It was midnight, and Vayra should have been sleeping, but there was no way she could go to sleep now. Besides, she wouldn’t have another fight for a few days, and with an advancement to Commodore, she was feeling more refreshed than ever.

No better reason to take Phasoné up on her offer.

“You know where your mother will be?” Vayra whispered. She still knelt on the risers, staring out across the empty nighttime arena. There was no sense of warning, no threat, coming from the apartment anymore. Glade and Nathariel would’ve dealt with the others handily.

It may have been a genuine assassination attempt, if Phasoné’s mother, Brannûl, thought a single Commodore would be enough to destroy them. But chances were, it was a prodding of their defenses. A test.

‘I have my guesses,’ said Phasoné. ‘Head to her tower—the tall one with the pagoda eaves and open gables.’

“On it.”

Vayra cast one more glance back at the contestants’ quarters. Glade and Nathariel stood on the threshold between the arena and the apartment, watching her from the hole in the wall.

“Is it…a great idea to go on our own?” Vayra whispered. “We did kinda promise them…”

‘As if Nathariel, an Admiral, could do anything against my mother.’

“True, but…then we’re just delivering ourselves to her. For what? To gloat?”

‘To threaten her.’

Vayra opened her mouth and raised a finger, then shut it again. “Uh…pardon?”

‘I know you heard me. She won’t kill us, not until we reach Admiral or Grand Admiral or whatever rank their honour dictates they’d feel fine killing us at. Karmion would punish her, no doubt, but she won’t harm her reputation in such a way.’

“But threatening her? Is that a good idea? She’ll send more assassins after us.”

‘And we’ll keep advancing. She has exponentially fewer Commodores than Captains, and even less Admirals or Grand Admirals.’

“Are we…going to gain anything out of this?”

‘Do you want her to keep prodding us and keep trying her luck, or do you want her to back off? We can convince her to back off.’

Vayra nodded. That made enough sense. She sprinted up the risers and to the outer ring of the arena, then streamed along the edge of it, aiming for Brannûl’s tower.

~ ~ ~

“What is she doing?” Glade whispered, watching her sprint up to the edge of the arena. “She won.”

“I imagine she has some unfinished business,” Nathariel said. “She and Phasoné.”

“We cannot let them go on their own. We agreed it was a bad idea.”

“Aye, but the likelihood of another attack happening so soon is slim, and even if it did, this apartment would be the target.” Nathariel crossed his arms. “You will need to keep pace with her. Focus on your advancement, and reach Commodore before she gets back.”

Glade delivered a courteous nod, then again, drew on the same feeling that had been bubbling up inside him before. It doubled, now, and took a more aggressive form, and when he shut it down, a faint resonance trembled within him.

Just needed to pinpoint it.

Taking a few steps back from the damaged wall, he brushed off his pants, then crossed his legs and dropped down on the floor in a cross-legged sitting position.

“I am…useless?”

Immediately, Nathariel flicked the back of Glade’s head in annoyance.

“Apologies,” Glade said, recalling the proper format of the revelation that the others had spoken it in. “I am not useful.”

But both times, his soul and body refused to resonate, and there wasn’t even a faint chill. That was further away from the revelation.

“I didn’t flick you for that,” Nathariel grumbled. “Unless that was truly your revelation, you should keep away from that line of thought. You will give yourself blockages and impair your growth, and we still need you to reach Grand Admiral at a record pace.”

Glade sighed. “I just thought it might…be closer.”

“What you are feeling is a clash between who you think you are, and who you know you are.” Nathariel crossed his arms. “Do you think Vayra was destined to be the Mediator from birth, and that there was no other way around it?”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“Well—”

“That’s not how the Mediator works,” Nathariel shook his head. “Not how the Stream picks it. There are a set of candidates, determined by their actions in their lives. The more courageous, striving, and determined someone is, the more likely they are to be a candidate. The first person to accept their candidacy when the previous Mediator dies is the next person to become the Mediator.”

“Vayra…did not strike me as determined when I first met her.”

Nathariel chuckled. “Determined for a different quest. It saw something in her, though, deep down, and it gave her the chance. But to say it was entirely preconceived would be an abject lie. She didn’t have a presence in Fate until she accepted her powers, but even then, her future wasn’t set.”

“How does that apply to me?”

“You thought your destiny was to die for the Order, whether in the service of the Mediator or not.”

Glade shut his eyes, then looked away from Nathariel. A pang of embarrassment spiked through him. Nathariel had seen through him so easily.

There was no turning back now.

“But I don’t have a destiny…” Glade breathed.

An invisible, soundless chime poured through his core and body, then rolled up to his mind and rattled in his head, bringing with it a sense of calm and peace. It was like a massive gong had just been rung beside him, and he was now dealing with the aftermath shaking his body.

“Very good,” Nathariel said. “Let the Arcara do its job.”

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Myrrir sat alone in the contestants’ quarters, mulling about in the darkness. He’d heard the sound of fighting outside—and how could he not have?—but there was nothing he could do. Despite the pact of nonviolence, there had been fights breaking out in the contestants’ quarters almost nightly. They just tried to keep it quiet. That is, until they slammed each other into the wall and made the whole place shudder.

He crossed his arms and ignored the thundering.

The first fight was supposed to make him feel better. He’d won quickly, with no margin of error, and not even a risk of mistake. No one had said anything. Not even his own father had paid him a visit yet.

This was supposed to be for the sake of Father, right?

He grimaced, then stood up and immediately turned away from the window, but he caught a flash of white light in the corner of his vision, and it was enough to make him rethink. He took a half-step back toward the glass, then shook his head.

“There is no need for this, Myrrir,” came a voice from the edge of the room, from a dark shadow hanging across the corner like a draped blanket. Myrrir’s peak Captain-stage eyes broke the shadows instantly.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

“You could have given up on this life.”

He whirled around, facing a different corner. There hanged the corpse of Tye, a noose around his neck, his old body rotting and maggoty. His eyes had been picked clean by seagulls and his skin flaked off, and his head was cocked to the side the same way any hanging victim would be.

“You’re gone,” Myrrir muttered, then slapped the side of his head. “You died.”

He blinked rapidly, and the apparition disappeared. Gone, like it was never there. When he tried to remember the details, they slipped from his mind like dry sand.

He was going mad. There was no two ways about it.

But he could only think of one way to make it better. He’d visit his father and demand recognition once more. Demand at least a comment on the last fight.

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Vayra reached Brannûl’s tower in a matter of minutes. She jumped down onto the arena’s perimeter walkway, then approached the tower’s side entrance—much like the entrance into Altrous’ tower.

Two guards stood at the entrance, and they seemed to both be around the Commodore stage, judging by the weight of their spirits. She kept herself veiled, and when she approached, she stayed at the edge of the perimeter walkway, shaded and sheltered by a stone bulwark on each side. She’d already tucked her starry scarf into her breeches so it wouldn’t shine and attract attention.

The Commodores wouldn’t notice her until she got closer. But the Goddess who owned the tower?

‘We’re strong enough. Brannûl won’t notice us until we get much closer.’

You’re sure? Vayra shot back mentally.

‘Unless we break our veil and attack them.’

Then we won’t do that.

Vayra pressed her back against the bulwark behind her. The stone ledge was taller than her, and it blocked all the incoming orange planetlight. They needed to get the guards to back off, or to just look away for a few seconds.

They’re not going to fall for the old…throwing a rock off into the distance trick?

‘I doubt it. They’ll just sense that it’s not a big threat.’

Vayra resisted the urge to curse under her breath. Then we climb the tower. From the outside.

Before, climbing a tower would still have made her breathe hard and fast, and it would have broken her veil, but now? She had better Arcara control than ever, especially at the Commodore stage. She could hold it in place with her will for a short time, regardless of her breathing technique.

She scampered up the side of the bulwark as quickly as she could, the soft soles of her boots only rustling against the wall like wind. She rolled over the top of the bulwark and landed on the outward-sloping face of the arena’s outer wall. Pressing her stomach to the roof, she crawled, navigating along the roof and approaching the tower.

When she reached the edge of the tower, she navigated to its back side. It was about as wide as a ship of the line, and much taller, and though it had plenty of open walls and exposed windows, she could climb up its exterior with ease—there were ornaments for easy handholds and ledges to pause on.

Once she couldn’t see the guards anymore, she started to climb, hauling herself up the outside of the tower. She passed offices and sleeping quarters for Brannûl’s staff, as well as her God-heirs who weren’t participating in the tournament. There were no windows; the wind blew straight through the tower, a constant rush and blast.

But none of them would see her. She kept to the edges and moved quickly. Her boots made dull thuds at most, and her fingers barely sounded at all when she grasped the ledges.

When she was three-quarters of the way to the top, she paused on a ledge, then slipped through an opening in the wall. Inside was an empty hallway, and on the other side, a staircase.

‘Take it to the top,’ Phasoné commented. ‘And you’ll find Brannûl.’