When they returned to their quarters after the day’s fights, Vayra was the last to set foot inside the apartment.

Their outer wall had been repaired hastily with wood and tarp, but Vayra didn’t mind. It still gave them privacy, and it wasn’t cool enough outside to necessitate proper insulation. She wanted to sink into the chairs or couch and relax, or even just flop down on the floor and splay her arms out.

But as soon as she shut the door behind her, a parchment note tumbled off it. It nearly slipped through the gap under the door, but she bent down and snatched it up as quickly as she could.

Lines of ink traced across it in neat, perfect handwriting, befitting of the best scribes of a God. But it had no seal or crest, and no plain introduction or explanation.

Her eyes drifted to the bottom line, where someone had signed a name: Myrrir.

Oh no.

‘Just hold it still, at least!’ Phasoné scolded. ‘Then I can read it through your eyes!’

By now, Glade and Nathariel were turning around as well. They faced her. “What’s that?” Nathariel asked.

“A…note?” Glade cocked his head to the side.

“Aye, of course it’s a note. What’s on it?”

“That is not what you asked.”

“It was…just on the back of the door?” Vayra held it up toward them, almost not wanting to read it.

Not almost. If she showed it to them, then she had a better excuse to not read it herself.

‘Oh, just turn it around!’ Phasoné complained. ‘I want to read it too!’

“That is also not…what Nathariel asked,” Glade muttered.

Taking a short breath, Vayra flipped the note around and forced herself to read through it carefully, from the very start to finish.

Mediator.

We need to talk. I come in peace. I propose a truce. I need to speak with you. I mean you no harm.

‘Well, he’s just saying the same thing over and over again!’ Phasoné exclaimed. ‘I’d have thought he’d be better at writing than that.’

“Do you want me to keep reading or not?” Vayra whispered.

‘I’m using your eyes anyway.’

Vayra shook her head and kept reading.

I don’t know how to make you trust me, or if such a thing is possible, but I have reason to believe that there is a serious threat to your existence. They are constructing a weapon.

Meet me tonight at the main entrance to the arena. Please, at least let me have this one chance to speak with you.

* Myrrir

“He had plenty of chances to speak with me,” Vayra whispered. She rubbed her shoulder, running her flesh and blood fingers along the boundary between her arm stump and mechanical limb. “He didn’t take them.”

She passed the note to Glade, then walked past in a hurry and dropped herself down on the couch. It hadn’t been repaired since the assassination attempt, and one of its legs had fallen off. If she tried to sit upright, the awkward lean of the couch made it just slightly uncomfortable, but if she let herself match the lean and soak into the fabric, it wasn’t so bad.

“It’s probably another trap,” she said. “I’m not indulging him.”

“He is still a Commodore,” Glade pointed out, walking over to her and sitting on a chair on the other side of the room. “Nathariel alone could defeat him. You could likely defeat him, if you chose to. Even if it is a trap, you do not have to go alone, and he poses very little threat to us. He knows this as well.”

Nathariel prowled over and snatched the note out of Glade’s hands, then skimmed it quickly. “Aye, and if he is being honest, it will save you a great deal of trouble.”

‘Maybe he is being honest,’ said Phasoné. ‘No one writes a letter like that, doubling over everything they’ve said in terrified honesty, except people who are being honest.’

“Nobody except for good liars,” she muttered. “It’s the principle of it. There’s no reason he’d do this. He’s evil and ambitious.” She bent over and placed her hand on her thigh, where her skin met metal and wood. “I’m not going.”

“He could be trying to prevent you from walking into a trap, so he could take you for himself and attain the glory,” Phasoné said in a voice everyone could hear—while Vayra had been speaking, the Goddess had manifested in the real world. “No sense in letting someone else claim the prize he wanted.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

She inhaled slowly, and, with no rebuttal coming to mind, instead said, “You came out?”

“I wasn’t just going to stay trapped in your mind while I had comments everyone needed to hear. But that’s dodging the point—I can still read your thoughts, even out here. You can’t run from this one.”

“Watch me. I learned my lesson. Don’t need to face him and pointlessly hurt myself. Maybe I’ll lose another limb or end up with another shadowthorn in my gut.”

“Vayra, you’re being unreasonable.”

“Me? Everyone else is insisting I face the…the guy responsible for most of my torment these past few months and just…let him talk? No thanks.”

“If you believe he’s responsible, then what is Nilsenir? What is Karmion?”

“They’re Gods,” Vayra spat.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Ladies,” Nathariel said, stepping between Vayra and the ghostly white projection of Phasoné. “Quit the bickering for a second.”

“Pet your cat,” Phasoné whispered, tilting her head toward Adair, who crawled around on the couch beside her. “And just listen.”

“How about this?” said Glade. “Nathariel and I will go first. We will meet him, and we will determine if there is a threat, and then you can come down when you feel that it is safe?”

“I—” Vayra picked up Adair and placed him on her lap. “Alright. Alright. I’ll do it, but…the moment he tries anything…I’m not going to restrain myself.” She was about to say that she would slip away and disappear, but that wasn’t right. She knew it wasn’t. She’d already destroyed a Commodore—Phasoné’s brother—and she could definitely defeat Myrrir. “I’ll use the Mediator form and I’ll destroy him. He will not get away from us this time.”

image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f3a882_2bcdeab6626a49c1bc2fa21d230a67c6~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_560,h_281,al_c,lg_1,q_85,enc_auto/ship%20better.png]

The arena’s main entryway was tall, but Vayra climbed its edges with ease. She slotted her boots into the rough stone bricks and pushed herself from ledge to ledge, ascending up the interior of the frame. The gate was open, even so late in the evening—the sun had set and a chunk of crust blocked most of the starlight and planetlight. Its two massive doors yawned open, and the exterior portcullis clung to the upper arch of the gate, polished steel flickering in the lanternlight.

Vayra climbed behind the door, staying out of sight. She could’ve used techniques to climb faster, but she was also maintaining a veil.

Her spiritual perception was vastly limited by a veil. Without proper cycling patterns, she couldn’t stretch her senses out as far as she would’ve liked—only a ten-foot diameter around herself.

But at least with a veil active, she could evade Myrrir’s detection and keep herself out of a trap. If something was going to happen, she could make a long-distance informed, rational decision.

Hopefully.

When the doorway began sloping inward and her grip started slipping, she jumped over to the back of the wooden gate and hauled herself up to the top. The entire door was four feet thick—plenty of room to lay down on top of it and observe the meeting ten storeys below.

Nathariel and Glade walked side-by-side on the opposite side of the gate. Vayra peered over the edge of the gate, her head mostly hidden.

Myrrir wasn’t there.

There were only a few clusters of late-night pedestrians milling about, a few God-heirs returning from a day in the port city, and a steady stream of wagons importing fresh food into the arena. It wasn’t as if they were completely out in the open, but if Myrrir was here, she’d see him right away.

Maybe someone set her up. Maybe it was a prank, and Myrrir wouldn’t actually turn up.

‘That’s what you wish…’ Phasoné said. A moment later, she manifested a physical form beside Vayra. She stayed back far enough that her glowing form wouldn’t be visible to anyone looking up from the ground level. “But who else knows of your feud with Myrrir? The gods? I can’t imagine any of them doing a ‘prank’.”

“You’re right,” Vayra whispered. “But Myrrir couldn’t have handwriting that neat, could he? It seems impossible.”

“Why wouldn’t he? He’s had hundreds of years to perfect his form and style, and he would’ve had access to the best tutors his father’s money could buy. If he didn’t have neat handwriting, it’d reflect poorly on the entire family whenever he sent a letter. In fact, the cleanliness of the note is evidence that it was sent by him.”

Vayra shut her eyes and recalled her own brother’s handwriting. It was horrible and scratchy. Not that either of them really had time to practice writing, and they’d just copied what they’d seen in Old Uckoe’s books.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Vayra whispered. “But don’t let it go to your head, Phas. Just this time.”

“We’ll see…” Phasoné crossed her arms. “Will you admit that I was right about Myrrir?”

“Not until I see him with my own eyes and listen in on the conversation, and until he doesn’t go on an honour-bound kidnapping quest.”

Phasoné snorted. “Perhaps it’s too soon.”

“Oh, it’s too soon, Phas.” Vayra shook her head. “Look, I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. Didn’t mean to squabble, and especially not in front of the others. But…”

“I played my part in that, too,” Phasoné whispered. “So…”

“You’re good in my eyes,” Vayra said. She reached out and grabbed Phasoné’s ghostly hand, then locked their fingers together. “But if Myrrir goes crazy, then I get to tell you ‘I told you so,” and you just have to suck it up.”

“You’re such a—”

“Deal?”

“Yes, yes,” Phasoné groaned. “What do I get if you’re wrong, though?”

“Uh…hugs and kisses?” Vayra rolled her lips inward. “I mean, in the romantic sense, too?” She scratched the back of her head with her other hand. “But those aren’t contingent on you being right…”

Phasoné rolled her eyes and opened her mouth slightly, then pointed ahead. “Look.”

Turning her attention forward again, Vayra inched to the edge of the doorway and peered down into the vestibule, where Glade and Nathariel waited.

A figure approached them. He wore a hooded cloak, but spiky Stellacovan glass hair still left a crown-like impression under the hood. Beneath his cloak, glimpses of golden armour peered through.

It was him.

“Good…evening,” he said.

Vayra strained her ears, using her enhanced Commodore body to pick up on the voices. It wasn’t as effective as using her enhanced vision; she had trouble targeting it and picking out voices, but when there weren’t very many people around, and when few of them were even talking at all, she caught snippets.

“Myrrir,” said Glade, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Why are you here?” Nathariel demanded.

“This…conversation was easier in my head,” Myrrir said.

He sounded…unsure. Confused.

Vayra pulled her hand away from Phasoné’s and gripped the edge of the door with certainty. She needed to know what he’d say next. He had to have a plan. He’d ask where she was and try to trap her.

Myrrir pulled back his hood, then shut his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”