Myrrir had never dreaded a meeting with his father more than he did now.

His jaw was set. He clasped his hands behind his back to stop them from trembling, and he watched the sea shift anxiously as he sailed towards the shore.

The port was busy, but no one came to greet him. He sailed until he could make out individual people on the piers. It was as far as he dared to bring his ship. They dropped anchor, and he offloaded a rowboat. He paddled alone, laboriously, towards a distant pier.

His arms and muscles stinged. After a few days of cycling his Arcara to his newly-sustained wounds, they were mostly healed, but his body still ached. There wasn’t much he could do about that.

The rowboat bumped into a bollard. He had arrived. He climbed up out of the boat, scaling the ladder up to the tall piers. They were made for much, much larger ships—not rowboats—but he didn’t want to tie his precious vessel, the Hyovao, up close to the pier. If he sailed too close, his father could crush it to splinters with a spare thought.

Myrrir walked along the pier and stepped onto the wharf, rehearsing what he would tell his father. I offer ten-thousand apologies, and—

But Father didn’t like sycophantic vassals. Why would he want the same from his son?

No, no. She died, but there will be another Mediator, and I can hunt the next one just the same.

But there would never be another Mediator as weak as the Phasoné’s Mediator. He’d ruined their best chance by letting her sacrifice herself.

She’d sailed right past a singularity. There was only one outcome of that—death. Now he had to explain that to his Father. He had to explain his failed mission.

The wharf blended with the city. He stepped into a valley of tall sandstone buildings shingled with red roofs, glimmering lanterns, and bustling civilians. Horse-drawn carriages raced past, and people in raggety garb ran to and fro, trying to close their shops for the evening. Among them, Myrrir sensed a few minor Godborn by the tingling in the back of his neck. No one more powerful than Master’s Mate in the lower city, for sure, but there were a few of them. It was only natural, being so close to the residence of a true God.

Nilsenir, God of Piracy, and Myrrir’s father.

In Stellacova, the pirate stronghold, there were no laws. Flinlock pistols banged and people brawled, and the very air reeked of rum. Myrrir kept his head down.

For a few long minutes, he walked higher and higher up the sloping shoreline. His target: the Hall of Piratedeep, his Father’s residence. The higher he climbed, the less rowdy the city became, until finally, he was alone again and the streets were silent.

He climbed up the stairs to the Hall, a straight, broad path whose steps were wide and long enough to accommodate a horse—or an army of them.

Halfway up, Myrrir encountered a pair of guards. They were pirate militiamen, dressed in vibrant livery. When he concentrated on their spirit, he sensed that they were minor Godborn, and both Lieutenants.

Lieutenants were rare, especially if they weren’t direct descendants of a member of the High Pantheon. But to guard a God, they were unnecessary. Nilsenir needed no guards, except for show.

That didn’t stop the guards from blocking Myrrir’s path.

“Who goes there?” one, a man with long blonde dreadlocks, asked. “Seeking an audience with Nilsenir at such an hour, huh? What’s—”

Myrrir turned his shoulder forward and pushed through the two guards. He cycled his Arcara, hoping it would make his spirit flare, and they would sense that he was more powerful than them.

On Stellacova, strength was all that mattered.

The second Lieutenant drew his pistol and cocked it. “Captain, are you? Our lord is having dinner; you’ll have to wait.”

“He’ll see his son,” Myrrir snapped. “I have news that can’t wait.”

“Myrrir?” the first guard exclaimed. “By the Stream, you look awful!”

“I’m aware.”

“What’s the news?” demanded the second guard. “There’s little Nilsenir doesn’t hear, and he’ll have our heads if it’s something he already knows!”

“Then that’s your problem, not mine.”

Myrrir stormed past the guards and sprinted up the rest of the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he arrived at the Hall’s gates, he heaved them open with a single push, then marched in. Two more guards waited inside the hall, though these men had no spirit potential—they were regular humans; attendants, more than guards.

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They didn’t try to stop Myrrir. They let him blaze down the long, sandstone chamber. It was dark. Myrrir could barely see the banners hanging from the roof or the dais at the end of the hall, but a single lit brazier illuminated the throne.

Nilsenir sat on the throne, eating from a platter in his lap. He glanced up for a moment and scowled, then turned back to his meal—some sort of roasted bird. As he ate, he said, “I was wondering when you would return.”

“Before you hope for any longer, I don’t bear good news,” Myrrir said. He approached the foot on the throne and knelt. He glued his gaze to the floor.

“As I figured, when you returned back here.”

Myrrir scrunched his eyebrows, and he felt a burst of indignance sear his mind before he shut it down. “I could have—”

Nilsenir set his tray on his throne’s armrest, then hauled himself to his feet with his one real hand and his other brass hook that served for a hand. “I would have thought you’d captured her, too, until I heard rumors swirling about. The Mediator, spotted on Ramesworld, hunting down a rogue Godborn.”

Myrrir gasped, ready to leap back to his feet and serve his father, when a chill ran down his spine. It might not have been her. “The…phoenix?”

“The halfblood, yes.” Nilsenir stepped off his dais and set a hand on Myrrir’s shoulder. “The orange-haired girl, pointy ears, blue eyes, the like. What do you say to that?”

Myrrir’s mouth slipped open. “I saw—I saw her die. She sailed into Yorth’s Remorse.”

“Evidently, she survived.” Nilsenir’s grip tightened. “I’m often the first to hear rumours in this sector. But it’s been a week since I first heard whispers of her survival, and those rumours have gotten around. And the more the word spreads, the more people hear about the Mediator.” He tapped Myrrir on the top of his head with his other hand, brass hook clinking against Myrrir’s crystalline hair. “If I let this go on any longer, you’ll cause me a good deal of embarrassment.”

Myrrir gulped. “I will get back out, father. I will keep hunting. I still have…a year and a half, give or take.”

“You may hunt. But I think it would be…wise to push our timeline up.”

“What—”

“In the coming weeks, all planets in the Tarrebian will be plastered with bounties—whoever captures a young half-phoenix by the name of Vayra, who displays the abilities of a Godborn using a starlight Path, and brings her back to me alive, will receive a reward fit for the first son of a God. Mind you, they won’t know who she truly is, to keep those rumours to a minimum, but I hope you understand.”

“Father, I’m—”

“You’re welcome, Myrrir, and you’re lucky. That’s what you are.”

“If you give me…give me the time I was promised,” Myrrir whispered, “I will bring her back.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you’ve already failed me.” Nilsenir let go of Myrrir’s shoulder with a push, driving his son towards the floor. “If I’ve heard of this, then so has Karmion. You’ve embarrassed me. Bringing the Mediator to him now will save face for me, at best.” He turned back to the dais and stepped up onto it, then glanced back. “The order has already been sent out, Myrrir.”

Myrrir bit his lip and winced. There was no sense in arguing. “What can I do to make this right, father? I’ve only served you, and I will keep serving you.”

Scoffing, Nilsenir dropped back onto his throne. “Get out of my sight, and bring me the Mediator before a lowly bounty hunter does. If you return to Stellacova without her, I’ll consider your life forfeit.” He picked up his tray again. “What good was raising you to Captain if you can’t bring me a month-old Mediator? What good was repairing your hands, or your leg, or your very lungs, with a half-century’s worth of starsteel, if you can’t do what you were asked to?” He motioned towards the doors with his one hand. “Out. Now. Go.”

Myrrir rose to his feet and spun around, then walked back towards the doors. He took one last glance at his father, clenched his fist, then said, “I will make you proud, father.”

He pulled open the hall’s doors and ran down the stairs. Nilsenir hadn’t given him a deadline to leave by, but he figured he should get out as soon as he could.

He returned to the port, climbed back into his rowboat, and rowed back to the Hyovao. It was a three-masted junk clad in entirely black wood—barring a few red and gold accents, and the enormous red lantern hanging off its stern. He rowed up to its hull, nestling the rowboat between the round gun ports, and hooked it onto the davits.

Myrrir’s crew raised him up to the edge of the bulwark. He leapt out of the rowboat and landed on the main deck. “Welcome back, Captain!” a few cheered, but most looked nervous.

Myrrir put on a brave smile. “What? You didn’t think I’d make it?” He clapped one of the sailors on the shoulder, then walked towards the quarterdeck. He had to admit, it felt good to be back—and in one piece.

He climbed up the stairs to the quarterdeck. The coxswains leaned on the tiller, ready to accept his orders, and his first officer, Tye, stood with the navigators.

“Charting a course out of here?” Myrrir asked Tye.

“We figured it would be best to be ready, in case you had to make a quick escape,” Tye said. He dipped his head and rolled his shoulders, then rubbed his back and groaned. “How did it go?”

“Not well.” Myrrir pulled Tye into the great cabin, a room at the very stern of the junk, and explained everything his father had told him.

A table ran down the center of the cabin. Myrrir pulled out one of the chairs and took a seat. “We have no choice but to keep hunting.”

“Unless you left your father’s service,” Tye said softly. He was a human, and humans aged—Tye included. His hair was gray, and he looked tired. “You don’t have to keep doing this, Myrrir.”

Myrrir shook his head and sighed. “And then what? Without Nilsenir’s Godhood, I’ll never ascend past the naval ranks.”

“Is everything in your life about ascension?”

Myrrir scowled, then clenched his fists. Beneath his gloves, wood clinked, and starsteel wires rattled. “I will reach the peak, Tye. I will. I’m close to Commodore, and with a couple more weeks of cycling, my core will ascend.”

“Very few Godborn ever reach Commodore, and you would be very—”

“It’s not enough!” Myrrir hissed. Ambitious swirled in his mind. “I need father’s approval, and I know how to get it.”

Tye’s eyes drooped, and he rolled his lips inward. “Very well, Myrrir.”

“Good. Then we’ll set sail immediately.”