Vayra leapt across the gap between the ship and the canal edge. Her heels touched down first and she skidded along the ground of the shore. She let herself fall on purpose to avoid the horses’ trampling hooves, but rolled, then sprung up to her feet. With a quick Starlight Palm, she struck one of the horses in the flank. The bluecoat dragoon leapt off as his mount collapsed.

The rest of the dragoons pulled back on their reins and halted their horses as well. They turned and trotted around, encircling her. In unison, they slung their half-reloaded muskets onto their shoulders and dismounted. As soon as they landed, they drew their sabers and poured a vial of Stream water down the blade, activating the rune pattern and setting a blaze of blue sparks along the blade.

‘Not good,’ Phasoné said. ‘We shouldn’t have—’

Before she could finish, a beam of fiery Arcara burned through one of the dragoons in an instant. Nathariel landed outside the circle.

The four remaining split their attention and attacked. Vayra ducked down, then spun away from a heavy swipe. A slash caught the bicep of her mechanical arm, but just barely. It left a glowing slice on a surface panel, and nothing more.

Vayra let Phasoné in and conjured her scythe again. The haft had only half formed when a dragoon lunged at her, but she used what she did have to push the blade to the side. But the dragoon swiped upwards and turned his blade, and managed to score a glancing blow along her ribs.

Vayra yelped. Just a shallow cut.

The scythe had formed enough of a blade that, when she swept upwards, navigating around the dragoon’s defences, she left a searing gash across his chest.

Lunging, the second dragoon drove his sword at her neck. She ducked to the side, then entered a rally of blows with him. He blocked each of her attacks, and she dodged or deflected his. He pushed her closer to the edge of the shore—or, more accurately, a short cliff—and almost landed a cut down her back.

But this time, she knew exactly where the cliff was. She planted her feet and redirected the dragoon’s motion. As he stumbled, trying to keep his balance, Vayra hacked his head off his body.

The last dragoon had swung back up onto his horse and began to gallop away.

“If we let him go, he will tell his God-heir where we are,” Nathariel said. “He will have recognized the starlight magic of the Mediator.”

“Can you get him?” Vayra asked.

“I could.” He crossed his arms and didn’t move.

“You want me to practice?”

“Quickly, before he gets away.”

Vayra didn’t have her pistol with her anymore, but she still had one more ranged attack. “Phas? How far do you think we can throw the scythe, now that we’re at Lieutenant?”

‘Far enough to hit him,’ Phasoné answered.

Vayra gave the Goddess a little more control of her arm—her mechanical arm. Bracing techniques worked on her mechanical limbs, so she added one to it as well, just to make it a little stronger in case Phasoné overdid it.

The dragoon had made it nearly fifty paces away. With a skip and a short jump, Vayra wound up, then she and Phasoné flung the scythe. It whirled through the air, hissing and sputtering.

Vayra expected it to dip at any moment, so she’d given it a little extra height. But the Moulded Arcara didn’t seem to respect gravity when it was only half-condensed into the physical world. It cleaved through the dragoon’s upper body. He fell off his horse, and the mount trotted away harmlessly.

The scythe dispersed before it could return to Vayra’s hand. She pushed Phasoné out, then deactivated the Bracing technique. “That’s the last of them?”

“I sensed ten, and we killed ten,” Nathariel said. “I can’t sense any others.” He then turned around and sprang back to the Harmony, which had sailed further down the canal while they had fought the dragoons.

Vayra couldn’t jump that far (yet, she reminded herself), but when she strengthened her legs with starlight-Arcara, she could run fast enough to catch up. She sprinted along the edge of the cliff until she was side-by-side with the Harmony, then, with a thrust of her legs, launched herself back over to the quarterdeck.

“...won’t be the last of them,” Nathariel was saying.

“Can we pick up the pace?” Vayra stood up and shook out her limbs. Her mouth was starting to get a little dry.

‘You used a lot of mana to maintain those techniques,’ Phasoné said. ‘Down to a third left.’

“We’re going as fast as we can,” Pels said. “The wind is blowing directly from the starboard, and we can’t get the best angle on it if we want to keep going straight—which I would highly advise, or we’ll run ourselves into the rocks in no time.”

“Phas?” Vayra asked. “How long until we reach the greenhouse?”

‘One more day,’ Phasoné said. ‘Then we’ll arrive. Just keep moving.’

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The next day, Vayra and Glade sat on the Harmony’s forecastle, cross-legged in a cycling position.

“When we reach the greenhouse, you will likely have many infusions of almost-purified Arcara,” Nathariel said, pacing in front of them. “You will need a cycling technique to process it and rapidly integrate it into your spirit.”

Vayra scratched her cheek. “The Burnished Flame Loop isn’t good enough?”

“That is for purifying raw mana,” Nathariel said. “It works wonders on mana gathered from Stream water, but these elixirs will be different. You will not need such a rigorous purification technique.” He drew a scroll of parchment out of his voidhorn, then pressed it down on the deck.

“So…it’s an easier technique?” Vayra asked.

“Now she has cursed us…” Glade grumbled.

Nathariel clicked his tongue. “He’s got the right idea—impressive for a disciple of the Order of Balance.”

Vayra shut her eyes for a moment. “Alright. What’s the new technique?”

“Smaller, faster rotations of Arcara near your core,” said Nathariel. Vayra opened her eyes. The Admiral conjured a flame on the tip of his finger and drew a line around the page of parchment, charring a pattern into it, but not so much that the page burned.

‘Does he ever carry ink and a quill with him?’ Phasoné asked.

Vayra doubted it, but she didn’t dare say that out loud.

“Use your mana to guide the infusions of energy to your core,” Nathariel continued, “then keep it in a close loop—as I have drawn. It will cycle faster, making the infusions integrate faster. But to keep it in such a tight loop, you will need to exert a stronger pressure on it. That means it will require more willpower and take a stronger toll than any of your other cycling techniques.”

“But no physical toll, like the Burnished Flame Loop?” Vayra asked.

“You are still breathing, yes? Still using mana to guide the Arcara and help control the cycling technique?”

It was a rhetorical question, Vayra knew, but she still said, “Yes.”

“Then there will still be a physical toll.” He reached inside his voidhorn and retrieved a small vial of glimmering blue liquid. He tossed it to Glade. “A weak elixir, to practice. Take a single swig. If you can integrate it into your spirit in two seconds, then you have succeeded. Keep practicing until you succeed.”

Vayra sat still, looking at Nathariel expectantly.

“No,” he said. “You got sliced by an iron sword last night, and though your regenerative body might have already healed the gash, you will still get iron poisoning before long. Use your own Namola elixir to practice.”

“I thought the swords were starsteel,” she said softly. “Not iron.”

“Regular steel. Karmion cannot generate matter out of nothing; he can’t afford to equip all his soldiers with pure starsteel weapons.”

“How did the blades conduct the mana, then?” Vayra raised a finger and paused, then looked over at Glade. “Just carved with a starsteel chisel to leave a few flakes behind?” She recalled the Chambers on Muspellar, whose rune-powered entrances had been carved the same way.

“Likely,” Glade whispered, but he kept his head dipped respectfully towards Nathariel.

She reached into her haversack and pulled out a small vial of pink liquid. She had worked with Mr. Spawlding, the ship’s surgeon, to make the elixir a while ago. She hadn’t picked a Namola fruit since, though—she hadn’t been able to without the Mediator Form.

That said, the vials she had left still contained strong spiritual energy, and were basically a spirit elixir.

“Get to work,” Nathariel said. “If you can’t master the technique before we reach the greenhouse, you may end up injecting too much spiritual energy all at once and tearing yourself apart.”

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By mid-afternoon, Vayra had succeeded in using the technique. With it, she chewed through the rest of the vial of elixir in barely ten seconds.

When she opened her eyes, Glade was clutching his gut, his eyes wide. Was he getting seasick?

“Vayra,” he whispered. “I am advancing.”

“From Quartermaster to Master’s Mate?” she asked. “You—”

“Get Nathariel. He has what I need.”

“Yes!” Vayra leapt to her feet and ran down from the forecastle stairs. At the bottom, she looked back, then said, “Congratulations! And…apologies.”

Then she ran back across the main deck, weaving between sailors and seamen and patrolling Redmarines. “Nathariel! Nathariel!”

The God-heir was already sprinting down the quarterdeck stairs. Vayra stopped in front of him and said, “He’s advancing, sir! To Master’s Mate…”

She realized the futility of it—he had likely already sensed it. Since he hadn’t stopped moving, she leapt out of the way, then chased after him. He sprinted back across the main deck and jumped up to the forecastle, then knelt in front of Glade.

“You are certain about the body we decided on?” Nathariel asked.

“I am…” Glade grunted.

“Then prepare yourself.” Nathariel pulled open his voidhorn. “Vayra, a bucket of Stream water, please? As much as you can get in one scoop.”

“On its way!” She ran to the main deck and snatched up a pale. They had started leaving one in front of the mainmast just in case she knocked herself out or did anything incredibly mana-intensive. She wasn’t ever expecting to be the one fetching water.

With the bucket, she climbed down the side ladder of the Harmony, getting as close to the surface of the water as she could. Then, she dipped the bucket in, hunting for the largest wisp of Stream water she could find.

She snagged an arm’s-length wisp in the bucket, and it was as good as she’d get. She hauled it all the way back to the forecastle.

Glade rested flat on his back. After snatching up one of his hands, Vayra dipped it into the bucket. “What’s the process?”

“We are giving him the Dawnspear body,” Nathariel said. He held a vial of swirling, coral-coloured liquid. At first, she thought he was going to pour it in Glade’s mouth, but he cut a light gash in Glade’s hand with Glade’s own sword, then poured the liquid directly on it. “Dawn’s Tears. An alchemical ingredient that I gathered from a Dawn-aspect sword wraith. It will strengthen his muscles, as most enhanced bodies do, but it will also improve his conductivity with bladed weapons—perfect for sword-aspect God-heirs. He will be able to manifest sword techniques better, and even fight against most techniques with a bare weapon.”

Vayra nodded.

“Quickly, put his sword in his hand.”

Vayra grabbed his sword off the ship’s deck and wrapped his fingers around it. Blood seeped out from between his fingers, and he began to writhe. A few seconds later, he yelled and gasped—until Nathariel shoved a wound-up cloth in his mouth for him to bite down on.

“Now, we wait for his body to reforge itself. He knows what to do.”