A green speck crawled over the horizon. Vayra ran to the forecastle’s front railing and leaned as far forward as she could, trying to catch the best glimpse of it.

The Harmony sloshed down the canal still, but the wind had picked up, and they were moving faster. The green speck grew out of the fields like a lonely mountain—if mountains were smooth and round. The enormous glass dome glinted in the evening light, and the vines and creepers clinging to the inside walls turned it green.

She expected it to stop getting larger any second, but the closer they sailed, the more the scale of the facility dawned on her. The dome’s surface wasn’t perfectly spherical; it was made up of diamond-shaped segments, and lengths of wood ran between them. She kept her eyes pinned to the summit, but her chin kept lifting and lifting.

The dome would have been large enough to cover the entirety of Tavelle three times over.

An bundled array of roots leaked out from beneath the dome and dipped into the canal, drawing water up and filtering it. Each was at least ten feet in diameter, and altogether, they made an array twice the length of the Harmony. They extracted enough Stream water from the canal that they too were glowing even to normal eyes.

As the Harmony passed the roots, the crew dropped the anchors and lowered the sails. They hooked the ship onto the last root in the bundle with grapples, then pulled the ship a little closer—as much as the anchor would allow. If Vayra wanted, she could jump across to the roots and climb up.

“As close as we can get,” Captain Pels said, walking over. “Once we get off and get into the facility, I’ll have the crew move along. There’s a channel on the other side of the dome, and as long as the wind keeps blowing side-wise across our deck, we can use it to get us back to the shore when you’ve got what you need.”

Of course, the wind hadn’t just been blowing sideways—many times, it had blown directly from the stern—so the journey back to the shore wouldn’t be quick. That meant there wasn’t an easy escape, either.

“We’ll be quick,” Vayra said. “In and out. I’ll…go get ready.”

First, she ran down to the infirmary. Glade was recovering from his advancement. He hadn’t needed any medical attention, but just in case, they had laid him on a cot. When Vayra ran in, Nathariel was waiting beside him, talking softly and explaining the next steps of the Master stages.

As soon as there was a gap in the conversation, Vayra said, “We’ve arrived.” Captain Pels had followed her down to the infirmary.

“Do you have everything?”

Vayra patted her haversack. “Books, elixirs, rations.” Then she patted her belt. “Pistol, canteen, boots, cloak…I should be good to go.”

Glade pushed himself up. His body had left a stain of dark detritus and expulsions on the bed—as was expected from a bodily-enhancement advancement—but there was something a little different about him. His jaw was sharper, his eyes more intense, and his shoulders slightly broader. “I feel like I could run to the shore and back, and still have time to spare.”

And, to top it all off, one of his locks of hair had changed colour. A single length off to the side of his head was a yellow-pink gradient, just like the dawn sky.

“I was about to ask if you were feeling ready…” Vayra whispered.

‘Of course he’s feeling ready…’ Phasoné remarked. ‘You remember how you felt when you advanced from Quartermaster to Master’s Mate?’

She did.

Glade swung his legs over the edge of the cot and pulled his black coat on, then fastened his sword to his hip. “I am ready.”

They both looked at Nathariel.

“I’m always ready,” he said, his arms crossed. His voidhorn hung from his hip, and his spear was still on his back.

“Now, hold on a sec,” Pels said. “We’re leaving right now? Just let me—”

“You’re coming with us?” Vayra asked. “I’m not sure if that’s the best idea…”

Pels snorted. “You’d have it worse without me. How’re you going to find the Harmony when you’re done?”

“Nathariel will sense the crew and guide us to you,” Glade said. “Apologies, Captain, but it will be dangerous in there…”

“This area will be swamped with mortals and their ships, soon.” Pels gave Nathariel a nudge with his elbow. “He might be good, but I don’t think he can pick us, a bunch of mere mortals, out of a crowd. No, you need a captain who knows the…admittedly unusual hiding tactics of his crew. The lieutenants can get the ship turned around—McHyll knows what to do.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“We’re not gonna be long,” Vayra said.

“Knowing you three, I highly doubt that. Advancement-crazed, and all. ‘Oh, just one more elixir’. Yeah, right.”

“How’re they going to hide the ship, then?” Nathariel asked.

“They’ll get it tangled into some far-off roots real good, then dress up the mast to look like a crumbling ruin,” Pels said. “But frankly, I don’t know where they’ll choose, and neither will you. If you want to find the ship again in a reasonable time, I’d strongly suggest that I come with you.

“If you must.” Nathariel turned around and walked to the infirmary door. “Be on deck in five minutes, or we leave without you. I’m going to get the Adepts, but the Redmarines stay aboard.”

They gathered at the railing in five minutes. The Order of Balance Adepts, each armed with a silver longsword, shifted nervously in front of Nathariel as he outlined his expectations for them—they were to be an extra set of eyes, and guards at all times.

Pels emerged from below deck in his coat and tricorn, but he wore a bandolier with four pistols tucked into it.

“Those won’t do him much good,” Nathariel muttered, “but if it makes him feel better, then I suppose he’s welcome to it.”

Pels put a hand on Glade and Vayra’s shoulders, then said, “Off we go!”

‘Is something up with him?’ Phasoné asked.

“Just usual…Pels-i-ness,” Vayra whispered back. “Dunno.”

“I heard that,” Pels shot back at Vayra. “Don’t know what your head-voice was telling you, but I’m not looking to let you guys get lost again. And you, missy, can’t go losing any more limbs on my watch.”

Vayra and Nathariel jumped over the railing and over to the massive roots. Nathariel made it all the way up to the top of the root in a single leap, where it curved around the edge of the cliff and led towards the greenhouse. Having less raw strength, Vayra made it halfway to the top, and instead clutched onto the little white hairs that hung off the root’s side.

As the Adepts and Captain Pels began to climb across on the grapples, Glade stepped up onto the railing. He shifted side to side, then bent his legs and crouched down. The moment he began to wobble, he sprang forwards.

As far as Vayra knew, he didn’t have a Bracing technique, and sword-Arcara wielders were only able to strengthen the blades of their swords. They had to rely on the power of their enhanced bodies alone.

Glade soared through the air. He reached out with his arms collided with the root halfway up, snagging onto the hairs of the root to keep himself up. He had landed only a few feet below Vayra.

That was a first try—and without any practice. Vayra glanced up at Nathariel. “What kind of body did you give him, again?”

Nathariel said plainly, “It is called Dawnspear.”

“That was rhetorical…” Vayra climbed, hauling herself hand over hand up the root until she reached the top. A few seconds later, Glade hauled himself up, too, barely panting.

“Be careful,” Nathariel warned. “Your enhanced body eats mana as you cycle Arcara through your muscles. You aren’t used to using it, and it won’t be efficient—take care not to run yourself too low, or you will only be as strong as a mortal man again.”

Vayra’s body, being suited for spiritual repair and fast healing, used mana and Arcara for those purposes. She hadn’t considered the consistent costs of a regular, strength-based enhancement.

Without waiting for the Adepts to finish crossing, Nathariel set off down the root. From the canal, the greenhouse had looked a lot closer, but it was still a few hundred feet from the edge of the shore. They walked along the root, weaving between a few larger spines and pointy tendrils.

The excess water—freshwater from the canal, not Stream water—whisked off the tips of the hairs. First, it turned to dew, then it evaporated, leaving only Stream water in the root.

Vayra pulled her canteen off her belt. Currently, it was filled with watered-down rum from the Harmony’s store, but she dumped it out and filled it with pure, fresh water instead. As they walked, she scooped dew droplets off the roots’ hairs.

‘Considering you’re such a lightweight,’ Phasoné remarked, ‘we don’t need you getting drunk off a deep swig.’

Vayra shook her head. “It wouldn’t take that little…”

They reached the edge of the dome. The glass-and-wood frame pressed right up against the top of the root, and there wasn’t even an inch-wide gap. In some places, the root even bulged around the dome’s edge.

‘That’s what we get after leaving it unattended for nearly a hundred years,’ Phasoné complained.

“Can we just…break a pane?” Vayra asked.

“Spiritual sight,” said Nathariel. “Use it.” He turned to Glade, then offered a short instruction on how to use his spiritual sight—since he was now a Master’s Mate, he could start to learn it.

Immediately, he grasped his eyes, like he had just stared at the sun.

“Well…he got it,” Vayra muttered.

Nathariel shook his head. “That was the easy part. He must control it. Keep practicing.”

Vayra turned back to the glass dome and used her own spiritual sight while staring at the glass panes. Indeed, on the outside, it was a layer of normal glass. But just behind it, a layer of thick Moulded Arcara waited. It was transparent to the regular eye—whatever aspect it was—but in her spiritual sight, it looked like frosted glass.

For good measure, Nathariel blasted the nearest diamond-shaped pane with a bolt of flame. The exterior glass shattered, but the fire scattered harmlessly on the Moulded Arcara. For a brief instant, the Arcara shimmered green. Then, a pulse of force launched out, flinging the three of them back down the root.

Brushing himself off, Nathariel climbed to his feet—just in time for the Pels and the five Order Adepts to catch up. They must have known better than to ask if the three were alright.

“We need a proper door,” he said, “or we’re never getting in. That’s Emissary-grade Arcara, strengthened by the authority of Talock himself.”

‘Oh, I was waiting for this. Time for Phasoné to prove her worth.’ A white glow erupted behind Vayra, shining over the nine of them. Phasoné appeared, shimmering and ghostly as ever. “It’s a good thing I know where the door is! Follow me, if you please.”

She leapt off the side of the root, and Vayra had no choice but to chase after her.