“Remember, Vayra, you’re a Commodore now,” said Nathariel, standing beside her as she prepared to step out the gates and into the arena. King Tallerion’s aide stood a few steps behind, as well as a few Redmarines.

It was time for her next fight, and she couldn’t be late.

“You have enhanced spiritual senses,” Natharield continued. “They’re there, and you can trust them, aye?”

“If only saying it made it so,” Vayra said. “It was easier when it was Phasoné telling me what to do.”

‘I still can, but at this stage of combat, me telling you won’t be fast enough, and even then, I can’t be precise enough,’ said Phasoné. ‘Yelling ‘duck’ inside your head won’t do much for you beyond getting you to duck. If there’s a musket shot coming for your right flank and you need to move an inch to the left, you won’t have time. You’ll need to sense it yourself.’

“You helped me dodge cannonballs.”

‘Correction: I anticipated where the cannonball would strike and I told you how to stay away from it.’

Vayra sighed. “Alright. I don’t have much time. I’ll try my best to rely on my senses, but…”

It didn’t feel perfectly natural yet. It didn’t feel perfectly natural at all. Her mind could tell her things, sure, but her senses didn’t feel like they were coming from her, not like it did with her eyes or ears or even the touch at the tips of her fingers.

“Then force yourself to rely on them,” Nathariel said. “Shut your eyes. Plug your ears. If you let it be, this sixth sense of the God-heirs can be your most powerful ally.”

“I can’t just…limit myself like that!” she exclaimed.

“It would be incredibly unwise to stake the fate of the Velaydian Kingdom on an experiment!” the aide exclaimed, stepping closer. The Redmarines took a few steps forward, too, matching the aide’s steps. “Is there no better time to practice?”

“If you want her to keep winning?” Nathariel shook his head. “She would be wise to advance her spiritual senses, and learn to trust them now.”

Vayra swallowed, but her mouth was dry. “I…” But Nathariel had never led her astray before, so why would he do so now? It would be a challenge, but it was better to do it now rather than later in the tournament.

And he was right. She needed to master her powers quickly.

She pulled her scarf off her neck and wrapped it around her eyes, then over her ears, keeping the pointed tips plastered to her head and blocking out most sounds. The starry fresco remained a window into space, and she couldn’t see past it. Whenever she took a step, the fabric let off a starry tinkle, like windchimes, and she could barely hear Nathariel when he said, “The gates are opening. Get out there and win.”

“No, wait,” the aide said. “This is a mistake. Don’t do it. You can’t win like this. Don’t do it.”

“Sorry,” Vayra said, barely hearing her own voice. “But I need to do this.”

She tried to sense the doors opening, but she couldn’t. So far, she’d only sensed something when it was a true danger to her—like Narrilé’s staff.

Well…only the staff. Since the assassination attempt and since she’d visited Brannûl, she hadn’t had a chance to properly use her spiritual senses. She’d tried, of course, but nothing seemed to work.

But she knew the gates were ahead, and that all she had to do was walk straight out. She reached up, patting her shoulder and feeling for Adair. He was still there, still holding on.

She felt the heat of the sunlight on her face when she stepped out into it, but the starry fabric blocked everything else. The crowd had already been cheering, and she could still hear it through the fabric—unless she purposely deafened herself, there was no way she wouldn’t hear that.

Karmion announced the fighters, but above the din of the crowd and with her scarf around her head, she couldn’t hear it. There’d be no hint at who her opponent was until she actually faced them.

A trumpet blast signalled the start of the fight, but it was barely a hum. Vayra summoned her scythe, drawing on the starlight from her blindfold. She presumed there was a gap in space, a tear where she could draw out starlight and form techniques out of. It posed no threat to her; she couldn’t sense it.

The air to her right fluttered and whooshed, and vibrations ran through the sand. An echo blared out in her spiritual senses, signalling a sharp object thrusting toward her, but she couldn’t pinpoint it.

She leapt back, sliding along the sand, and widened her stance. She analyzed the weight ahead of her, a directed tingle and pressure pressing back on her soul. It was about the same strength as hers: her opponent was a Commodore as well.

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The same sensation filled her, and she tried to focus in on it, but it was still only a wave of threat, not a pinpoint of direction. It wasn’t like her eyes—she wasn’t able to look at it and tell exactly where it was about to strike.

Swiping her scythe in front of her, she made a swirl of white light, deflecting whatever was racing at her. It made a metallic impact halfway around the circle. She activated the Astral Shroud and ducked to the side, relying on its speed to launch herself. Her spirit shouted out in warning, but she didn’t react to it fast enough. She could’ve, but she didn’t. It wasn’t as real, as present, as her other senses.

A blunt impact struck her in the forehead, and she recoiled back. She flew off her feet and skidded along the sand. Her heart thrummed, her hands trembled, and it took all her effort to maintain a proper cycling pattern. She darted to the left. It didn’t matter whether there was something to evade or not; she just needed to keep moving.

A bang ripped through the air, passing through her ear coverings, and something within her cried out in warning. Phasoné yelled, and a tingle prickled the back of her neck. She visualized a model of her surroundings without the help of her eyes.

And just in time for the Astral Shroud to carry her out of the way of the blast.

Her opponent was using a musket. It would explain the bayonet, the spear-like attacks, but also a ranged attack. But her perception of it hadn’t displayed as cohesive of a shot—rather, a beam. Almost like when she funnelled starlight through her pistol.

‘It’s Jarril Nell Varreson,’ Phasoné said. ‘He uses a musket, and he’s on a sun-Path.’

Again, Vayra’s senses panicked, and again, she hesitated. The beam blasted past her upper arm, tearing off the upper layer of skin. The concentrated sunlight might have burnt a regular human, but her phoenix flesh was resistant to heat.

And apparently, increasingly so, if it could resist sunlight. As a regular mortal, she doubted she’d have been able to survive a fall into a star, but now?

‘Not the time to worry about this!’ Phasoné exclaimed. ‘Duck!’

Three more pinpricks of warning seared toward her. She bent to the side. One grazed past her back, charring her robe and leaving a thin slice along the surface of her skin. She gritted her teeth, preparing to run and target the source of the blasts, when a fourth warning flared up in the back of her mind. A cold opal-steel alloy blade pressed up against her neck, leaving a slight gash, and she immediately deactivated her techniques, surrendering.

If this Jarril fellow chose, he could kill them. She could keep fighting. Maybe she had to.

But her spirit hadn’t cried out in warning as loud. It hadn’t been as deadly of a threat; he hadn’t swung the bayonet with as much intent.

A few seconds passed. He pulled the bayonet away, counting him as the winner of the first round, and they both retreated to opposite sides of the arena. Vayra pulled her blindfold up, searching for her gate, and for Nathariel and the aide.

She marched back across the arena and faced them. “I can’t do it,” she whispered to Nathariel. “If I lose the next round, I’ll be out. It’ll just be Glade, and I can’t clear the way for him.”

Nathariel put his hands on his hips. “All the more reason to keep pushing yourself.”

“This is folly!” the aide hissed. “King Tallerion demands that you fight with your utmost effort, lest you ridicule the kingdom!”

“Noted,” Nathariel said, flipping his hand dismissively. “Vayra, you now have all the impetus you need. God-heirs often advance in the heat of battle, and this is no different. Do you know why?”

“The stress, the internal need to win, is enough to push them over the edge. This is the same for you. Force yourself to win.”

Vayra shut her eyes. None of her advantages mattered. The Mediator Form wouldn’t help her perceive her surroundings, nor would Adair’s cat-like instincts.

All that would matter was raw determination.

Over the next half hour between rounds, she refilled her mana with a vat of Stream water, then fixed her blindfold and fastened it to her face. “I’m ready.” She walked out to the center of the arena a half-minute before the next round started.

‘Remember, Vayra,’ Phasoné said, ‘As they advance, God-heirs begin to perceive everything as a threat. Even the simplest action could have massive political ramifications. Even the slightest dishonour could mean something. A look the wrong way? They’re coming for you, trying to usurp your standing in the family. God-heirs have no friends, only threats. It makes harnessing your perceptions much easier.’

Vayra swallowed. “But—”

‘I’m not saying you have to do the same. But perceive your targets as a threat. Know your hazards. Know what could go wrong.’

Vayra tried to imagine Jerril. He was walking across the arena now.

But she could only imagine his musket, and at that, it only left a faint weight in the air, something pushing and manipulating the tingling sensation in her neck.

Then the next trumpet blast flared. She conjured her scythe, and when Jarril jabbed with her musket, she pinpointed where it would strike next. She was only a little too slow to react to the information, and instead of deflecting the bayonet blade, she deflected the barrel of the musket after the tip of the blade nicked her chest.

‘Close. Trust your senses, Vayra. They are as natural as your sight or your hearing, and they won’t lead you astray.’

Adair couldn’t help her reaction speed. It wasn’t an inability. It was a subconscious unwillingness.

But when she jumped between rooftops, she had a knowledge of her surroundings in her mind. When someone was following her, or looking at her, she got the same sense.

It was the same thing. As her other senses advanced, so did her sixth.

She ducked under a jab and fell onto her back, then pressed her hands down on the sand, and truly registered it. The sand? If she breathed it in, it could harm her. The moat at the edge of the arena? A drowning hazard, if she was unable to swim.

Jarril’s musket wasn’t the only threat. He could hit her, he could kick her.

He was standing in her way, and if she didn’t find out were he was, she would lose.

Her senses expanded, and a model of her surroundings grew. It encapsulated the whole arena, up to the edge of the moat.

At the center, she could picture Jarril clearly, swinging his musket and aiming a finishing jab with the bayonet.