Vayra was just about to walk back to the cabin when she heard a soft voice.

“Good evening,” the voice said, whispering through the trees.

She recognized it, but she couldn’t say from where. It was soft and feminine, with the faint rattle of something insectile buried deep within it. She climbed out onto the shore of the river, her clothes dripping. They’d dry off soon enough.

“Who’s there?” Vayra asked, holding her hands up. Even though a cloud of ash wafted over the sky, blotting out the stars, Vayra drew starlight from the scarf. She formed her seer-core.

“Oh, don’t worry,” came the voice again. “I’m not here to hurt you. Yet.”

“Not much incentive to let my guard down, is there?”

A shadowy form stepped out from the cover of the trees at the edge of the clearing. At first, Vayra thought the woman was wearing a fur cloak, but the glowing orange light from the windows of Nathariel’s hovel illuminated her soon enough.

Wren. The mothfolk bounty hunter. Vayra couldn’t sense her; she was keeping her core tightly veiled.

“Ah, you remember me, now,” Wren said. She jumped up and, with a flutter of her wings, she perched on the eave of Nathariel’s hovel. “Myrrir has probably captured your friends by now.”

Vayra blew a puff of air out her nose. “Myrrir?”

“You remember him, don’t you?” asked Wren. “Glass-haired fellow, jade sword, annoying and stuffy?”

“I remember him.” Vayra clenched her fists, then wrung out the long tails of her robe. She figured Myrrir would be here, but she had guessed he would come after her right away. Not to go after…her friends? She tilted her head. “Friends?”

“Oh, I know you have some,” Wren teased. “Captain Pels, the Harmony, your brother…everyone else in the crew. He’s probably killed a couple, wounded a couple, and, oh, who knows what other horrors he has in store for them.”

A swell of fear rose in Vayra’s throat.

‘She’s taunting you,’ Phasoné warned.

Vayra didn’t need to be a genius to see that. But knowing didn’t change anything; it still made her heart pound.

‘You promised Bremi. You promised him.’

Vayra shut her eyes, remembering what she had told Bremi on the last day of their first voyage—I’ll look after the whole galaxy. Or something along those lines.

“You know I’m right,” Wren said. “You knew Myrrir would be after you, and it was dragging on you that he hadn’t come yet.”

Wren said it like a fact, like an absolute statement. Yet Vayra, until now, hadn’t concerned herself about that. She figured that Myrrir didn’t know she was still alive, or working on ways to track her, or…

But this made perfect sense.

She shut her eyes, trying to push away the thoughts.

‘Vayra, listen to me,’ Phasoné pleaded. ‘She’s getting in your head and trying to lay a trap. Learning to use your magic is more important.’

“I know…” Vayra hissed under her breath, taking a step towards the hovel, and Wren. She raised her voice a little, then said, “Prove it.”

“I don’t need proof,” Wren scoffed. “You already know it. It makes sense for him to do it, and he’s skilled enough to do it. Head to the flow-mining facility on the other side of the mountains, and you’ll find them there. You can rescue them there.” She stood up with a smug grin. “That’s all.”

“Wait,” Vayra whispered. “Why? Why tell me?”

“Meh, I find Myrrir annoying, and it’d be fun to foil his plot.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Good.” Wren flicked her hand, then pulled a book out of a pouch hanging from her belt. “I’m Wren, just Wren, and I do what I want. You’ll probably suffer for it, but I know that won’t matter to you, ‘cause no matter how bad I make this sound, I know you’ll still go.”

Vayra opened her mouth, ready to protest, when she heard a clatter inside the hovel. A second later, the door swung open, and Nathariel rushed outside. Immediately, he blasted a bar of fire at Wren.

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The mothfolk bounty hunter had already taken off. With a flutter of her wings, she leapt into the sky. She dodged the first bar of flame, and by the time the second neared her, she was high enough that it dissipated before it reached her.

Nathariel stomped a foot down and widened his stance, and the earth shook. He shut his eyes and held out a hand.

Vayra’s eyes widened, and she watched with horror. The tips of Wren’s wings began to glow with a network of orangey-red channels. Nathariel was about to set her Arcara alight.

Then the light dissipated, and Nathariel pulled his hand back. He scowled, then grunted, “Too far.”

Vayra bit her lip, then said, “I’m sorry. I should have tried to—”

“Who was she?”

“She was a bounty hunter, who—”

Nathariel grabbed Vayra’s shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. “What did she tell you?”

By now, Glade also stood in the door, watching her.

She figured that Nathariel would probably sense a lie, even if she tried. He could sense lies, right? Or he’d sense her heartbeat pick up…

‘He might notice a change in your breathing or a shift in your Arcara,’ Phasoné provided.

But there was no reason not to tell Nathariel what had happened. She said, “Can we go inside? I’ll tell you everything, but…I wouldn’t mind having dinner, too.”

“Yes, yes.” Turning back towards the door, Nathariel sighed and nodded. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.”

They all stepped back inside, where three bowls of soup had been set out on the counter. Nathariel and Glade had already begun to eat, but Vayra’s bowl was untouched. She picked it up, along with a spoon, and walked back to her hammock. As soon as she sat down, she explained everything she knew about Wren, from the very start—from Wren’s first attempt to capture her, all the way to…now. The only thing she left out was the implication that Myrrir was torturing them; the thought was too much for her to voice aloud.

Glade’s face twisted with fear for a moment, but he composed himself. “There is a high chance that she is lying.”

“And if she is?” Vayra stirred her bowl of soup, letting off the last few wisps of steam. “So we head back through the Chambers. We go to this mining facility Wren talked about, and we check it out. If there’s a problem, then she was telling the truth, and if there isn’t, then we’ll know that as well.”

“And what if she is telling the truth, hm?” Nathariel asked between mouthfuls of soup. “That’s what I’m more worried about.”

“Then…” Vayra exhaled. She had promised Bremi that she’d look after everyone, but that included him, Pels, and the crew of the Champion, too. She shouldn’t just ignore them. “Then we’ll help. It’s my duty.”

“No,” said Glade abruptly. “You cannot. Myrrir is stronger than you—”

“I beat him before,” Vayra asserted.

“He was distracted. Hammontor might have been trying to take you, but he was also trying to hurt Myrrir, and vice versa. And you managed to use the Mediator Form.” Glade folded his fingers together so his knuckles stuck up, then rubbed his forehead with them. “Please, Vayra, do not consider this.”

“And from what I understand, Myrrir was at the peak of the Captain stage,” Nathariel added. “It’s likely he’s advanced by now.”

“But why shouldn’t I check it out?” She felt her grip on the bowl tightening, and her lips quivered. It was easy to say that she would look after everyone, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still care about her friends.

Her friends…her brother, the only person she was raised with. Captain Pels, the man who’d come back for her and brought her from Mascant to Naebel. The Harmony, Kertogg and Tressdott, and even little Orlas and her kittens…

“You know well enough why,” Glade snapped. “The galaxy needs you at your full strength. Myrrir will capture you, you will be gone, and everything will keep…crumbling!” He set his bowl of soup down and marched over to her. “My father was a Redmarine. He lost his leg fighting bluecoats. That, that was why no one could take care of me, and why the Order took me in.”

Vayra’s mouth slipped open. “Glade, I’ll be fine. I’ll just look, and I won’t fight Myrrir, and—”

“And walk into a trap?” Nathariel shook his head. “You know it’s a trap. I agree with the boy. You are more important.”

‘Vayra, I want to agree with you,’ Phasoné said. ‘I can hear your thoughts, so believe me when I say that I understand. But I don’t think rushing headlong at them is a good idea. I really think you should wait. Get more powerful. Then we can face them.’

Vayra pointed her thumb at herself. “Our job—my job—is to punch up. To hit above my weight and do more. And I can do that.”

“Not yet, and not without the Mediator Form.” Nathariel took another spoonful from his soup, then pointed at her bowl. “Eat, dammit. It’s why you two came back inside in the first place.”

She picked her bowl back up, then took a spoonful.

“When I say you’re not ready, I mean it,” Nathariel continued.

“Please, Vayra,” Glade told her. “You are the galaxy’s hope. We need you. We need you at your full power, not rotting in Karmion’s dungeons.” When she glanced at him, she found his gaze pleading and hopeful.

She tossed the options around in her mind, then finally, after a glance at Glade and a glance at Nathariel, she said, “Alright. Alright. I’ll…stay.” She knew her voice didn’t sound convincing.

That evening, she finished eating her soup, digesting its subtle spiritual energy, then, around the same time as Karmion and Glade, she settled in for a rest.

Sleep never came. She spent the entire night wide-awake, staring at the ceiling long after Phasoné had fallen silent and Glade began to snore softly. The next day, Nathariel had her run through the training course again, but she stalled on the lava flats. The third dummy occupied her all day, and even when she tried using her spiritual sight, she couldn’t manage to get through its patterns to land a hit.

The next two days passed the same way. She only ended up sleeping on the third day from sheer exhaustion.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, she faced Nathariel and said, “I’ve tried. I tried. I can’t do it.”

Nathariel looked like he was about to argue, and the next second, he looked like he wanted to scold her. He shut his mouth for a few moments, then finally, he said, “Come with me. I have something to show you.”