Only to sense, dimly, as if from a mile away, a second bonfire snuff out, its Emerald hues disappearing and leaving the world ashen and cold in its wake.
Praximar’s Heart had guttered. That blast had taken its toll.
Scorio couldn’t speak, couldn’t see. He tried to shamble forward but the world was a miasma of light and anguish.
So he did the one thing he could: he poured all his power into his aura of command, and roared, STOP.
Again and again, he unleashed his Tomb Spark power. Again and again, he fueled it with Iron, sourced it from his endless reservoir, so that Praximar’s study filled with its booming command: STOP.
Scorio began to haul himself forward, blinking desperately, trying to make out the contours of the room.
STOP!
He was a snake with a shattered spine, a headless corpse, a wellspring of pain.
STOP!
But all the while his Gold-tempered body drank greedily of his Iron mana, that endless font of power, and reknit itself.
Raising his head, Scorio saw a figure reeling above him.
A shadowed shape poised before an open drawer.
STOP!
It held a vial of sublime power in its hand. A source of wickedly potent mana, an Emerald vial that sang with its own siren allure.
STOP!
Closer Scorio crawled, forearm over forearm, until at last, shaking, bleeding, a ruined wretch, he swung his arm at the figure’s leg.
His wrist was shattered but his talons were as sharp as ever.
They passed through Praximar’s great tendon and the Pyre Lord screamed as he fell.
Growling like a beast, Scorio crawled onto the shaking man, hammering him over and over again with his commands, his capacious Heart already drained to nearly half by the sheer demand he was placing on it.
Up onto Praximar’s chest, the other feebly pushing at him, his Heart dull and dead, his strength feeble in comparison.
Summoning all his reserves, drawing on every ounce of his being, every injustice, every moment of pain and rage from the first moment Praximar had cast him through the Final Door to this last where he’d executed Jova before him, Scorio reared up and then drove his horned head down with all his strength into the Pyre Lord’s face.
Bone shattered and Praximar screamed.
STOP! Scorio roared, but now Praximar struggled, wrestled with him, pushed, straight-armed.
Again Scorio rose, fell, and again his great horns slammed into the man’s ruined face.
More blood, more sharp cracks.
Again and again, Scorio battered at the Pyre Lord, allowing gravity to do most of the work at first until his strength rose so that he was able to drive his horns down harder, ever harder, until at long last the Pyre Lord ceased to scream and mewl and move.
Scorio swayed, sobbing from the effort, gasping, blood hot and thick like a mask over his face. Refusing to desist, he brought his hand feebly to the Pyre Lord’s neck and twitched his talons closed. Then, with a grating cry, he yanked his arm away, and felt his talons tear through the older man’s throat.
Praximar didn’t move.
He was dead.
Well and truly dead.
The only relief that the knowledge gave him was the realization that he could cease fighting. He fell away, landed on his side, and lay there gasping for breath, his Heart burning, ever raging, and slowly feeding strength back into his frame.
Scorio heard the sound of the study door open. Steady footsteps approached. Someone stopped a handful of yards away.
Scorio gritted his teeth and looked up.
A striking man stood beside Praximar’s desk, his angular features cadaverous, his hairline receding, his manner patrician. He wore rich and elegant robes of black and crimson, high collared and with intricate patterns stitched along the hems in golden patterns. His eyes were sunken, his mouth lipless, his gaze dolorous and utterly unmoved by the carnage that lay before him.
Scorio tried to speak but could only manage a low rasp. His head pounded and felt weirdly pulpy, his body ached and burned in numerous locations. Were it not for his burning Heart, oblivion would have claimed him.
“Hmm.” The man lowered to a smooth crouch before Scorio and drew forth a pill from a pouch. This he pushed into Scorio’s mouth. “Swallow.”
Scorio did so with difficulty, and the result was immediate. Soothing energy flowed through him like waves over a burning raft, dampening and then erasing his pain. Scorio felt his knee and wrists rearrange themselves, felt the side of his head grow compact and firm. Bands of metal loosened from around his chest, and his vision cleared even as his thoughts became more lucid.
“Thank you.”
“Your name?”
“Scorio.”
“Scorio.” The man’s tone was clipped and severe. “You killed Chancellor Praximar?”
“I did.” Slowly, warily, Scorio sat up. For the first time, he took in the corpse beside him. Praximar’s face was staved in like the side of a wooden box. Teeth and cartilage gleamed through dark blood, torn lips, shredded cheeks, and his collapsed brow.
“Your rank?”
“Flame Vault.”
“Is that so.” The man stood just as smoothly and stepped back. “You were the cause for Praximar’s lighting the distress beacon?”
“Partly, sure.” The effects of the miraculous pill were diminishing. He flexed his leg and rubbed at a healed wrist even as he released his scaled form.
“This one yet lives,” the Iron Tyrant said, moving to kneel beside Jova and press his fingers to her neck. “Improbable, given her wounds.” He rolled her onto her back and startled.
“Jova Spike,” said Scorio ruefully. “Most people recognize her.”
“Indeed. No need to give her a Vitality Pearl, then.” He stood and cast around the study, taking in the shattered rock, the torn-up floor, the splatters of blood. “Begin at the beginning. Tell me everything.”
“Sure,” said Scorio. Exhaustion washed over him. This was a true exhaustion, one that went beyond his Heart’s ability to restore. But there was nothing for it, so he began to recount everything that had happened since he left the Academy with his friends.
The Iron Tyrant proved an utterly focused listener. He stood before Scorio, hands on hips, and simply stared, drinking in every word. He didn’t even seem to blink. Scorio’s voice grew cracked but still, he pressed. Shouts came from the hallway, the door slammed open, only for a dozen House Hydra Great Souls to balk at the sight of the Iron Tyrant.
“Leave us,” he commanded, and they did.
Scorio finished his tale. He felt woozy but confident that he’d related the important particulars. At some point, Jova had sat up, but she’d made no comment, only listened with the same rapt intensity.
“I see.” The man pinched the bridge of his nose and then sighed. For a long time, he simply stared off into the distance, mouth pursed, and then he turned to the door. “I will speak with others. Remain here. If you depart, I will be displeased.”
“Understood,” said Scorio. In truth, he was loath to do anything else.
The Iron Tyrant considered them both, then abruptly strode forth and closed the door firmly behind him.
“So that’s the Iron Tyrant,” said Jova.
“I think he knew you in your last life.”
“Everyone seems to.” She sounded more resigned than boastful. Her gaze settled on Praximar. “How the hell did you do that?”
Scorio scooted over to the wall and sat against it. Considered the dead Pyre Lord. “Luck. Bull-headed stubbornness. He used most of his mana to light the beacon. His Emerald mana made him blind to the fact that I drained the room of all mana—”
“You what?” Stared at him in disbelief. “This place was choked with Iron.”
“Was. I’ve a technique. Allows me to drink in mana while my Heart burns. I used it all the while, drank in the Iron. By the time he started running out of Emerald, it was too late. I stopped him from going back to his desk for more. He finally hit me in the side of the head with one of his blasts and his Heart guttered.”