“Ready for round two, Mr. Glade?” Ameena pestered, standing across the center of the arena from him.
Glade shut his eyes and declined to respond.
Vayra was almost right, but…he needed to do both. He needed to want it, and he wanted to know that he wanted this. He if he let Ameena nag him too far—whether well intentioned or not—she’d throw him off his game, and he might lose this fight.
And what then? Without the goal of godhood to keep pushing for, he would fall apart.
“Alright, buddy,” he whispered to the swordwyrm. “We’re making a loop this time. Ready to accept?”
“Food from sword-friend!” the living blade chittered.
Glade held out his hand and used his Reach technique, feeding metal filings and shards across to the swordwyrm—and mana and Arcara too. The swordwyrm readily let it in through its hilt, and the mana and Arcara swirled through its channels before returning to Glade—without the filings.
All the sharp metal objects in Glade’s vicinity seemed a little sharper, a little clearer in his perception, but that wasn’t the main draw of the wyrm.
A weightlessness formed under his arms and around his hips, buoying him up. The swordwyrm flew by manipulating the wind currents, and Glade, drawing on its abilities, could do the same.
By the time the trumpet sounded, he was hovering an inch off the ground. He pushed off to the side, gliding over the sand and creating a plume of dust behind himself. Slashing knife-leaves out of the air, he circled around Ameena, while the swordwyrm dove closer to her, bolstered by Glade’s Arcara.
With each circle, Glade drew closer to her. She flung leaves faster, but with each attack, the vines winding around her limbs grew more and more barren. When she flung her last leaf, Glade converged.
By his estimates, he had a quarter of his mana left, and his mouth was getting parched, but he kept pushing. Just a little closer…
Ameena swept her staff outward, aiming for his forehead. If it collided, she’d direct her techniques into it, doubling his bruises and unhealing him. He wasn’t fast enough to dodge it, and she’d built up power—he couldn’t directly dodge it.
Not unless he focussed his sword technique.
He raised his blade and firmed his muscles. The Arcara responded, flowing up along the cutting edge.
But it was just a base technique. Not strong enough to cut her staff.
It didn’t matter. He had to.
He knew exactly why he was here, why he’d made it this far—because, no matter what he said, no matter what the Order taught him, he did hunger. He needed something more than the life of an average Order Apprentice.
Elder Eman-Fa would be so proud.
The technique activated with resolve and determination, and a firm shhhing ran up the blade. He slashed right through her staff, negating her strike. His sword aimed right for her neck. Only inches before a collision, he stopped, holding it beside her skin. “I am sorry about the staff, but…I will help you get a new one.”
“No need,” Ameena said. “I can fix it. Maybe you’d be willing to help, though?”
“Me?” he whispered. “We can talk about this later. Just yield. I do not want to cut your head off.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She raised her hands and cut off all her techniques. “When we go get drinks, then?”
Glade sighed. “Alright. You…are not upset?”
“You were hungrier than I was.”
image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f3a882_2bcdeab6626a49c1bc2fa21d230a67c6~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_560,h_281,al_c,lg_1,q_85,enc_auto/ship%20better.png]
“Yes!” Vayra cheered from the viewing platform of King Tallerion’s tower, and the rest of the audience let out a soft cheer and applause along with her.
‘More like completely drowning you out,’ Phasoné commented.
“Eh, I’ll take it,” Vayra replied. “They’re happy for him, and they feel like they can cheer? What does that say about our cause and Karmion’s support?”
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‘It says wonderful things,’ said Phasoné. ‘But now’s—’
Before the Goddess could finish, King Tallerion’s aide approached from behind and said, “Miss, Myrrir is requesting entrance, again.”
“You can let him in,” Vayra replied. “From now on, you can let him in without asking me first, please.”
A few moments later, the aide returned with Myrrir in tow.
“Is something wrong?” Vayra asked. “Sorry, came out a little snippier than I thought it would, though…I guess you were probably expecting that.” Judging by Myrrir’s face and his braced response.
Myrrir winced. “I didn’t mean to spook you, truly.”
“Your presence kinda does that, but please continue.”
“We have a problem,” Myrrir whispered. “Karmion appears to have finished his weapon, or…at least, has it mostly finished.”
“Pardon?”
“I was keeping tabs, doing reconnaissance around his ship,” Myrrir said. “I snuck aboard.”
“What’s the problem?” Vayra asked, matching his low tone. “Kar—”
“Don’t use his name,” Myrrir whispered. “Gods have impressive hearing, especially when they’re as old as he is. Saying their name draws attention.”
“Alright, I won’t…” Vayra bit her lip. Phas, why didn’t you tell me this?
‘I didn’t figure it was pertinent, given how many people must be speaking Karmion’s name around here.’
Vayra shook her head. “We can’t take any risks.”
“The problem, aside from the fact that he finished it and could use it any time,” Myrrir continued, “is that he made it poorly. It’s only…around Grand Admiral grade, and even if he pours more of Nathariel’s fire into it, he’ll only buff out a few imperfections.”
“That doesn’t sound like a problem,” Vayra said.
“It is if you want to use it for yourself.”
She breathed a long sigh. “When Glade gets back, we need to speak to Farrir, and you need to tell him what you saw.”
“I’ll describe everything in as best of detail as I can,” said Myrrir.
While they waited for Glade to return, Vayra concentrated on cycling with Adair. Still, the cat had shown no signs of rejecting her, and he continued to accept the Arcara infusions with glee. His thoughts were becoming more coherent, and the power he passed over to her more useful.
Myrrir withdrew his own spirit, a little whirlwind of green dust—the exact same shade as his jade sword.
But it was a weak spirit, and he’d end up with a similar bond as Phasoné displayed—at least, that was what Vayra understood of the situation. Still, it was better than nothing, and Myrrir fed it with ease.
At first, she wanted to ask him how he knew what to do, but she stopped herself. He had been a prince, effectively, the chosen heir of Karmion and the potential inheritor of Nilsenir’s Godhood. Of course he would know exactly how to bond the spirit properly. It’d have been ingrained in his teachings from a young age.
When Glade arrived at the tower, covered in sweat and caked with sand, she said, “Sorry, I know you want to sit, but we need to pay Farrir an emergency visit.” A quick scan of his spirit revealed that he only had an eighth of his mana left.
Glade nodded. “Understood. I will grab a cup of Stream water and catch up. As long as you two do not run too fast.”
“We won’t,” said Myrrir.
They descended Tallerion’s tower from the viewing platform, then set off along the upper ridge of the arena. Glade caught up to them halfway around, holding his hand in a mug of Stream water.
When they arrived at Farrir’s tower, the two guards at the entrance recognized her and allowed her in, and she insisted that they let her friends—friend and companion of unspecified allegiance—in.
They ascended up to the top of the tower, and, without waiting for admittance, ran into Farrir’s chamber. He’d have sensed them coming, and if what Myrrir said indicated enough of a problem, they needed to alert Farrir as soon as possible.
Farrir dismissed a few of his Captain-stage God-heirs, then walked across the hall to face them. He didn’t wear a coat or shirt today, and he still carried a forging hammer. Sweat and grime coated his body. As soon as the guards and God-heirs were out of earshot, he asked, “What is it? Realized my son made it to the top four with you, and came to beg him to surrender? You know that’s not how it works.”
“Not that,” Vayra said. “Myrrir.”
“Karmion’s weapon, a scythe fashioned from shadowthorns and Arcara, isn’t forged very well.”
“Well, boy, that is not news.” Farrir shook his head. “Wait, why is Myrrir with you?”
“Just listen to him,” Vayra whispered.
Farrir blew out a puff of air. “Respect, Mediator; you’re not a Grand Admiral yet. What is the problem?”
“The haft is already cracking,” Myrrir said. “And the entire weapon isn’t conducting Arcara properly. He’s had to cut a hole in the blade to stop it from rotting, but the entire thing isn’t as dark as it should be.”
Farrir stroked his chin. “That is worse than I was expecting. However, not unmanageable. I will need a Vale Heart, though, if I am to stabilize the weapon. And I’ll need to use it sooner than later.”
“A Vale Heart?” Glade asked.
“You’ll find them deep in the Night Vale Chambers, on any planet you visit. They form in areas high in shadow concentration, with high shadow aspects. They aren’t easy to find, but that’s why I suspect there’ll still be a few on Barra Secundus—the nearby Chambers. Not to mention some more runestones.” He motioned toward her mechanical hand.
“Then we’ll get it for you,” Vayra said. “One last thing, while I have you. How do I destroy Varion’s axe?”
Farrir snorted. “I made that axe, girl. I made it specifically so it couldn’t be broken…easily.”
“Then there has to be a way.”
“Indeed. The handle and head are weak at their joint. A disruption pulse to stop the flow, then a couple heavy slashes? You’ll shatter the axehead and sever it from the haft.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Get me a Vale Core, or don’t bother bringing me that weapon. Got it?”
In unison, Vayra, Glade, and Myrrir said, “Got it.”