“I have no idea what that means, sir,” Vayra said.
King Tallerion marched to the railing and set his hands down on it. “All the Chambers, the underground labyrinths of the Dragon Gods, have a link to each other. They transmit through the Stream, though I don’t profess to know how it works.” He looked down on the arena and clapped, even if he was one of the only people clapping for Glade’s victory. “I will muster the fleet at Farpoint. When the Vale Chambers vent their stored Arcara and shine bright, we will know that you need assistance. We will break through the Elderworld lines and assist the evacuation as best we can.”
“Do you know what it looks like? To…shine bright?”
“I’ve no idea, miss. I’ve only heard of it in legend. But it seems like the best way to transmit a desperate signal almost instantly.”
She nodded. “I…Phasoné and I will figure it out, as long as you gather the fleets.”
King Tallerion stepped back from the railing and stepped back, but paused for a moment to pat her shoulder. “I know that look. Don’t despair. We’ve held them back for this long, and we will keep fighting. You’re working with the best navy in the galaxy.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I’ll push as high as I can.”
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After Myrrir finished his next fight, he lingered in the hallways of the arena. He didn’t return to the audience risers, but he didn’t wander the hallways aimlessly, either.
He’d studied the potential tournament bracket. It had been posted on every corner of the arena’s interior, at every intersection, and throughout every hallway of the contestants’ quarters. The next fight taking place today was Ameena against a stone-Path God-heir. Neither were of particular interest to him until the gathering at the Continental Inn, when he’d noticed Ameena working with the Mediator and her friend.
If she was a somewhat neutral party, perhaps she could convince them to grant Myrrir an audience.
After all, his next fight would be…the most important of his life.
He’d won, and so had Vayra. Next, they would fight each other.
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That evening, Vayra sat on the couch in the living room of their quarters, trying to relax. She’d never been one to chew her nails, but if she had, now would’ve been the perfect time. Phasoné had highly suggested that she look at the upcoming bracket posted on the hallway outside.
Her next fight was against Myrrir. In two weeks.
Between the two rounds, they had a chance to seek advancement, to climb as high as they could and push themselves. They could leave the moon and travel in search of advancement resources, or better locations to cycle Arcara.
In the meantime, she had a chance to seek an audience with a God—a reward for making it into the top sixteen fighters of the tournament. Most would use it as an opportunity to ask about advancement revelations or arcane advice, but she recalled exactly what Nathariel had said.
She needed an audience with Farrir, the Forge God.
“Who are you going to request an audience with?” Vayra asked Glade, who sat on the chair opposite from her. “I’ll handle Farrir. Didn’t have anyone else I wanted to ask anything from anyway.”
“Each God of the high pantheon has space for an audience with one contestant, should they choose. I want to speak with Kalawen.”
“Her?” Vayra tilted her head. “Why her?”
“Love and illusions. Without Nathariel, we’ll need guidance on reaching Admiral and Grand Admiral. We can accumulate Arcara all we want, but without him, we have no one to guide us through the revelations. Unless, perhaps, Phasoné is willing to help.”
Stolen novel; please report.
Vayra shut her eyes and analyzed her core as best as she could. The advancement from Commodore to Admiral should be similar to the advancement from Captain to Commodore—accumulate enough Arcara, fill your core, and advance when you have the revelation.
She didn’t know what to do to get to Grand Admiral, though.
Phasoné emerged from Vayra, her ghostly form winding into existence and appearing behind the couch. “I can help, but getting insight from a Goddess who is perfect at reading people couldn’t hurt.”
“But…Kalawen is working with Karmion.” Vayra scrunched her eyebrows. “Why would she give you good information?”
“She needs us to advance quickly, too, so we can face Karmion and square off,” Glade provided. “She will presume, I hope, that the quicker we advance, the shakier we will be at the higher stages.”
“And she won’t exactly be wrong,” Phasoné said. “But we don’t have a choice. What we do have on our side is that they will underestimate us. They’ll think that, without Nathariel, we’re useless. Or that they’ve dealt a severe blow. And with King Tallerion retreating from the planet, things will look even more dire.”
“Karmion might be confident,” Vayra said, “but he doesn’t seem like one to overestimate.”
“That’s why you’ll have to be better than him. You’ll have to trick him. He doesn’t know the extent of our internal Warding strength, he doesn’t understand the extent of our bond. He has still been largely unconcerned with Glade.”
Vayra shut her eyes and hung her head. “We’re still going to be…just clashing directly with him, with just…what, hope? When so much is in our hands, that’s not good enough. In a direct confrontation, with both of us fighting head to head, we’ll lose. Even if I reach Grand Admiral and use the Mediator form, make myself as powerful as the gods, they have centuries more experience. Everyone is counting on me, Phas, and I know I can’t do it.”
“Not yet. But you’ll never feel ready. At some point, you’ll have to make the leap and try.”
She dipped her head and grimaced. She didn’t think her stomach could sink any lower, but it did.
That night, she didn’t sleep. At some point between midnight and morning, Phasoné passed out.
The next morning, when all the God-heirs awoke and the last few fights of the fifth tournament concluded, the audiences with the Gods began. Sixteen competitors in the final phase of the tournament, sixteen Gods, and four more rounds.
Half-asleep, Vayra trudged around the edge of the arena, trying to hunt down Farrir’s tower. She assumed it was the spire clad in ashy steel, black stone, and orange glass—almost like something she’d have found on Muspellar. Chimneys sprouted out its sides, spouting smoke, and its windows glowed amber in the early morning light.
“A little much, don’t you think?” Vayra whispered. “Couldn’t make it any more obvious?”
‘It helps, doesn’t it?’ Phasoné replied. ‘Regardless, he has to train his descendants somehow—they can’t just do nothing for a few months while they watch the tournament. They’re forge mages, and the best way to improve is by working in a forge.’
“I suppose…does that mean the best way to improve for us is to…I dunno, step into a star?”
‘We’d need starlight. Remember, get too close to a star, and it becomes the realm of the sun.’
Vayra snorted. “I was kinda joking. I don’t think we’d survive it, either way.”
‘You’d be surprised what you can survive, now.’
Vayra was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Lets just speak with the fancy forge guy. Then we can worry about hopping into stars, or whatever you’d have me do.”
They circled around the upper ring of the arena, about a third of the way around, until they reached Farrir’s spire. There was no need to sneak in; she was supposed to be here. She approached the main door, where two Commodore-stage guards stood in sleeveless tunics, leaning on the haft of an oversized blacksmith’s hammer each.
“Hello,” Vayra said to them, then offered a small wave. “Uh, I’m here to see Farrir. You wouldn’t be willing to—”
“Come this way,” said one of the guards, a tall man with long hair, a thick beard, and pointed ears. “He was expecting you sooner, and you’ve kept him waiting.”
They entered at the tower’s base, then travelled down a high-ceilinged hallway until they reached a stairway at the center of the tower. It spiralled up all the way to the top, and they started climbing. Clearly, the forge-Path heirs had no method of flying at lower levels, if at all.
‘They do,’ Phasoné said. ‘But only when they reach Grand Admiral. You’ll find a way, too, when you reach that stage.’
“How?” she whispered as she climbed. “It’s not like stars have anything to do with air. We can’t just move…air.”
The two Commodore-stage guards turned back and stared at her for a few seconds, but they didn’t comment, and she didn’t feel the need to explain herself.
‘When I had my own body,’ Phasoné said, ‘I used the energy of the stars to lift my channels, and, being so directly intwined with my body, my flesh responded. It’s not as efficient as God-heirs who have control over wind, but it’s still effective. It’s like…a Reach technique, but inside yourself.’
Vayra nodded. “I could probably do the same with the internal Ward, then. Will myself to float, and I will.”
‘It’s worth a try. When you have more practice.’
“ ‘Course.”
They reached the top of the tower after a few more minutes of quick climbing. The Commodores stopped before they passed through the last floor and stood side-by-side, resuming their guarding position—as if a God needed protection.
“Thank you,” Vayra whispered to them, then stepped between them and took the last few stairs up to the top.
Supposedly, Farrir might help. Maybe he wouldn’t.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Nathariel,” she whispered. “Otherwise, this would’ve been a waste of an audience.”