Orthos rumbled deep in his throat. “There are more aspects of aura than sparks in a wildfire, but they always take some form. Always. Asking for pure aura is like asking for dry water.”

“And Ruler techniques?”

“Madra controls aura, and aura controls nature. Water artists can walk on the ocean, call rain, and so on. Earth artists open doors in stone. Force artists can make a feather hit with the power of a collapsing boulder.”

Lindon thought he understood. The Path of the White Fox could craft an illusion out of madra, but its Ruler technique affected the mind and eyes directly so that the target believed they saw something.

But he was still testing his Blackflame core, running his awareness over it like a child unwilling to release a new toy.

“What use is there for fire aura? Surely you can set things on fire with madra, rather than bothering with a Ruler technique.”

Orthos was quiet for a full minute, chewing on the occasional stone. Lindon was considering how best to apologize when the turtle finally spoke.

“For some Paths, this is true. For ours…” One red-and-black eye swiveled to meet Lindon’s gaze. “Imagine you have finished a battle. Your breath has driven your enemies before you, and now their corpses lie smoldering on the field. Smoke and flames rise in testament to your power, and courage has left your foes. They flee. You know you cannot catch them all.”

A dark, twisted root stuck out from the wall. Suddenly Orthos snapped at it, tearing a length of wood the size of Lindon’s arm out of the stone.

He spat it onto the floor, where it burst into smoky, black-streaked flames.

“They trip over the burning bodies of their comrades as they run,” Orthos said, “but there is no flight from your fury.”

He turned to glare at the floor.

And in a great explosion of heat, the root burst into flames. Lindon had to take a step back; the fire reached the ceiling and filled the tunnel for an instant. It was the healthy orange of a natural flame, not the dark stain of Blackflame, though it was spotted with the odd blotch of black or red.

The fire roared for a second, lapping up the walls as though looking for something else to consume, and then died in an instant.

Of the arm-length root, there was nothing left but ash.

“We called it the Void Dragon’s Dance,” Orthos said, crushing the ash beneath his paw. “In one moment, the flames devour everything on the battlefield, leaving only smoke and dust.”

“As long as there’s enough fire around to begin with.” Lindon pointed out the distinction automatically, his mind distant. Half of him was overcome with awe at the raw power Orthos described, and couldn’t help imagining turning that frightening weapon against Jai Long.

The other half was quiet and subdued, afraid of the deadly possibility locked in his own core.

“Hm. And as long as you have enough time,” Orthos added. “Taking control of aura takes time and concentration. You can toss Striker techniques out with every breath, but a widespread Ruler technique takes time to build.”

The tunnel had ended, opening onto a chamber with a yellow skeleton curled at the center. Unlike the bones in the city outside, this set was complete: a long serpent’s body with four clawed limbs and one reptilian head filled with fangs. A delicate matrix of bones draped over the ribs must once have supported wings.

This dragon’s skeleton also wasn’t large enough to house a building. It was twice the length of Orthos’ body, at most.

But it flickered with black fire. The flames crawled along each bone like worms, occasionally sending up a dull red spark that gave off just enough light to see. Lindon’s Jade sense told him the room was filled with power, so he cracked his Copper sight.

He shut the sight again immediately. The dark radiance of destruction and the fiery aura of heat crowded out everything else, so he couldn’t even see the power of earth in the rocks beneath. This was a wellspring of Blackflame energy.

“Sit,” Orthos commanded, and Lindon scrambled to the ground without hesitation. “Cycle as the Underlord has taught you, but this time, reach to the vital aura around you. You have my power; Blackflame aura will come as you call, and will merge easily with your core.” Orthos turned to go, snapping up another rock and swallowing it whole. “Cycle for three days, and then the next stage of your training will begin.”

“Thank you for the instruction. Please, stay with me just a moment, until I get the—”

His contracted partner had already left. Lindon could feel the turtle’s soul moving swiftly down the corridor.

At least he had packed food. But where, in these dark, broiling tunnels, was he supposed to find water?

***

Jai Long waited at the end of a dead-end street in Serpent’s Grave, Shiryu Mountain looming over him like a titanic gravestone. The shop to his left belonged to the fourteenth-ranked tailor in the city, while to his right, a family ran the ninth-ranked restaurant.

Both buildings were immaculate constructions of newly painted wood, their signs colorful, their lanterns smelling of fresh oil. Even the alley between them was spotless except for a light coating of sand, and he was sure the Arelius family would sweep even that away before dawn. Every stranger who passed the alley’s mouth looked like they were on their way to an imperial feast: the women had their hair pinned up and ornamented, their faces painted, while the men wore so many layers of color that they looked armored.

Even their Goldsigns were ornamental. Jai Long saw silver bracers, golden haloes, polished horns, emerald eyes, gleaming tails, and a single pair of broad green wings that marked a member of the imperial Naru clan.

After so long away, Jai Long had almost forgotten. Appearance and rank were everything in the Blackflame Empire. The more of one you had, the less of the other you needed.

With one hand, he tightened the red bandages wrapping his head. The other hand clutched the case for the Ancestor’s Spear.

Stellar Spear madra flashed somewhere up the street, and white light bloomed. The crowd he could see through the alley cast disgusted looks backward, speeding along to their destination.

Jai Long flared his madra, cycling it rapidly and signaling Gokren and the Sandvipers that he was about to engage. Then he walked out of the alley.

Some of the passersby sensed the power of a Highgold and gave him curious looks, but they quickly looked away again when they realized he’d covered his face and failed to display any of the hallmarks of a famous faction. Just a nobody.

A few yards down the street, three Lowgolds of the Jai clan were harassing an Arelius street-sweeping crew.

Right on schedule.

The Jai spears were still slung over their backs, so they hadn’t managed to provoke a fight yet. Their metallic black hair gleamed in the light of the dying sun.

The blue-clad servants of the Arelius family were huddled against a wall like trapped deer. One of them clutched a broken broom.

“You struck him,” a young Jai woman said, pointing to her clansman. “Everyone saw you, just admit it. Say it.”

The Arelius family workers scanned the nearby crowd, looking for a way out.

Out of curiosity, Jai Long turned to an old woman standing outside the tailor’s shop, holding a bolt of cloth. “Did you see that?”

She looked him up and down, sneering a bit at his face. “You could do better than that, you know. We could weave you a mask that an Underlord would be proud to wear, even on a…budget.”