By the time they reached Shatterport, only a sliver of the sun peered over the horizon. The wharf lanterns flickered to life, and workers strode past in candlelight, carrying crates or rolling barrels. Cargo ships sloshed in and out of berths as quickly as the crews could unload and load them, and wagons rushed in and out of the city in orderly, neat lines.

Vayra, Nathariel, and Glade walked along the wharf in a tight cluster, approaching the flotilla of Velaydian warships still anchored in port. She tried to look like she belonged, but if anyone had been following the tournament, they’d recognize her.

And if they hadn’t been, the three of them would still stand out as God-heirs. They didn’t wear the plain, tattered rags of dock workers.

But travelling to their ship wasn’t wrong or against the rules. As long as the Harmony made it into port safe and sound, they’d be ready to set off.

When they reached the Velaydian piers, when they stepped over a threshold from cobblestone to rotted wood, a group of bluecoats and Shattered Moon guards intercepted them. The guards fanned out into a wide line, and the bluecoats stood behind them—looking intimidating, and carrying their muskets, but not posing nearly as much of a threat.

“This area of the dock is off limits,” one of the guards said. “Please turn back and return to the city.”

Vayra pulled down the hood of her cloak and stepped forward. “Apologies, but we need to get to our ship. I left some equipment offworld, and I would like to retrieve it.” That, of course, was a lie.

“Contestants are allowed to leave the planet mid-tournament,” Nathariel provided. “So long as they return in time for their next fight, or, at their own peril, risk forfeiting the match.”

The guards didn’t flinch, but they did stay silent for a few seconds. Finally, the leader, a man with a single epaulet over his blue jade armour, stepped forward. “I did not recognize the Velaydian team. Forgive me. You may pass.”

Vayra blinked a few times. “I was…expecting more resistance.”

“We are here to maintain the peace, ma’am,” said the guard.

Bluecoats weren’t, but that was beside the question. They must have been for support, or otherwise to observe the Velaydian fleet and ensure that they didn’t act out of turn.

“Just making sure no fights break out, and that no rogue contestants seek to harm a ship or a soul outside the arena on this consecrated ground,” the guard continued. He swept his arm to the side, holding his glaive up in the crook of his elbow. The bluecoats and subordinate guards stepped to the sides, providing a channel for Vayra and the others to pass through.

She, Glade, and Nathariel walked down the pier, then crossed over a walkway to a separate batch of juts, where the lower-rated Velaydian ships bobbed up and down—not just the men of war.

“See the Harmony anywhere?” she whispered.

A bunch of small frigates in Velaydian colours—beiges and blues, with black ornaments and brown hulls—waited at the docks, ready to protect the king’s fleet and deploy quickly into the waves if needed. The Harmony, a galleon, would be about their size, but its golden ornaments and lighter-coloured hull would stand out.

“No, but I know who does,” Glade said, then pointed out along the pier at a pair of redmarines who walked in the opposite direction.

One was an elf, and the other was a dwarf, and they were too busy staring at each other to notice Vayra and Glade walking the opposite direction.

“So you agree that a sandwich is something between bread, yes?” the dwarf, Mr. Tressdott asked.

“Yes, two slices of bread,” Mr. Kertogg, the elf, countered. “Slices, not a half-cut bun or a folded piece of bread. Wrapping a sausage in a single piece of bread doesn’t make it a sandwich.”

“Pedantics.”

“It’s a single piece of bread versus two slices of bread. It absolutely isn’t!”

“Just because you pointy-ears can’t comprehend the full glory of a wiener in a bun—”

“Gentlemen,” Nathariel said, approaching the two. “Let’s keep it down, shall we?”

Vayra ran to catch up, then asked, “Where is the Harmony?”

“It’s…at the end of the row,” Mr. Kertogg said sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “Now, this cave-dweller was supposed to be keeping his eyes out for you. This is on him, not me!”

The dwarf crossed his arms. “Captain Pels specifically told you to, with your elf eyes and all.”

“I thought your kind were supposed to see well in the dark!”

“There are lanterns all around.”

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“We are heading to the ship,” Glade said, marching down the pier. “If you two aren’t back aboard by the time we leave, you will be left behind.”

They ran down to the end of the pier, as far as they could go, until the Harmony’s bowsprit peered out between a pair of frigates. The jib was still half-raised, ready to catch the wind, and the crew waited at the railings, still in sailing positions.

Vayra sprinted up the gangway first, followed closely by Glade and Nathariel, then, lastly, the two marines.

When they reached the main deck, Captain Pels was waiting. He stood at the base of the quarterdeck stairs, his coat open, a hand resting on the grip of his pistol. “Where are we heading? What’s the plan?”

“How well can you track a ship along the Stream without them noticing?” Vayra asked. “We’re going to follow Karmion’s flagship.”

Pels raised his eyebrows. “A little dangerous, no? Are you going to face him once and for all? You’ve…advanced? However you folk call it?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “We need to know if he’s making a weapon.”

“A Mediator-slaying weapon,” Nathariel added.

“I can track his ship,” Pels said. “If we want to stay out of sight, we’ll have to keep our distance. We’ll keep the lights dark. But I’ll need your eyes. Or the Admiral’s. Whoever has better sight.”

“That would be either Vayra or Glade,” Nathariel said.

“Us?” Glade tilted his head.

“Aye. Nathariel reached up and tapped his left eye. Though it looked mostly normal, it let off a glassy, handbell-like chime when he tapped it, and orange sparks fell off. It was Moulded Arcara. “Had this guy replaced long ago, and my vision has never been the same since. It’s about as good as a Captain’s.”

Vayra nodded. “Alright. Glade and I will watch from the bow?”

“Just give us directions.” Pels reached up and scratched the stubble on his chin, then tucked his head down into his neck-wrap. Officers were supposed to be clean-shaven, after all. “Karmion won’t sense us?”

‘Not on the Stream, he won’t,’ Phasoné said. ‘The Stream muddles one’s senses, even a God’s.’

“According to Phasoné, we’ll be fine,” Vayra provided.

‘You don’t have to qualify it like that…’

“Just covering myself in case you’re wrong.” She could practically imagine the Goddess rolling her eyes.

‘If, somehow, he has gained an ability to pick you out among the spiritual currents of the Stream, we’ll be dead, and you won’t get to complain.’

“Or that. Doesn’t sound likely.”

Vayra and Glade ran to the bow, Nathariel stayed midships, and Captain Pels returned to the stern. The ship pulled away from the berth and sailed out halfway across the harbour before heaving to among a cluster of enormous three-deck spice haulers. Unless anyone was looking closely, they wouldn’t see the Harmony, but Vayra and Glade had a perfect view across the harbour.

In the evening, the spirit-water basin clinging to the edge of the continent-sized floating island glowed faintly, making every ship’s hull glow a faint blue. In the distance, the water rushed off the edge of the island, turning to a mist at the edge of the sea, but the Stream replaced any water that flowed away.

Of the many ships in the harbour, she and Glade picked out Karmion’s Cardinal Arrant immediately. It was the only Elderworld warship with blue ornaments on its stern windows—spelling out its name, but also boasting about who owned it. It was a three-decked first-rate ship, with black and white stripes along its flanks and beige gun ports. Its masts stood twice the height of its hull, each bearing an Elderworld flag and a half-unfurled mainsail.

The Cardinal Arrant pulled out of its berth and sailed across the harbour, making its routine nightly cruise.

“Myrrir was right about that, then,” said Glade.

“A small mercy,” Vayra replied. “We can follow him, but how will we detect if he’s making a weapon?”

“How did Myrrir do it?”

“If he did.”

‘He watched and observed carefully,’ Phasoné said. ‘The Stream doesn’t interfere with your spiritual sight. And Arcara flashes look different in spiritual sight. If he’s forging something, you’ll notice.’

The Cardinal Arrant approached the Stream directly, catching the wind and sailing across the harbour. Its Streamrunning fins dipped, and its prow pushed onto the frayed end of the Stream, preparing to ascend into the heavens.

“Pels!” Vayra called. “Follow them! That ship! The first rate man of war heading for the Stream!” Nathariel relayed her words back to the quarterdeck. The Harmony’s sails angled back into the wind, and the galleon sloshed out of cover, chasing behind.

The Harmony was generally faster, but if the Cardinal Arrant made it to the Stream too far ahead of them, it’d accelerate to intergalactic speeds before Vayra could even glimpse it.

But that’s why they had Captain Pels.

The Harmony’s crew dropped the sails entirely, and though the ship groaned, it sloshed off across the harbour faster than any regular ship could. When they reached the Stream’s base, the Cardinal Arrant rode the enormous river up through the atmosphere, but it had only gotten a few miles ahead.

Pels and the crew dropped the Harmony’s Streamrunning fins, catching the currents of rushing spirit water and setting them off quickly.

But if they travelled too quickly, they’d overtake the Cardinal Arrant, and it’d all be for nothing.

“Hold up!” Glade called, likely having the same idea. “Reef the sails slightly! Aim for twenty teraknots!”

The journey up the Stream, through the atmosphere of the Shattered Moon, was rough and bumpy—rougher than usual. The Stream’s connection to the Shattered Moon was withering over the years, and it’d only been getting worse lately.

But when they passed the outer shell of the planet’s broken crust, the Stream re-congealed into a cohesive mass. The Gossamyr sails carried them faster than any other substance, and though the Harmony wasn’t sailing at its top speed, the stars still whipped into a blur around them.

Vayra kept her eyes locked on the Cardinal Arrant, watching for any sign of Arcara. She tensed the muscles around her eyes, activating her spiritual sight. The Stream glowed and whirled below her, like a road passing at high speeds, but Karmion’s warship shone a clear, bright blue.

And then its windows began flashing.