They stood at a branch in the Rallemflow. It split in two directions, each snaking across the landscape to the south.

Vayra figured if she followed either one, they’d both evaporate eventually. Still, she half-expected Nathariel to leave her with some cryptic and trite wisdom about a branching river and choices. Or something like that.

He said nothing.

Ruins of a bridge spanned the branch in the river, leading from the shore they stood on now to the center of the river delta. It was made of dark brown stone, and its sharp, utilitarian angles reminded her of the Night Vale Chambers. Most of the bridge had crumbled, and all that remained was a sharp arch on either side.

Nathariel walked as far as he could, then sprung across the gap. Vayra followed, Bracing her legs with starlight and leaping over the surging, steaming river.

On the other side, a path led up the shore, unlike any she’d seen before on this planet. Ancient interlocking paving stones wound up the shore, leading up to a small entrance in the slope. Its walls were angled and sharp, and had it not been for the lack of runes or bricks blocking the doorway, she would have said that it was another entrance to the Chambers.

Nathariel stopped just outside the entrance and leaned against it with his shoulder.

“What is it?” Vayra asked, then she scrunched her eyebrows. “And…why?”

Nathariel let out a soft snort. “One question at a time. This was a special facility built by the Dragon Gods for storing vast amounts of Arcara-soaked flame, disconnected from the chambers for fear that it would leak. Which, of course, it did.” He ran a hand down the door frame, then tapped it with his nails. It sparked a little. “Look with your spiritual vision.”

Vayra tightened the muscles around her eyes, and in an instant, everything flashed white. A blinding light seeped out from the doorway. Her eyes began to sting and her Arcara channels burned.

She blinked, then cycled Arcara up to her head, flushing the channels clean and soothing the sting.

When she looked up, she held one hand up to the doorway to block most of the light, then spread her fingers apart a crack, so that only a little bit of spiritual radiation could seep through. For good measure, she also squinted.

The walls inside the Chambers swirled with patterns, like moving, incomprehensible paintings. She didn’t know what she was watching, aside from glowing white shapes slithering along the walls.

“The flame burned away long ago,” Nathariel said. “What you’re seeing is the Arcara that seeped into the stone. It gives this place incredible power.” He folded his hands in front of him. “And a little bit of prescience.”

“Prescience?”

“Visions. Step in there, and the high-concentration Arcara will make you see things.”

Vayra blinked and loosened up her face, letting her spiritual vision fade away. Again, she stared into a pitch-black hole. “What…sort of things?”

“Stream water binds the galaxy together,” Nathariel said. “The Stream itself is a path through the heavens, but it’s also the essence of life itself. The Arcara is that, but purified. And the Arcara that was here was purified by Dragon Gods. It was some of the most powerful Arcara you could find, and in massive quantities.” He took a step away from the entrance. “The Stream embodies the laws of the universe itself. It knows you, it knows what you might do, and it can show you glimpses of your future.”

“Are you…trying to teach me a lesson?”

Nathariel’s face saddened, and he shook his head. “No, Vayra. I’m trying to give help. I want you to look into the visions, to look into your future, so you can see whether your friends are truly in danger. So you can judge what to do with yourself.”

“It will show me what will happen if I try to rescue them?”

“It might.” He sighed. “I’ve only stepped into the visions once before. It shows many things, which are all likely—but not set—outcomes.” He began to flick his fingers one-by-one. “I hope, hope, that what you see will discourage you. Otherwise, I’m out of options.”

“You could trap me here…”

“And what good would that do? You’d hate me and resent me, like all my other disciples came to. And then you would learn nothing more from me.” Pausing, Nathariel leaned around the corner. He reached in with one hand, and the air seemed to ripple when he passed his palm through it. “They’ve all made mistakes, and I always tried to stop them. I even tried to burn a Path manual to stop a young woman from heading down a dark road. It never helped.”

Vayra’s stomach began to churn, and her fingers trembled. But she wanted to know what would happen to Pels and Bremi and everyone else on the Champion.

Worse, she knew she should never have left them alone. This was her fault, and she had to make it right…

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

‘You’re going to drive yourself insane if you keep thinking like that, Vayra,’ Phasoné told her. ‘Let Nathariel try to help you, and let his help speak for itself.’

Nodding, Vayra conjured her seer-core and took a few steps forward. As soon as she passed through the doorway into the storage room, her mind shifted. Everything felt hazy, and a spiritual film clung to her skin. Goosebumps ran down her arms.

She held out her seer-core as far as she could. The ceiling was high, like this place was a warehouse, but it was completely empty—save for a few cobwebs in the corners. She didn’t want to know what kind of spiders had made those, nor what they would look like now, having been exposed to such concentrated, high-power Arcara.

A high pitched warble ran down the hall, like some sort of animal call. Instinctively, she looked back towards the doorway, but she could barely see the opened. It was small. Had she walked that deep into the…

A flash of flame rolled in front of her eyes. It looked like real flame, not Nathariel’s almost-flame. In it there were sparks and thick smoke, and it reeked of carnage and a burning city.

When the wall of flame passed, she stared back down the hall. The image flickered. A second later, she couldn’t see the hall, but a burning city. It looked like Leansfield, only bigger, larger, and the blaze seemed more deadly.

The image blurred, and instead of watching from a distance, she stood in the streets. Bluecoats ripped people from their homes and shot them—everyone. Children, elderly, men, women…

Vayra choked and tried to look away. An eave fell from above. It was made of woven branches and covered in pinecone scales.

Tavelle. Her home.

She tried to interfere. Reaching to pull a bluecoat away from a pleading civilian, she sprinted down the street, but before she could reach him, the vision shifted.

Now she stood in the plaza in front of the Order of Balance temple, watching helplessly as an army of bluecoats marched up the front steps in orderly lines.

She spun around, and again, the vision changed. She stood in the carriage loop of King Tallerion’s palace—halfway across the city from the temple. In the place of carriages and guards, brutish gallows had been constructed from black wood. The king’s body hung from a lonely noose like a limp rag. Behind, flames snarled in the windows of the palace, licking upwards as if they could burn even the sky.

My friends, Vayra thought. I want to see my friends. I need to know what happens to them.

The vision changed, but no longer did she see sights of destruction, but rather, of a vast plaza. It was nighttime, and she heard cheering crowds.

She blinked, trying to control the vision. If she could control Arcara, she could fight this. She could make it show her what she needed.

The vision was unyielding. All she saw were the tight walls of a carriage. It had stopped. Beyond the windows, there was an enormous plaza filled with extravagantly-dressed civilians and bluecoats.

At the very end of the plaza…a circular structure rose above the crowd, surrounded by pillars and doused in blue banners. The light of a thousand torches illuminated its windows and domed roof.

She blinked a few times, until she was certain at what she was looking at: the Galactic Assembly. She’d seen it once on Mascant, from a distance.

The door of the carriage opened. She didn’t want to step out, but her body did anyway. She wasn’t in control anymore. Her heart pounded and her eyes widened, and she looked around, trying to find a way out.

‘Stay calm, Vayra,’ Phasoné said. ‘Stay…’

The Goddess’ voice faded away. As soon as Vayra set her feet down on the paving stones of the plaza, a renewed cheer from the crowd drowned it out. Vayra began to hobble forwards, out of her own control.

She looked down. She wore a blue dress, but beneath the skirt…she had a peg-leg—a pole of splintering wood that barely let her walk. She gasped, and willed herself to bend down to claw at it. Instead, she only raised an arm to the sky in celebration. Instead of a hand, she had a brass hook.

She began to breathe faster and faster, until her lungs couldn’t bear it any longer. She kept walking. There was a narrow valley through the crowd, kept open by ranks of bluecoats. The valley led straight to the Galactic Assembly. On all sides, a procession of sycophantic Gods applauded her.

A man on a horse trotted up beside her. He wore a neat military uniform and a tricorn hat, with a plume made only out of water. She recognized his face from paintings, though in person, it was more gaunt and paler.

Karmion.

He grinned.

‘Vayra!’ Phasoné screamed.

Vayra blinked and held her eyes shut for a second. When she opened them, she found herself laying face-down on the floor of the store-room, panting and doused in sweat. She rolled over onto her back and whispered, “Show me my friends…”

No more visions came.

Once she caught her breath, she shakily rose to her feet and crept out of the store room. Once she returned to the sunlight, the misty film melted off her arms, and she shook out her hands.

Nathariel sat on the ground outside, arms crossed. “So?”

“Nothing,” she grumbled. “Nothing about the Harmony’s crew.”

For a few agonizing moments, she stayed silent. Nathariel stood up and turned around, then motioned for her to follow. “Then we will return to the hovel. Your training must continue.”

She followed him. All the way back, her mind ran in circles, as if someone had reached inside and turned it upside-down.

‘Remember, Vayra,’ Phasoné said. ‘It only showed what could happen if—’

“No,” Vayra breathed. Maybe it was if Vayra didn’t help. Maybe it was. Maybe it was if she was caught. She couldn’t say for certain—there was no condition telling her how she failed, only that she might. Some useless vision that was.

‘If you go. It’s if you go, and you know it.’

Phasoné couldn’t say that for certain.

‘I know you’re walking into a trap.’

“And if I know that I am, it’s not much of a trap,” she whispered. “I’ll get in, and I’ll get out, and I’ll be quick. I’ll free them, then we can come right back to train.”

‘Do you truly think you can out-plan Myrrir?’

“I have to try.”