. To effectively abandon the Academy, cease to nurture our students, and fight this war with the paltry forces we currently have at our disposal. I’ll continue to fight against that pressure though, in the hopes that a true hero is returned to us, but you… you have no place in this war. You can only destroy your own kind. Your… your madness leads you to direct your strength against those like myself who wish only to defeat Hell.”
Praximar looked sad. “You’re like a rabid dog, Scorio. No matter how great your pedigree, you’re ruined. You need to be put down. I’ve decided not to torment you after all. I’ve too much on my mind. We’re hosting a goodbye feast for all of Manticore tonight. Luminaries from all the Houses are attending, and frankly, it’s a good reminder as to my true duties. So I’m going to have Ydrielle come down here with me tonight and release you from your prism so that we can kill you. Your soul will return to the Archspire, and with a little luck it won’t return.”
Scorio glared at the man. There was nothing else he could do.
“Well.” Praximar took up the lantern. “What a pity. What a waste. But I shan’t spend any more time or energy on you. The tale of Scorio the Red Lister will come to its final and pathetic end.”
And with that Praximar left the cell and bolted the door behind him.
Scorio felt gratitude. For Praximar had given him a sweet gift: he’d purified, rarefied his rage so that it burned away the madness and doubt. It left Scorio lucid and clear-minded.
He’d have an opportunity to escape. No doubt Praximar would bring whatever Great Souls were necessary to control him and prevent his doing so, but it was his one opportunity.
Even if it failed, at least he’d die trying to tear Praximar’s throat out.
“Scorio.” The woman’s hoarse voice tested his name. “I’ve never heard of you before. But you have my thanks for enraging Praximar so. You must have truly been a thorn in his side.”
Scorio listened, wishing he could reply.
“But it sounds like you’re to be killed tonight. Another sordid death in the dark. I don’t know how Praximar can meet his own gaze in the mirror.” The woman’s voice was growing soft, as if she spoke to herself. “The delusion. The… to think he…” She trailed off.
Time passed.
Scorio did the only thing he could. He summoned his Heart in his mind’s eye and focused on it. The great and unnatural sphere hovered before him, its surface glossy and black, ponderous and weighty with mana. It was mostly filled, a crude mixture of Coal and Copper.
He’d have to be careful, but if he was to have a chance at fighting his way free he’d need to heal his shoulder.
Scorio willed his Heart’s Ignition, feeding it a sliver of Coal. Black flames burned brightly about the huge sphere, endlessly immolating it, and Scorio sank into a deep meditation.
He needed confidence in himself. Surety. He’d help nobody if he burst free of the prism like some feral beast. So he concentrated on his essence, his Heart. He cleared his mind of all doubts and fears. Allowed himself to grow pure, cleansed, himself.
Time passed.
Coal burned continuously. His shoulder reknit itself. His Gold-tempered body truly was a wonder.
And strangely, it felt good to burn Coal once more. Gold and Iron, Bronze and Copper were all delicious and elevating in their own way, but Coal felt right. Dirty and crude, just like himself. The basis of his original Ignition, the realm in which he’d saturated himself during those first months training under the Nightmare Lady.
Coal.
It felt like an old friend.
Nox.
Scorio’s mind stilled. Was the Imperial Ghost Toad still in Bastion? This prison cell was as deep into the ground as one could get. Could Nox sense him burning Coal mana from afar?
The odds were terrible. For all Scorio knew Nox was ranging far afield in search of new spawning pools. Or hidden deep in the ruins, too far to sense his burning Heart.
But no matter how slender his hope, it was all he had to hold onto.
So he burned his Coal reserves, feeding his Heart with ever greater amounts, knowing it foolish to spend it all in such a vain hope.
But if this was to be his last moment alive, he might as well warm himself by his own burning Heart and thinking on his fiendish friend.