When Glade announced that he wanted to speak with Kalawen—at the base of her tower—the guards were initially argumentative. When he explained that he’d made it to the top sixteen and was claiming his prize, they were slightly less resistant, and finally, when an Admiral ventured down to meet him, they stepped aside.
Most of Kalawen’s children had pointed ears and elven faces—symmetrical, with slightly larger than normal eyes and high cheekbones. They moved without bobbing up and down, like they were gliding, and they always held their chins high. The men wore silk shirts, which buttoned up down the center, and the women wore dresses. All had long hair, shades of brown and red, and half-transparent illusory hair ornaments decorated their heads.
The Admiral led him up to the top of the tower, and they climbed the long staircase in complete silence, until they arrived at an open pavilion near the top. White pillars ran along the edge of the room, holding up the rest of the tower’s spire, and lattice ornaments adorned nearly every wall. The floor had a floral tile pattern, in dull greens and browns, and it wrapped around flowerbeds and orange autumn trees.
The Admiral left Glade at the top of the stairs and motioned with his arm, signalling for Glade to enter the room and cross it.
A single figure stood on the other side, her arms held behind her, as she stared off into the distance. “Glade Charl Arvitir.”
Glade crossed the room hesitantly, his boots crunching across the dried fallen leaves. “Ms. Kalawen. I come under protection of the tournament, seeking your advice on the next advancement steps.”
“From me, of all people?” Kalawen turned around, her hair floating behind her like she was underwater. She, as expected, was an elf. A light dress hugged her form, and though it had a long skirt, most of it was the product of an illusion and Arcara—when Glade observed it in his spiritual sight, it glowed. If needed, she could transition to a fighting position at the drop of a pin. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, though Glade figured it was a ruse to reach up closer to her hair pins, which kept it bound up neatly behind her head. They were likely weapons.
“Yes, from you.” When Glade drew within ten paces of her, he halted. He contemplated kneeling for a few seconds, but ultimately decided against it. She already knew where he stood, and if she hadn’t before today, she could probably observe his soul with her abilities.
“What would you like?”
“I want your advice on advancing to Admiral and Grand Admiral.”
“I repeat: from me? You are aware I am aiding Karmion, yes, and you want me to aid you…too? Instead? What do you expect to come from this conversation?”
“I expect you to honour the terms of the tournament. I expect you to give me advice that, if taken on its surface level, will lead me down a crippling road, but still holds some shreds of truth beneath it all.”
“And you think you can discern the shreds of truth?”
Glade shook his head. “I think you will make it clear enough, intentionally or not.”
His spine had already been tingling from the presence of a Goddess, even though she was veiling herself. Now, a pressure weighed down on the base of his neck. It was a new, unique sensation. There was no chill down his spine to signal a spiritual scan, but instead, his eyes felt cold and rough, as if somehow, they’d formed gooseflesh.
Kalawen stared straight at him, and he hadn’t even realized it. She locked eyes with him, and they flared bright purple. A misty halo of purple Arcara formed around her head, and a ring of illusions appeared around him.
Like he had when fighting Brelond, he switched to a mana-purification cycling pattern, putting strain on his soul and focussing his willpower. The illusions dimmed, revealing the true Kalawen—who now stood beside him, approaching, reaching out with a lithe hand.
Glade shrunk away, but the chill in his eyes and the pressure on his neck remained.
She was looking into his soul, trying to see how best to deceive him, what half-truths she could feed him to send him down the wrong path.
She’d get nothing.
“The Admiral Revelation is about your future purpose, what you will do, and how you will change the galaxy,” Kalawen said, circling around to the other side of Glade and dragging her fingers across the back of his coat. “It’s how you see yourself in ten years. It relies on clear self-image and requires deep ambitions. Tell yourself what you want to hear, and forge it into a true reflection of yourself.”
As expected, she misread him. She spoke of change, about pure ego. She wanted him to play on self image and adjust the revelation accordingly, but that wouldn’t work. Even if it did resonate with his soul well enough to achieve the advancement, it’d never be enough to let him advance far into the future.
A revelation couldn’t be moulded to fit a person—the God-heir had to accept something about themselves.
Glade smiled and said, “Thank you. What about the advancement from Admiral to Grand Admiral.”
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“To reach the final stage, one must bond with a spirit-beast,” Kalawen spun, making her dress flutter. Her eyes blurred into streaks, but her hair still floated slowly, buoyed by an invisible pool of water. “Not a mental bond, not like between a horse and a rider, but to accept a spirit-beast as a part of yourself and draw in its essence. To tame it and bend its will to yours.”
Glade narrowed his eyes.
“Pick the right spirit-beast, and it represents the very peak, distillation of your Path and element. There is a reason Karmion’s heirs wear their hats all the way from the Lieutenant stage up to Grand Admiral. They host a riverplume, a weak spirit-beast that grows with them—up until the final stage, where they draw it into themselves. But it stays with them. Were Karmion to take off his hat, the riverplume would remain, as if intertwined with his hair and scalp.”
She leaned forward and faced him, then taped the side of her head. “Some are less obvious.”
“How?” He could worry about the truths later.
“You must twist the spirit-beast to fit your Path.”
She still hadn’t realized that such domination wouldn’t play on him? He knew that to be wrong; she believed she could lure him with the joys of twisting the world to fit your every desire. But if that hadn’t worked for the past two revelations, it wouldn’t work now.
That meant she hadn’t seen anything, and was just making her best guesses.
“Thank you,” Glade said simply.
Without any other topics of conversation, he turned away, aiming at the stairs and preparing to retreat down the stairs.
Kalawen clamped a stern hand down on his shoulder. “How?”
“How…what?” Glade stopped at her silent command, but he didn’t turn to face her.
“How did you shroud your soul from me?”
Glade exhaled. It couldn’t have been just because of willpower; in that contest, a goddess who’d lived hundreds of years would win. “There is nothing to shroud, ma’am. You are dealing with a young man who lived his entire life in an order of sword wielding paladins. I had no childhood, no constant parents to inflict their beliefs on me. I am empty.”
“That’s not true,” Kalawen said. “There was ambition deep within.”
“Ambition is not evil,” Glade said. “Though you all treat it like a guilty pleasure that must be indulged. But my ambition is different than that of the Gods, and you could not comprehend it.”
He dropped his shoulder, pulling free from her grasp, and walked to the stairs.
She’d given him everything he needed.
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Myrrir wanted one last audience with his father. Nothing else. He didn’t need guidance for advancements, or advice on where best to harvest energies…just a chance to speak his mind. To set things in stone.
He marched up the central stairway of Nilsenir’s spire, flanked by two guards in vibrant but mismatched coats. Pirates, of course, both with hip flasks of gunpowder to fuel their Commodore-level abilities.
They couldn’t kick Myrrir out. He’d made it to the top sixteen, and he’d earned this privilege. But that didn’t mean the two guards didn’t look like they wanted to kill him.
Tayrin and Nirrir. They weren’t direct descendants of Nilsenir, and they were each both about five hundred years old. It was good progress, but they’d stalled. They wouldn’t advance higher than Commodore—there was a reason they were never Nilsenir’s favourite sons.
When they reached the upper level, both guards waited far behind and away, making sure they stayed well out of the range of any collateral damage.
Myrrir’s mind was blank. He had thought of what he might say this time, how it’d be different from last time, how he’d make anything different. How to properly announce his intentions.
But he knew what would be satisfying.
He prowled across the hall and faced his father. The pirate banners fluttered overhead, and the braziers crackled, turning Nilsenir into a hazy shadow.
“Father,” Myrrir said, like he had last time, “this will be the last time we talk.”
For a few seconds, Nilsenir said nothing. Then, he jumped down off his wooden seat and marched toward Myrrir. “Is that a threat?” His brass hook-hand glinted in the firelight, and his coat swayed.
“It’s a promise, father. Whether you live or die in the coming weeks is not for me to say. Whether I face you in combat or not won’t be up to me.” He shut his eyes, breathed a sigh, and clenched his fists. Do it. Stand up for yourself. Make the leap, and make things right. “And if I do have to try to fight you, I will do it without uttering a single word.”
“What is this defiance?” Nilsenir snarled. “This isn’t you.”
“It’s who I want to be.” Myrrir put a hand on his sword, but he didn’t mean it. “You can’t kill me. Everyone knows I’ve come to visit you, and if I don’t emerge from this tower, everyone will know why.”
“Then why? To spit in my face?” Nilsnir scowled. “I gave you everything, and you failed at every turn!”
“No. You didn’t.” Myrrir let his face fall blank. “I wanted your love and recognition. That’s what I wanted. I needed a father, not a whip-bearer.”
“I repaired your hands! I replaced your lungs, I gave you elixirs and the best tutors money could buy! You had your pick of ships, of crew, you could’ve lorded over planets and fathered many children of your own, but you chose this? I put you here!”
“Yes, you did. And perhaps, I owe you much as a son. But you walk a dark path, and I can’t go the same way. I want to be satisfied.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I…am not going to serve you anymore. If I attain godhood, it won’t be because of you. When the tournament is over, I will no longer bear your name or any relation to you—we were already halfway there anyway.” Myrrir winced. “I will be more like my poor first mate, who did everything in his power to care for me.
“If I don’t achieve godhood soon, I’ll stall. My spirit is too injured, burnt, and charred, and all I’ve done is make it worse. But maybe that’s what I deserve.”
“You’re a pathetic excuse for a God-heir,” Nilsenir spat.
“Yes. I am.” Myrrir turned away and took a step back toward the stairs. “Goodbye, father.”
Nilsenir gave no response.