“Still got a few.” Scorio rolled over onto his side. The pain was astonishing, but already his Gold-tempered body seemed to be tamping it down. “First, a quick question. Are you familiar with the name ‘The Herdsmen’?”
Praximar darted a glance at his bookcase. “Now where in Hell did you hear that from?”
Scorio’s eyes widened. “You know of them? Of course you know of them!” He laughed. “You probably work for them.”
“Don’t be foolish,” snapped Praximar. “Nobody works for them. That organization—if it existed at all—became defunct centuries ago. But knowledge of its existence is highly privileged. Tell me who revealed it to you and I’ll…” Praximar paused, thinking. “Not kill your friends.”
“And I should trust you why?”
“Because you’ve no alternative. Who told you that name?”
“Who were they?”
Praximar laughed. “How delightful! The Iron Tyrant is on his way, you’re defeated, and yet you press for answers. Scorio the Incorrigible, more like.”
“Satisfy my curiosity?” Scorio winced as he reached down to straighten his ruined leg. “It’s not as if I’ll remember if I’m reborn again.”
“Eterra preserve us, you’d best not.” Praximar considered him. “No. I don’t think I’ll tell you. You wish to know, I wish to exact maximum vengeance upon you, so I’ll deny you the pleasure. Instead…”
Jova groaned and stirred.
“She lives?” Praximar sounded half delighted, half incredulous. “My word! Jova Spike, the never-ending source of miracles. But here, you two had grown close, hadn’t you? Enough that she’d defect from Manticore? How would you feel if I killed her slowly while you watched?”
Scorio narrowed his eyes.
“A bit gruesome on my part, but—well. I’ve never been above getting my hands dirty.” He stood and crossed to where she lay. Crouched, seized a fistful of the long hair that grew from one half of her scalp, and lifted her head. “Come on, Scorio. This is it. Time to execute your final trick. I’m sure you have one.”
Scorio hissed. He couldn’t stand. But he could fly. He snapped his wings out, thrust off the ground, and hurled himself forward—only to hit Praximar’s Shroud. It felt like hitting an impregnable wall of glass. He clawed at it once and then took a bolt of gold to each wing.
With a cry he fell to the ground, retracted them both, and then lay there, stunned by the pain that he’d internalized but not removed.
“Hmm.” Praximar sniffed. “A little rudimentary. But here. I’m a man of my word. Goodbye, Jova.”
He placed his hand on the back of her head and gold light flared.
She didn’t even cry out. Simply collapsed upon the ground.
Scorio froze, his hatred and loathing so virulent it banished the pain.
“What?” Praximar rose and returned to his desk. “You’re not going to call me a monster? Swear your revenge? Tell me I’ll never get away with this? My boy, I already have.”
Scorio’s Heart burned Iron, the Ignition helping his body heal, but the process was too slow. His knee was a mass of raw flesh and splintered bone, his wings burning within his back, within his soulspace. His reservoir was almost full, the room near depleted.
Praximar frowned at him. “How are you still burning mana?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me about the Herdsmen.”
“You mean the Shepherds? Don’t be silly. But honestly, your Heart was ruined. Yet now… I’ll admit, I’ve never sensed its like. It’s more in keeping with that of a Blood Baron than a Flame Vault.” Praximar looked up at nothing. “Ah, the Iron Tyrant approaches. Time to end this. Goodbye, Scorio.”
The Pyre Lord raised his palm.
Scorio glared at the man. It couldn’t end like this. Scorio summoned his hatred, his fury, and used it to power his Shroud even as he infused it with all the strength that Iron could grant him.
Praximar’s bolt shattered the Shroud, but failed to wound him.
“Huh,” said Praximar. “That’s… unexpected.” He raised his palm again.
Normally it took a few moments to resummon a shattered Shroud, but Scorio looked to Jova’s corpse, thought on Leonis and Lianshi, everything that this man had done, and tore a fresh Shroud free of his body just as Praximar loosed another bolt.
Again his Shroud shattered, and again he remained unhurt.
“It pains me, your wasted potential,” said Praximar, leaving his desk to walk over. “What could have been. But never mind.”
Scorio was heaving for breath, his body slicked with sweat, the pain redoubled by his efforts.
But he was accustomed to pain.
Pushing himself past his limits was all he ever did.
Praximar reached down for him, unafraid, and Scorio weaponized his thoughts: BURN YOUR MANA.
Praximar froze as his Heart raged brightly, the Emerald washing off him in potent fumes.
“You wish to empower me? Oh! I see. You’re trying to get my Heart to gutter out. Clever boy. But don’t you think I have more?”
Praximar turned back to his desk.
Scorio lunged and clasped the man by the ankle.
Praximar frowned down at him. Aimed his hand and loosed a golden bolt. It pulverized Scorio’s wrist, melted sinews, near seared off his hand.
Praximar took another step and again Scorio lunged to seize hold of his ankle again.
“You have no idea how annoying you are,” snorted Praximar, and raised his hand again. But then he frowned and hesitated. “I see.” And instead, he stomped with his other foot.
Scorio tried to raise his Shroud, but he couldn’t. Iron raged through his Heart, fueling him and lending him strength, but he simply couldn’t choke out another Shroud.
Praximar’s heel stomped down with crushing force. The thick carpet cushioned the blow, but again and again, he stomped, hammering at Scorio’s wrist with growing fervor.
“Let me go, Scorio.” His words came through gritted teeth. His Heart still burned bright with Emerald, but something there, some hint, gave Scorio heart.
The Pyre Lord unleashed something into the air; through his pain Scorio looked up with his Heart senses and saw four whirling vortices of power, each skipping around the room as if aimless, lost.
“You drank all the mana?” Praximar let out a bark of laughter. “This room is the richest source of Iron in the Academy. It’s simply not—there’s no way—”
Praximar ceased talking, twisted around as best he could, and set to kicking Scorio in the face.
Scorio hunched his shoulders and turned away, buried his face in the carpet. His horns protected his head, so Praximar set to stomping him in the back of the neck, his arm, over and over again with terrible force.
Scorio’s Gold-tempered body took the punishment. His scales flexed beneath the blows but withstood them. The pain was terrible, the battering brutal, and anyone else might have been knocked out by the blows.
But he’d spent six months suffering just like this at the Chasm. Had spent two years enduring worse in the Crucible.
Mere kicks wouldn’t stop him.
“You—blasted—mongrel—piece of—wretched—” Praximar was working himself up into his own towering fury. “Very well! Try this, my friend!”
And Praximar bent down, placed his hand by Scorio’s temple, and released a blast of gold.
Scorio’s world went white. His head snapped back as pain lanced deep into his mind, a formless pain that defied understanding. Scorio fell limp, reeling, his head dunked into a bucket of fire, his mouth filling with blood, his body a useless rag.
He focused on one thing and one thing only: keeping his Heart Ignited.
Transparent Iron flames roared over its huge, spherical surface. His reservoir was filled to capacity. In that fire he found his focus, in that burning inferno he found his identity. Even as his body clamored for oblivion, even as his mind collapsed beneath the weight of agony, he kept his Heart burning bright and drew strength from its core.