After ten days, Vayra had started to develop a new routine. She’d wake up every day and meditate for a little bit. She experimented with her Arcara while she meditated, pushing it in new patterns to see if anything helped, and she did her best to imagine it diffusing out of her channels.

That lasted for about a half-hour every day. When, inevitably, she got frustrated, she walked out onto the main deck and began the easier training. For the morning, she practiced with her pistol—first, firing it and reloading it as fast as she could, until it became second nature. Then, using it alongside her scythe.

She and Phasoné practiced pushing aside an enemy’s weapon, before drawing her own pistol and quickly using it. To practice best, she ended up sparring with Glade, though she never loaded the pistol or used the real scythe when facing him. From the depths of the cargo hold, they had produced a damaged oar, and the carpenters had fashioned a wooden blade for the scythe. That way, if she messed up, she wouldn’t kill Glade or cut a hole in the deck.

On the tenth day, after a brief sparring match with Glade (he won this time, but her ratio of wins-to-losses against him was improving), they flopped down on the forecastle deck, panting.

“I have never had to fight someone with a scythe before,” he said.

“Excuses, excuses.”

“I still won.”

“This time.” She nudged him. “One day, you won’t be able to stop me.”

“I mean that it will give you a slight edge against more experienced opponents.”

“Ah, yeah,” she muttered. “But I don’t imagine it will be enough. Didn’t help against the bounty hunter.” She tucked her pistol into her belt. “And I don’t suppose it will help against Myrrir.”

“Do you think he will still chase us?”

“I didn’t kill him,” she said. There hadn’t been a chance to; he’d escaped before her Mediator Form could destroy him. “I feel like he’ll be after us at some point. Which is why we need to keep moving.”

“You will be stuck on Muspellar for a while,” Glade said. “If you can convince Nathariel to train you, that is.”

“Well, at least Myrrir shouldn’t be able to track us. We’ll have to wait until he hears news about this, and that gives us time. Months, perhaps.”

“I hope—”

Before he could finish, the ship’s bell started to toll. “Planet!” a sailor yelled from the top of the foremast. “Planet ahead!”

As all hands rushed to their stations, Vayra and Glade ran back to the quarterdeck. She stopped at the front railing, watching the planet grow closer as best as she could through the wall of mist rising in front of the ship.

Ahead, an enormous sphere of smouldering embers grew out of the void. It was a lone planet with no moons and no ring.

The navigators had set out a map of the star system on their table, and they made measurements with calipers and jotted notes on scrap paper with quills. According to the map, Muspellar was far closer to the system’s star than most habitable worlds, and Vayra doubted the regions around its equator were habitable.

She looked forward again, staring at the planet again. Rivers of magma flowed away from the equator and snaked up the surface of the planet like it was a cracked marble. Near the poles, however, there was liquid water, and that was where the Stream connected—three branches to the north, and two to the south. Black clouds of ash and smoke wreathed the planet, and lightning crackled in them.

They approached the north pole on a slender branch, racing towards the surface of the world.

“How are we going to get past the bluecoats?” Vayra asked. “There will be bluecoats, right? Or Elderworld ships? If the planet is occupied by them.”

“I have a plan,” said Pels. He turned to one of the lieutenants and told him, “Take down the Velaydian sigil and bring up a Yellow Jack. Make sure all the gun ports are sealed, and get all the marines below deck. And bring Mr. Fjallersyn up to the quarterdeck.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant confirmed, then scampered away.

“The Yellow Jack,” Glade explained, “is the quarantine flag.”

Vayra raised her eyes. She thought she understood the plan. “Pels, you don’t think they’ll notice the ship?”

“The Harmony isn’t painted in traditional Velaydian colours,” he told her. “They’ll want to keep at a distance, and we’ll look like a simple merchant vessel whose crew came down with a nasty cold.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

She nodded. The golden ornaments wouldn’t be too obvious if there was little sunlight for them to reflect.

They met no opposition on the Stream, even as they descended through the atmosphere, but when they arrived at the base of it, in the steaming water of the surface ocean, Vayra spotted an Elderworld frigate to the west, its hull painted black and white, and a three-deck ship of the line to the east. The frigate spotted them immediately and approached.

By the time they reached the surface, they had the yellow checkered flag hoisted high on the mainmast. Mr. Fjallersyn, a carpenter with pointy ears and antlers, had been given a bicorne hat and a brass cone. He stood behind the wheel hub, looking bewildered but also determined.

The frigate furled its sails a quarter-mile from the Harmony and let itself drift slowly. Its gun ports were open, and Vayra could see the crew—and a large platoon of bluecoats—seething on the deck. If they attacked, the Harmony would be painfully unprepared to protect itself.

“Identify yourself, galleon!” someone from the frigate shouted, his voice amplified and distorted by a brass cone.

“We are the merchant vessel Seid’Narsyn Lakre,” Pels told Mr. Fjallersyn. “Tell them that, if you will.”

Mr. Fjallersyn shouted into the brass cone, but he spoke a foreign language.

“Perhaps one of their officers speaks Gatchben, but I find it unlikely,” Pels told Vayra. “Thankfully, Mr. Fjallersyn will help us convince them that we are from Gatchsworld, even if they do.”

She scrunched her eyebrows. “Why?”

“No Velaydian officer would ever speak a language other than Galactic Common,” Pels said. “It’ll help us sell the disguise, and they’ll leave us be as soon as they’re convinced.

“Are there any officers who speak Galactic Common aboard your ship?” the man on the Elderworld frigate yelled. “Bring them to your main deck immediately!”

After a second of shuffling, Mr. Fjallersyn passed Pels the brass cone. Again, Pels introduced themselves. Then, he added, “We are suffering from an infection of Brennen’s Fever! Please do not board, for your own sake!”

“What is your purpose here, Seid’Narsyn Lakre?”

“We have made an emergency stop to restock, and we will only send healthy sailors ashore!” For good measure, Pels coughed into the cone.

“Pels must have done a fair few smuggling jobs like this,” Vayra muttered to Glade.

He laid a hand on his sword, rubbing its pommel. “He knows a few tricks, it seems…”

“Glad they’re on our side.”

After a moment of deliberation, the Elderworld frigate announced, “You may pass, Seid’Narsyn Lakre! If we find that any of your sick sailors have come ashore, we will destroy your ship!”

“Thank you!” Pels shouted back. He lowered the cone, then turned back to Mr. Fjallersyn. “Wonderful performance. Full sail, everyone! Get us closer to the shore!”

The shore, as best as Vayra could see in the hazy volcanic haze, was a rigid and jagged wall of stone. If they sailed southeast, they would hit a cluster of lights. They headed southwest.

As they sailed, she stared at the frigate until it disappeared into the dark gray mist. For the moment, she saw no more ships, and that should have been a good thing. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach.

She looked ahead, searching for anywhere they could take shelter—a place where the waves wouldn’t smash them against the rocks. The Harmony turned to sail parallel to the shore. Vayra ran to the larboard railing and peered ahead.

After a few minutes of watching, her eyes felt tired. The air was hot and humid, and something in it made them itch slightly. The water steamed, and when she held her hand over it, she felt a faint, unpleasant heat.

She’d never truly felt a heat that was oppressive before today. The others must have noticed it, for sure, but they were used to noticing tropical heat.

As she wiped her forehead, she pointed up ahead of the ship. The rocky shore curved inwards, forming a small bay where the water was shallow and the wind was calm. “There!” she called. “It’ll be out of sight, and we won’t be smashed to bits on the rocks!”

Pels nodded, and he gave a string of orders. The coxswain spun the wheel and the crew adjusted the sails. As soon as they were safely within the bay, Pels gave the order to drop the anchors. A few seconds later, they latched onto the bottom of the sea, halting the ship.

“So, what’s the play?” Pels asked. He marched over to the navigator’s table and set a hand down on the corner, where a small map of Muspellar’s surface rested. “You have an entire planet to search through, and it doesn’t sound like this Nathariel fellow really wants to be found by anyone.”

“There has to be someone we can ask,” Vayra said. She looked at the map. It wasn’t very detailed, but Muspellar also wasn’t heavily populated, and there weren’t many cities to choose from. She located the village she had spotted earlier and tapped it. “We should head into town.”

“The Elderworlds are not fond of Nathariel, either,” said Glade. “We would be marking ourselves as enemies.”

Vayra rubbed her forehead and took a deep breath. It smelled faintly like sulfur, and she gagged. “Nathariel hates God-heirs, right?”

Glade nodded. “According to King Tallerion.”

“So if we make him think that there’s a God-heir here, he should come out and attack us, right?” Vayra hypothesized. “As soon as we lure him out, we make a plea to him.”

“If he doesn’t just strike you down,” Pels said. “I feel compelled to remind you that he has techniques which severely injured a full-powered Mediator.”

Vayra knew the risks, but she was running out of time. If she had to use her abilities, she’d end up cycling and pushing herself closer to advancement. “We just need to lure him out. Then, we can make our case. If he doesn’t listen, we’ll run.”

Glade bit his lip, but he didn’t protest. Pels shook his head. “To the rowboats, then? We’ll have to find a place to climb ashore…”