When the king’s maidservants brought Vayra and Nathariel away into a small side chamber in the Velaydian tower, they left Glade alone.
Thought we weren’t supposed to do that.
But they were still within the safety of the Velaydian tower, and while it was marginal safety at best, the King’s guards and Order of Balance Adepts filled the tower. If assassins tried to reach them when they were this high, someone would see and raise the alarm.
Besides, Glade was still the only Disciple here, though he was more powerful than almost all of the current Order members.
He expected the King’s servants to arrive and drag him off at any moment, where they’d shove him in a fancy coat and formal attire, but he stood alone for a few minutes.
Then the door swung open. Two Elders with black coats and white hair marched in. One was a middle-aged woman with dark skin and pointy ears—Elder Gheita—and a broad man with a short, white beard—Elder Miin.
Glade bowed to them both, then glanced back at the swordwyrm. It still floated upright. “Bow,” Glade whispered to it, and it bent over to match him.
“Disciple,” Elder Miin said, folding his hands behind his back. Miin was only a Master, and he probably felt just as awkward as Glade did with the Order hierarchies, especially facing a Captain. “We are very proud of you, and we have received express permission from the entire Gray Council to promote you.”
But if these elders were feeling awkward about the situation, they weren’t showing it.
Glade raised his eyebrows. They wouldn’t be able to see his expression anyway.
“You have performed beyond all expectations,” Elder Gheita said, “and your old Elder would be very proud of you.”
Glade shut his eyes at the mention of Elder Eman-Fa. After a few shaky breaths, he said, “Thank you for the kind words, Elders.”
Elder Miin pushed aside his coat and unclipped a second longsword from his belt. He set it on the ground in front of Glade. “We would like to formally make you an Adept of the Order, and by presenting you this sword, we would ratify the act.”
Glade kept his head down in respect, but he reached out to the blade. The scabbard was simple wood and leather, but even without unsheathing it, he could tell the sword was going to be more important and special than that. The crossguard was silver steel, but filigree strips of Moulded Arcara ornamented it. It was yellow, either sun-aspect or forge-aspect, but both were vaguely compatible with his Path, now. It’d improve his connection with the sword beyond what he could ever have imagined.
He wrapped his fingers around the leatherbound hilt and drew the blade. Three feet of polished steel slipped out of the scabbard. It had a cutting edge on both sides of the blade, and a line of script ran down the fuller. In an ancient language of humans it read, Sun Splinter. That was the sword’s name.
“I am extremely grateful for this opportunity,” Glade said. He tucked the sword back into the scabbard. It wasn’t his yet, but he’d break it in like a new boot.
He glanced down at his hip, where his old sword hung. It was a simple Disciple’s sword, meant to be replaced or handed down—or more likely, turned to scraps and shards to fuel his techniques and feed the swordwyrm.
Glade let out a slow breath. Part of him hesitated, and a distant, deep slice wanted to reject the Order’s offer. It wanted him to say that he was on his own, and to strike off into the world on his own. He didn’t need their stuffy rules and tradition.
But the Order had raised him and gotten him this far. He could bend the rules. It satisfied the gnawing voice in the back of his mind.
“And I accept the promotion,” Glade said.
“Then by the power of the Stream and authority of the Velaydian Crown, you are an Adept,” said Elder Miin. “When you attach that sword to your belt, the promotion will be complete.”
Glade picked up the sword and buckled it to his belt, then set his hand on its hilt and stood up. The swordwyrm straightened up behind him, too. “Thank you, Elders,” Glade said.
“One day,” Gheita said, “I expect you to join us here.”
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Vayra stood in front of a wooden gate. The next day’s morning light shone through the cracks in the door, and a fanfare sounded out in the arena beyond.
She and Glade waited in a dark chamber with a couple hundred other God-heirs. Her neck was tingling from their presences, and she wasn’t nearly as used to the pressure as they were. They had been doing this their whole lives. Most of the other God-heirs stood in pairs, each holding flags of their own—with crests resembling their Godly families or their homeplanet’s sigils.
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She had donned a white robe with blue trim and a tight cumberbund. It wouldn’t get in the way while she fought, but it was still pristine and elegant, and probably the most expensive thing she’d ever worn. Unless, of course, she counted her mechanical arm and leg, but she didn’t. Her hair fell down her back in a long braid.
A cheer roared from outside the gates, overshadowing the fanfare. Vayra wanted to clamp her hands over her ears.
‘The sound will do constant damage to your hearing,’ Phasoné said inside her mind. ‘Make sure to cycle Essence to your head and keep it healing.’
“Is Adair doing alright?” Vayra whispered.
‘He’s clinging on in your corespace. He’s none the wiser.’
“You fed him this morning, right?”
‘Couldn’t forget. He was nipping at my heels the whole time.’
Vayra nodded. She hoped the mortals in the crowd had some sort of protection—or maybe they just didn’t care. It didn’t hurt, but she knew her ears would be ringing after the day was done.
With a shout, the arena guards heaved on the gate. It creaked, and the sand floor shifted. A slice of light spilled into the chamber, and the cheering doubled in strength.
She tightened her starsteel vambrace, then pushed her pistol further down into her cumberbund. There shouldn’t be any fighting today, but she couldn’t be too certain.
Glade stood beside her, holding a standard with a Velaydian flag hanging limply off it. He wore a new coat now, but it was still black. Golden embroidery clung to the lapels and ran down the back. His longsword hung at his side, glinting in the dim light, and the swordwyrm hovered behind him, its hilt wagging like a dog’s tail.
They were halfway down the line, in a non-prominent spot that wouldn’t get much attention—which was fine by Vayra. As soon as the gate swung open all the way, the line marched in unison. God-heirs marched out into the light, standing side-by-side. A few of them had small animals on their shoulders or walking at their sides.
As far as she understood, contracted beasts and animal companions were more than welcome at the tournament.
‘I don’t count as a contracted beast, do I?’ Phasoné asked.
“Close enough,” Vayra whispered. She stepped out into the sunlight with the rest of the line. “Same effect, right? Bent my core to a starlight aspect immediately?”
‘I suppose…’ Phasoné sighed. ‘Everyone here is the best of the best, and the luckiest of the lucky. They’re all the geniuses and monsters of their generations, with tricks up their sleeve and powerful abilities, just like your Mediator Form.’
“Pay attention to the crowd,” Vayra whispered. “See if you recognize anyone.”
The arena had ten gates in total, and there were nearly two-hundred God-heirs pouring out from each gate. She didn’t have exact numbers, but…there were more of them than she thought.
Not all of them had a Godly sponsor. Some had their sector governments sponsoring them, and some had powerful and wealthy mortal families backing them. They might have been descendants of a God and used the God’s realm of authority, but they didn’t use a God’s direct family’s Paths.
If she thought she was unique in crafting her own Path and picking and choosing her sources of technique inspiration, she was completely wrong.
The lines filed out into the center of the arena. From the sandy floor of the fighting pit, the crowd’s risers looked twice as high as they had from the contestants’ quarters. All the contestants formed up into neat, orderly squares, like an army preparing for war. Ten squares, each with a hundred different banners blowing in the slight breeze.
Vayra had expected a strong spiritual presence from each of the towers around the arena, for each of the Gods in the High Pantheon. They must have been veiling themselves; she felt nothing. But they had to be present.
She glanced up at the wood and thatch tower that would’ve once belonged to Talock. Nathariel was supposed to be her and Glade watching from there, but she couldn’t pick out anyone in particular past the tower’s viewing windows. King Tallerion and the Elders of the Order were supposed to be watching, too.
Once all the contestants stopped and found their places, a chorus of horns blasted another fanfare. Elderworld trumpeters stood on a distant platform, and there had to be hundreds of them. This time, the fanfare blared loud enough to overwhelm the crowd, and the cheers slowly died out.
All the contestants dropped to a knee, and Vayra and Glade did the same. No one had briefed them on protocol—probably in a bid to embarrass them—but they mimicked everyone around them. No need to stand out yet.
Their performance would speak for them.
Everyone’s gazes turned to Karmion’s tower. It was a spire of dark blue stone with sharp, jutting ornaments and Elderworld banners. A lone figure hovered overtop the tower, wearing a dark cloak with a hem of seafoam and rippling waves—that was what supported him. A tricorn hat barely clung to his head in the breeze, but the wind whisked away its plume of water entirely.
Karmion.
A flash of light rippled over the fighting ring of the arena, bathing all the contestants in a golden shimmer. A thirty-storey projection of Karmion hovered above them, amplified so the entire crowd could see.
They let off one last collective cheer at the sight of him, but the fanfare reached a peak, and the trumpeters played a long, loud tone, silencing the crowd for good.
‘That confirms it, then,’ Phasoné muttered. ‘Projection by the sun god.’
“Welcome, all, to the Skyclash tournament!” Karmion said, spreading his arms. “I’d like to thank you all for coming, and especially to extend a warm welcome to my brothers and sisters of the heavens. Lastly, I would extend a hearty welcome to our two guests from Velaydian space.”
Vayra’s eyes widened and her stomach dropped. A yellow spotlight shone down on them, illuminating them for the whole crowd to see.
Everyone was silent. She had expected some jeering, or maybe even a boo, but none came. They were too afraid of cutting off Karmion.
“I wish them…luck in this feeble attempt to show the galaxy their worth.” The spotlight cut out. “That is all.”
He glanced around, then smiled again. “The rules of the tournament are simple: the contestants will progress through a series of mass elimination tasks in order to whittle their numbers down. After each successful round, they will receive a prize. Advancement during the duration of the tournament is allowed, and no punches should be pulled. If a contestant dies, then they die. However, in the case of grievous injuries, we will provide the best healers we have available.”
Karmion’s projection clapped its hands together, then dipped its head. The strands of light began to fade, but before they disappeared entirely, Karmion said, “The first round begins tomorrow—in the woods beyond. Prepare yourselves.”