Vayra sprinted back across the rooftops of Shatterport, but this time, she used her Bracing technique—Astral Shroud.

It wasn’t like most full-body Bracing techniques; it focussed only on speed and agility. She flashed from rooftop to rooftop with a cloak of white fire burning around her. It was a mixture of starlight and Arcara, and it burned with the energy and heat of the stars, but she exerted control over it. It couldn’t hurt her or burn her haversack and clothes—unless she allowed it to.

But she didn’t. She had enough control.

She darted into a shaded strip of the city. The shattered crust of the planet overhead blocked the sunlight, casting sections of the central floating island in shade. In the direct sunlight, her Astral Shroud might have looked like just a glint of metal on the rooftop—at least from a distance—but in the shade, she was like a star shooting across the city.

It wasn’t subtle, but if anyone hadn’t heard she was here yet, they’d been living under a rock.

The Shatterport guards trailed behind, in the streets and on the rooftops, but they couldn’t keep up with Vayra while she had her Shroud active. As she leapt over buildings and jumped between rooftops, they rescinded into the distance, then disappeared altogether.

Shatterport only covered a small portion of the floating island. The closer they got to the edge of the city, the shorter and stubbier the buildings got, until finally, they faded completely into the wilderness of the island. Deciduous trees quivered in the wind, their leaves golden or red.

White brick roads paved trails through the autumn forest, and the largest trail of all—wide enough to fit four wagons or carriages across it—led straight toward the arena. Vayra sprinted along it, weaving between wagons, trotting horses, and just mortals on foot. Some were vendors, trying to peddle wares to the contestants and viewers, and some were just intrigued guests who wanted to see how the tournament would progress. But they had come from all across the galaxy.

The arena rose up above the treeline like a mountain range. At the moment, rays of light poured down on it from outside, making its round outer walls glow and shine like a distant wall of pearl.

The arena was a miniature city of its own, with ramshackle buildings creeping up its walls like vines and accumulating at its base like snowdrifts—massive, brown snowdrifts of rotting wood, tarp, and shingles.

The arena itself was an enormous ring, with enough risers to fit hundreds of thousands—and possibly even millions—of viewers. They weren’t full yet, but some people had already staked out spots in the stands, and tent cities were forming.

Vayra had never had so many people watching her fight before.

‘Good thing most of them hate you and will cheer for your demise,’ Phasoné said.

“Good thing?” Vayra exclaimed as she sprinted along the road, still using the Astral Shroud. Her mana was dwindling, but she could hold it a little longer.

‘Well, if they were on your side, there’d be more pressure to perform.’

“I…I suppose. But the pressure’s gonna be there regardless.” Vayra leapt over a wagon train, then slipped between a pair of mortal noblemen trotting on horses. “I have to perform, and we have to be perfect.”

‘I wouldn’t say you have to be perfect, but…’

“But you can’t deny that there’s a lot riding on this.”

‘Correct.’

When Vayra had burnt through three quarters of her mana, she cut off all her techniques and dropped down to a walking speed—right outside the arena walls. She had to crane her neck upward to see the top of the arena’s outer walls.

The arena had a main entrance. It was a ten-storey tall portcullis gate, with city guards in blue jade armour standing at the edges. Two enormous statues flanked it, each holding out a hand and an Arcara-suspended sphere.

But Vayra wasn’t taking the proper entrance.

She climbed the outside of the arena, jumping between buildings and hovels and fabric awnings. The contestants’ quarters were near the top of the arena, and they were a part of the arena itself. Vayra could have taken the inside route, but this way, she didn’t have to dodge any other contestants or foot traffic. And the other ways weren’t as fun.

After a few minutes of climbing, she slipped into the arena through a hole in the wall and navigated through a hollow space between the outer wall and the inner wall. She scampered between boards and hauled herself through tight spaces, until she arrived at another crack in the wall that she’d scouted out earlier. She slipped through it.

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Vayra tumbled out into a dimly lit hallway. It was a section of the contestant’s quarters—a block of apartments and living spaces near the top of the arena for all the contestants to wait in before their battles began. The floor had rugs and carpet, and lanterns hung from the ceiling. Doors clung to the walls at even intervals, and behind them, Vayra sensed at least one presence, but sometimes two or three.

The majority were Captains—the best, most skilled, and strongest of their generation. But among them were stronger advisors. She felt the weight of Admirals and Grand Admirals in some rooms, too.

Vayra ran up to the third level of the contestants’ quarters and navigated to a room on the far wing of the complex. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Vayra!” Glade exclaimed as soon as she stepped inside. “Where were you?”

“Just…scouting the harbour,” she replied, panting. “King Tallerion has arrived.”

“And just in time,” Nathariel grumbled. “The opening ceremony is tomorrow.”

Vayra stepped into the center of the room and turned around in a slow circle. Their apartment had a central living room with a small window on the far wall. The living room was only about five paces across, but two bedrooms branched off it—each barely a closet with a hammock in them. In theory, there was only room for two people (“If you only have two contestants, you only need two sleeping chambers,” the quarter managers had explained with a look of disdain plastered to their faces), but Nathariel slept in the living room. He’d pulled out a bedroll from his voidhorn and made do.

Vayra ran to the window and looked over the arena below. A three-mile wide ring of seats surrounded a seemingly tiny central arena. In actuality, it was still a thousand hundred feet across, but compared to the seating area, it looked like a coin at the center of a fruit bowl.

“How’s anyone gonna see anything?” Vayra asked.

“In the past,” Nathariel explained, “Atrous, the God of the Sun, has manipulated light to form a projection of the events.”

Sixteen towers lined the edge of the arena, looming over and watching down on the fight. Each displayed a colourful banner and a sigil. They were the High Pantheon’s personal watchtowers. The towers were the only structures in the arena not made of white stone—rather, the assorted colours and materials associated with their godly inhabitant.

Of course, Phasoné, a newly inaugurated Goddess, didn’t have a section—and she didn’t need one at the moment. Talock’s tower, a structure of wood, with thatched roofs and simple windows, now flew the flag of King Tallerion, in anticipation of his presence.

“Yeah, no pressure,” Vayra muttered.

“You are bleeding,” Glade commented, pointing at the thin slice along her back. His swordwyrm, a giant blade with a rusty, wyrm-infested hilt, hovered behind his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Yeah, I…ran into some guests at Shatterport,” she said.

“Guests?”

“Alright, assassins. But I’m fine. It’s just a nick, and I dealt with them. They were only Masters and Third Lieutenants.”

Nathariel rubbed his forehead. “They’re not going to stop. We need to be on our guard. From now on, no one leaves this room alone—and that includes me.”

Vayra shut her eyes and sighed, but she understood the logic. She might not be able to take private excursions to the city anymore, but it’d keep them safer.

She unclipped her cloak and tossed it over one of the living room’s chairs, then pulled open her haversack and retrieved a bandage. Her enhanced body’s healing would kick in soon, and she could have it mended within a half-hour, but she didn’t want to leak all over the floor during that time.

Once she cleaned herself up, she sat down on the chair. Every room received a supply of Stream water—even theirs—which dripped out of a pipe and pooled in a basin beside Vayra’s chair. She dipped her hand in it and absorbed mana from it.

Glade sat on the couch opposite of her, and Nathariel paced across the center of the floor. Phasoné manifested her physical form behind Vayra and leaned against the backrest of the chair.

For a few hours, they continued their afternoon routine. Nathariel laid out pamphlets of parchment, each detailing their potential opponents and their Paths, and they reviewed it, trying to get an idea of their potential opponents and the best ways to deal with them. Vayra tried to stay attentive.

With Phasoné’s help, she ingested more of the information than she probably would’ve otherwise—what the Goddess perceived, Vayra felt glimpses of and glimmers of. Their minds weren’t the same, and neither were their souls, but their link was stronger after the advancement to Captain.

Vayra had half-dozed-off by the time the sun set over the edge of the arena, so when someone pounded on the door, she leapt to her feet with a fright and cycled Arcara. She’d refilled her mana over the course of the day, and had plenty to use.

Glade drew his own smaller longsword, and Nathariel retrieved his Moulded Arcara spear. He crept to the door and pulled it open.

Two Redmarines and a man in a green coat stood outside. The Redmarines set Vayra’s heart at ease, and the green-coated man piqued her curiosity. He had no spirit potential, but he carried himself with importance.

He stepped inside the room and delivered a slight bow, then adjusted his tricorn hat and wig-scrolls. “Greetings, honoured Velaydian contestants. I am Mr. Barrow, the aide of King Tallerion, and he formally requests that you visit his tower in order to prepare for the opening ceremony tomorrow.”

“Pre—prepare?” Vayra tilted her head. That’s what they’d been doing for the past few days.

“Aye, madam,” said Mr. Barrow. “You are representatives of the Velaydian executive branch at the moment, and you must look the part. We will get you cleaned up and…” He motioned at both Glade and her. “...in appropriate formal attire. We cannot have our contestants looking like street rats.”

Vayra gulped.

“I don’t think he knows your history,” whispered Phasoné, still in physical form.

“There is nothing to worry about, madam,” Mr. Barrow said. “If you come with us, we will have everything set for you in no time at all.”