Vayra pressed her lips together, then took a step back. Myrrir wasn’t supposed to be expecting her this early.

There was no time to ask him about it. If she didn’t want to fight him, she had to run. The doors behind her were wood, and just wood.

“Phasoné! Scythe!” she hissed, then relinquished control of her hand. Starlight bled out of her scarf and wrapped around her hand, and the scythe began to form. The white glow flowed upwards and formed the shaft. But if she turned around, he’d guess her plan right away. She stood still, as if she was ready to fight him, as the haft of the scythe swirled into existence.

Myrrir walked forwards slowly, spinning his sword beside him. His other hand was coated in a thick layer of gunpowder. “Mastered the Mediator Form yet?”

Vayra willed the scythe to generate faster. The shaft had finished, and the blade began to form. She kept silent, but bent her knees, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” Myrrir said. “Master, huh? Far cry from Commodore.”

“The Mediator is built to punch up.”

Myrrir scoffed. “Not without a full arsenal.”

She’d stalled long enough. The moment the scythe’s tip formed, she whirled around and hacked through the plank of wood keeping the door locked. The scythe cut through it in an instant, its white-hot blade setting the rest of the door ablaze.

She kicked the gate open and sprinted into the hallway beyond. A tendril of gunpowder reached up from the floor, snapping at her legs, but she swatted it away. It exploded in the heat of the scythe’s blade, flinging her down the corridor. She landed on her stomach, right in front of a set of stone stairs.

In a fair race, Myrrir’s enhanced body would be faster. But she was a street rat, a Discarded. She was used to running. Dispelling the scythe to conserve mana, she leapt up onto the railing, then sprung up the gap in the middle of the stairwell to the next flight, which ran in the opposite direction.

She leapt up the stairwell as fast as she could, springing off railings and spinning around bannisters. A tendril of gunpowder chased her up as far and as fast as it could, but even Myrrir had a limit to his reach.

She arrived at a landing halfway up the stairwell, then turned and pushed open the door on the other side, which led away and into a large hall.

She figured that it had once been a staging point for wagons and other cargo transports, and there was a massive, open gate with a causeway beyond. She could escape back onto the open plains outside the facility if she wanted, but then it would be a foot race.

‘Myrrir would win,’ Phasoné unhelpfully informed.

“I could Brace my legs,” Vayra suggested.

‘We’d run out of mana, and he would only be spending whispers to keep his body fueled,’ Phasoné countered.

“We need to find the crew, then hide,” Vayra said, running to the center of the hall and looking around. The facility, aside from pirates, seemed abandoned. “Once we find them, we’ll sneak out—”

The door she had emerged from blasted open again—it swung open so fast and hard it shattered—and Myrrir emerged. He twirled his sword. “There’s nowhere to run.”

Vayra glanced around, searching for a way out of the hall. On all the walls, small staircases led up to platforms with hallways leading to more distant parts of the facility. She sprinted towards the nearest stairway, but before she could reach it, a wisp of gunpowder smashed through it, shattering the stairs.

She Braced her legs and leapt up to the undamaged top of the stairs, but before she could run down the hallway, Myrrir pounced. In a few bounds, he reached the platform, and he swung his sword so hard and fast it smashed straight through the boards where Vayra had been standing. His gunpowder-coated fist raced towards her chest, and she shielded her robes with Starlight—it was her strongest shield, but it felt like it was just enough to prevent the blow from caving in her chest.

She tumbled back to the floor of the main hall, chest aching. Hammontor hadn’t been able to punch that hard, and he’d been a Commodore.

‘And he didn’t have as impressive of a foundation as the favoured son of a God,’ Phasoné said. ‘With all the resources of Nilsenir at his disposal.’

Vayra rolled over and jumped back to her feet. Myrrir jumped down from the platform and swung his sword at her again, but she blasted its blade with a Starlight Palm, deflecting it just enough that it didn’t slash her gut open.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“You may be the Mediator,” Myrrir snarled. “but without the blessings of the Stream, you’re nothing. You’ve worked for nothing. Where’s your skill?”

Vayra ducked under another swipe of his sword then sprinted towards another set of stairs—ones that hadn’t been demolished yet.

As soon as she set a foot on them, a large column of gunpowder raced out of Myrrir’s powder horn and blasted through the staircase. He made an uppercut motion with his hand, and the column swirled upwards, smashing through the platform it connected to.

Vayra jumped away before the rubble crushed her, but not in time to avoid another smaller tendril of gunpowder. Its tip was shaped like a fist. It struck her in the gut, flinging her to the other side of the hall. Though it sucked the wind out of her lungs, she forced herself to gulp in a breath and shield her back—and just in time. She smashed through a waiting, horseless wagon, then collided with the wall behind her. Cracks spread from the impact point, and another platform collapsed above her.

Groaning, she gulped in a few more breaths, trying to regain a quick cycling pattern. She had to escape, and there was only one staircase left. Scythe, she thought, too winded to utter words. Phasoné must have gotten the thought, because when Vayra let her hand fall limp, the scythe began to emerge.

With the growing haft, she swatted away another column of gunpowder. Myrrir approached, spinning his sword in a disarming motion. She tried to deflect the blow with the shaft of her scythe, but the strike was too hard and fast, and it pushed her back.

He seemed intent on attacking her this time, not the staircase, and she took her opportunity. As her scythe’s blade formed, she vaulted up over the railing, pushing herself as high as she could jump with her own legs, then took the rest of the flight three steps at a time.

Before Myrrir could destroy the platform, she dove into the hallway it led to, then sprinted along it.

She heard a thud, then fast footsteps. Myrrir was right behind her. She braced her legs, pushing herself to run faster, until she arrived in a circular room with a low roof. Black smoke clouded the edges, and channels of glowing orange magma fed towards a vat in the room’s center—which had been temporarily raised, stopping the lava from flowing any further.

She leapt over the vat, searching for a way out of the room, but she saw none. When she reached the far wall, Myrrir marched in, holding his sword ahead of himself.

In an instant, she understood why he hadn’t destroyed the last stairwell. “You wanted me here.”

“You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

She clutched the scythe with both hands. “Where’s the crew?”

“Gone.”

Vayra’s grip tightened—with her left hand, at least, the hand she could control. “You—”

“Oh, they’re still alive,” Myrrir taunted. He remained in the doorway, unmoving. “I don’t know where they escaped to, but they aren’t my quest.”

Vayra scowled. Escaped? She…she had—

‘He’s trying to rile you up,’ Phasoné said. ‘Stay focussed. Get out of his sight then hide. Veil your core, and don’t let him find you.’

Vayra took a deep breath, then steadied herself. Stepping forward, she inched towards the door. The only way out. “Was Wren working for you?”

“Not knowingly.” Myrrir refused to match her step. There’d be no circling around today. “She did a wonderful job of funnelling you here, though, and it was all on her own, spiteful volition. She thought herself a wildcard rather than a pawn.”

“Where are they?” Vayra growled, taking another step closer. “No lies.” She couldn’t wait all day—she would run out of mana sooner than he would, and the scythe was already eating through it.

“I wasn’t lying. You were close.” He tilted his head downwards, in the general direction of the tunnel she had entered from. “They were here and now they aren’t, and I don’t care where they went.”

With a shout, Vayra leapt forwards. She hacked at his head with her scythe. He blocked the swipe with ease, and then the next, and the next, and the next.

When the pattern finished, she had made no progress. Myrrir’s sword remained unharmed, its green edge glowing faintly. “Are you finished?” he asked.

“I—”

He slashed upwards. Vayra stepped back, evading the strike, but another followed. Her back pressed against the shimmering steel vat in the center of the room.

She Braced her arms, giving them a little extra strength, before Myrrir’s next slash arrived. The blade was aimed for her neck, to force her into submission, but Vayra blocked it with the shaft of her scythe and, with her strengthened arms, resisted. “I’m not going with you. I’m not going to Karmion unless it’s to kill him!”

“My father will present you to Karmion,” Myrrir snarled, shifting his stance. “And I will have his love.”

Vayra kept pushing until Myrrir relented. He stepped back, letting her stumble, then grabbed her arm. His grip was unbreakable, and the Arcara swirling through his fingers flowed with such strength that, on contact, it disrupted her own channels. The Bracing fled from her arms, starlight dimming. She barely held onto the scythe as Myrrir hauled her up the stairs.

She thrashed and kicked, tried to hack his arm off with the scythe, or break his grip with sheer determination. None of it worked. A Master stood no chance against a Commodore…

‘You are more than brute strength, Vayra,’ Phasoné said. ‘Don’t let him take you again.’

At Phasoné’s words, an idea flashed through Vayra’s mind. She let herself fall limp, then, the moment Myrrir tried to throw her into the empty vat, releasing his grip, she kicked off the ledge. The kick propelled her all the way across the vat. She tumbled to the floor on the other side.

Myrrir sliced through the rope suspending the upper half of the vat, but it was too late. Vayra was clear, and the two halves of the container smashed together with a hollow clang.

She pushed herself up and sprinted to the doorway, where now, no one stood in her way.