Kellan hasn’t taken his eyes away from Malachai’s scabbard for the last half an hour.

Even as they are surrounded by big, bulky, armoured Tyrnn from all sides.

The biggest threat to him isn’t alive. It’s inanimate.

He can feel it seething; angry that it was only barely satiated.

Worse still, is that he feels a need to grab it. To pull it out and slaughter. He shakes the feeling away — only for it to come back as soon as he stops thinking.

They sit, now, in a side room seemingly designed for non-Tyrnn occupation.

Semi-comfortable seats, of the right height, yet rather flimsy feeling. If a Tyrnn were to sit, no doubt it would crumble under their weight.

The Tyrnn women, much like himself, eyes the scabbard. Fear pulses in her eyes every time Malachai adjusts.

She’s an Arallai. In the empire, they are called Mages — those connected to realm in some way.

A flash comes to his mind. The Lunar Priestesses… and their ability to disappear in the blink of an eye.

She sits on a throne of sorts, bolted to the ship, then reinforced by rivets of steel.

Considering it shifted when she sat, despite being rooted, his initial thought on her weight is true. She’s heavy beyond heavy.

Then… how do they so easily move with them?

Are they just that strong?

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t feel safe.

This game is being played with weapons that could obliterate him in an instant.

Why is he here?

What is his sword — and lacklustre mind — going to do?

His goal is… impossible. It’s ludicrous, and he finds himself wondering why he ever thought it was possible in the first place.

To kill a god…?

How would he ever manage to supplant a living deity?

Succoured into believing another false dream. He should be able to see them coming.

He’s been through enough of them, after all.

Malachai speaks, and Kellan snaps his eyes to his master like a good, obedient dog.

It’s not loyalty.

It’s fear.

Who is to say he isn’t next? Malachai doesn’t value people as he claims. He murdered Caspian to, what, satiate a sword?

He forces himself to look away… and his heart beats ever the harder for it.

“Before we begin,” Malachai crosses one leg over the other. “I would like to make one thing very clear. My words were true — I am not my father. I do not seek the supremacy of humanity over all races.”

He takes his hand of the hilt of Last Sight… for the first time.

“I do not intend to maintain the status quo; I am no banal reactionary. In the same like, I am not vengeful. I respect your attempt to kill me — and I hope you respect my peace offering.”

The Arallai doesn’t speak. The guards shuffle nervously.

But what can they do?

“Peace… offering?” she asks, doing a terrible job of hiding the nervousness. But Malachai nods.

“That boy was of House Thanal’dol… if you could not tell from the stupid glamour he forced upon himself at all times.” He speaks, then smiles.

“I don’t know what reward he promised, nor what blackmail he conjured, in order to force you to move one of your scared vessels to close to land… but I know you wouldn’t have unless it was particularly… exciting.”

He speaks with an easy confidence. He knows the power he has. The Arallai forces a smile.

“We have no issue with House—“ she begins, her tone like that of a child attempting to convince a parent that breaking the door is actually a good thing. Downplaying it.

Even he can see right through it; Malachai doesn’t even let her finish.

“Of course, Shipmaster. You love the heavy fines, taxes, even Levy that Thanal’dol would lay upon you.” He puts his foot down and leans closer. The guards shuffle again,

“I am sure, no doubt, that you could think of nothing but gratitude as they gouged the price of your medicine. Barely allowing you a profit so that you would be forced to stay close to their ports… and thus place your sacred vessel as the shield against piracy.”

“In fact, I think you loved it so much that you decided to forgo the Akempomaai for years and years. That can be the only reason, no?”

Her eyes narrow. “You know a lot… care to tell me how?”

He laughs. “Certainly! I don’t care to lie, Shipmaster. In my service is a Tyrnn named Roland. Imperialized, as it were. He knows some of your culture. More than me. The rest? I have access to House Thanal’dol’s records. Or, I did. Incredibly invaluble… but I gave that up to speak to you. You should have seen some of the ways they have fucked you that you probably don’t even know about.”

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She scoffs. “A traitor has told you of us? Ha! What does he know? He has not lived amongst us, he has not tended the ship, he has not bathed in light-chambers or taken plunder.”

She shrugs. “What has he done. Tended the fields?” he stops… “Do not call him Tyrnn in my presence.”

Malachai drops the smile. “I will call him Tyrnn, for he is my ally — and I am loyal above all else to my allies.” He speaks.

Kellan’s mouth opens… for the briefest moment. A glance, from Malachai, silences him.

“Besides, how much of that list have you done? You are one of the youngest Tyrnn I have ever seen. You did not exist when the Tyrnn were masters of the waves. You have taken plunder? You have tended the ship? What tending? New paint?”

Her fist clenches. “You will silence your tongue or—“

Malachai stands. “I will not.” He shouts. The guards go in a frenzy, pointing their spears towards him.

“You have done a brilliant job, Shipmaster. You have tended to your people — kept them alive, and you have staved off human pressure… but you yourself are barely Tyrnn. Why would you be? The Tyrnn are defiant; you have lived under the empire for years. What are you, at this point?”

She snarls, standing up to face him. The fear is gone.

Why?

Why is she not afraid.

“I am Tyrnn! Damned be the ancestors and their deeds, damned be what I have done! I am Tyrnn! I am not my father; I am no weakling. We should have gone down to the last Tyrnn! The Worldships should never be in human hands!”

Malachai smiles… and the world slows. His words are… different. “What do you want, Arallai? Shipmaster?”

She pauses… the wind taken out of her sails.

Is this… what happened to him?

When Malachai asked him what he wanted?

“I want you to leave!” she screams. “I want you to disappear! I was going to bring my clan back to glory! To become true Tyrnn! To become the gods of the seas again!”

Tears run down her face. She stops screaming. “But you have come to me… with the weapon that brought us to heel… and you expect me to parlay? With the son of the Akaviush?”

She shakes her head, and summons her staff.

“You have come to take us back. You are another enslaver. I… I will not let that happen.”

She’s a full head and shoulders over Malachai. She looks down at him. “I was foolish. I forgot myself. I will take my death, and feast in Tolus’s heart with my slaughtered kin! Damned be your sword! The Worldships belong to the Tyrnn!”

She starts to channel her connection to the Solar realm. He can feel it… the subtle heat in the room.

Malachai waves. “Alright. Then we will leave.” He speaks, then glances at Kellan. “Come, Kellan.”

He does so. Confusion reigns in his head. A trick? A ploy?

If it is, its working. The Shipmaster’s face turns to confusion, the fervour dissipating in an instant.

But Malachai pushes open the door, Kellan at his heel. They stand on the deck... Kellan finally gathers the courage to speak. It’s not much; but its what he needs to ask. “What?” He asks… and Malachai turns.

Kellan pauses.

What now?

“Just like that? You murder an ally, and that’s it? The plan didn’t work… let’s go home?”

Malachai shakes his head. “I murdered no ally, Kellan. Caspian was a tool — I make a very distinct separation between tools and allies.”

He looks up at the sky. “Caspian… wanted nothing. There was no fire, no ambition — no further thought. Just simple, banal, satisfaction. Do not mistake his need for approval for loyalty. He would just have sooner thrown himself to any of my siblings… but his brothers got to them first. He was a spy, and now he is dead.”

Kellan stares… and Malachai waits for his next words. Patiently… as though they had not just left an extremely volatile situation, and as though they are not surrounded by guards.

He knows what he’s going to say.

It’s the only option, really.

“So what am I? Tool? Or ally?”

Malachai doesn’t hesitate for a second. “Ally. You want. It drives you forward, enough to form an entire company of soldiers. You also know when to take opportunities that arise. There are reasons for you to exist — and to continue existing.”

He smiles. “My allies, baring none, will achieve their dreams — and more — in my design. They simply need join me.”

He starts to walk off — back towards the opening into the bowels of the ship.

Back to the camp…

Lysandra meets him, and then they are gone.

No trick.

No ploy.

He asked her what she wanted… and he granted it.

Why?

He doesn’t even notice the heavy footsteps approach behind him, until he turns at the last moment.

The Arallai — the Shipmaster — stands in the doorway.

Did she hear all of that?

He doesn’t understand.

He’s gone.

“Are you… Kellan?” she asks. Her voice is… softer, now. Like she’s speaking to a child. He furls his brow. Why did he stay here? What if they take him prisoner?

Is he even worth taking prisoner?

“How do you know my name?” He demands. She puts a hand up.

“I am not your enemy. The message I received… spoke of a Kellan. A man born in the City of Moons — yet no slave to their prophecies. Is that you?”

He nods without thinking. Now that the fear is gone… now that they speak face to face… she feels familiar.

Strangely, confusingly familiar.

“Why follow him?” she asks, just as softly. “What could he have offered you… for you, all of people, to trust once more?”

“He offered to make me a god.” He says, then — suprisingly even to him — he smiles. “To usurp Haaim’Hallem… to become Divine Conduit of the Lunar Realm.”

Her brow furls; she looks over his face for a sign of a jest… but finds it wanting. “You speak the truth? What did… he want from this?” She speaks, spreading her hand around the ship. “This… charade? I do not understand?”

“He asked me what I wanted… then granted it. Granted the promise, as it were.” He looks in Malachai’s direction. “He wanted to know what you wanted.”

He shakes his head just a little. The Arallai remains silent.

“I don’t know anything about you. Race, culture, history — none of it — but I do know that he asked me the same question and them promised it me. He did the same to you. You said he was stopping you. I’m not sure there’s anything more to say.”

She taps the staff on the ground, a small spark of flame coming from it.

“He could have taken this ship.” She splurts. “If he’d killed me… the rest would fold. They’re too afraid for the ship. Too used to this struggle.”

He looks at her hand. “I could see it in his eyes… he knew I was the outlier.”

She steps over… and Kellan doesn’t reach for his sword, or step away — or do anything defensively.

“He could take your ship… but he couldn’t keep it. Not without your help. He values people that want something over a ship. He might have sold it… but… let me ask you a question.”

He puts two hands out, both balled into a fist. He raises the left, then unfurls it. “In this hand is a sword that can solve any problem — but breaks immediately thereafter.”

He raises his right, unfurling it as the other. “Or, a robust, well-forged blade that keeps its edge for the rest of your life… which would you pick?”

“I… I am not sure.” She says, gripping the staff tightly. “Humans have always demanded, always taken.”

Kellan nods. “But promised? Truly, absolutely, promised? I understand.”

He looks to the clouds. “In the City of Moons, promises are traded like bread. Malachai’s words were… the only time I felt I had been spoken to.”

She puts a hand out and takes his forearm in a vice-like grip. He doesn’t fight, nor does he flee, nor freeze.

There’s a connection. It’s impossible not to feel it. Not love, nor even a like, or anything along those lines.

No.

Instead, they share a hatred.

“I feel it on you.” She declares. “My connection is strong. I have never felt cold… yet I feel it on your skin. Of the Lunar Realm… of the Frozen Moon, even. You are connected.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You are… connected. You would be Arallai, if it were nurtured.”

His face grimaces. “I know. There is a constant beckoning of the moons. In the chill of the winds; in the shapes of the darkness. I will not be a mage — I wish no boon from the Lunar Realm.”

She smiles.

It is… strange.

Pretty, in its own way, yet disturbing.

“That is… an interesting answer.” She speaks… then a pause comes. “But I think you are a fool for it. If you are to become a god of the Lunar Realm… should you not know how to use it?”

He… stops. She’s right.

This is an old opinion. From before he even thought to think of his future.

She nods. “Tell your Lord that I will join him in his domain… and we will discuss without hostility. And… I will help you. To nurture your connection.”