Vayra ran down the hallway and back to the main hall. She leapt down to the main floor, then sprinted back to the staircase, which continued upwards through the Facility.

She dispelled the scythe for ease of climbing, then bounded up the stairs as fast as she could, springing off railings and hauling herself over the banisters. As she ran, she cycled her Arcara, both to cool and cleanse her channels, and to begin healing the damage to her body.

In the tight corridors and staircases, she was faster and more nimble than Myrrir. His pounding footsteps faded into echoes.

‘Vayra, hide!’ Phasoné stressed, her voice quivering.

At the next landing, she reached a doorway. She pushed the wooden sheet open and made sure it shut gently behind her with a gentle tug.

‘Stop cycling. Veil yourself to his spiritual senses!’

Vayra held her breath and crept down the hallway as far as she could. She glanced back and whispered, “He can track me with the tingle in his neck, right?”

‘Not if you’re making a conscious effort to hide your spirit. You’re still weaker than him, and his senses are far from fine-tuned, not like an Admiral’s. The buzz he feels because of you will be greatly diminished.’

Vayra took small breaths to restrain her Arcara, and she used her mind to keep it close to her core, locked in place. The strength faded from her limbs, but it would let her hide from Myrrir.

When she tried to run without breathing properly, everything began to cramp. She lowered her pace to a trot, which made her sides ache less, until she reached the end of the hallway. Another door waited in front of her, and she pushed it open. Carefully, she slipped into the room beyond, then let the door slip shut behind her.

‘In Myrrir’s mind, we’ll have just dropped off the map,’ Phasoné said. ‘And if he didn’t see where we went…’

“He won’t find us?” Vayra whispered. The room at the end of the hallway was a long rectangular chamber with outward sloping walls, and a few windows embedded between them. The floor was littered with tables and mapping equipment, as well as charts and records. All along the walls were…control panels, with lines of runes carved on them. The runes snaked down into the walls and disappeared into the facility. It was a control room.

‘I…I can’t guarantee that he won’t find us.’

Vayra walked back to the wall beside the door, then pressed her back against it. If Myrrir stepped into the room, it would be the last place he saw. She whispered, “How far away is he?”

‘He’s going higher…to the very top of the facility,’ Phasoné said. ‘I just sense a looming twitch. The danger is fading, or at least, that’s how it feels…’

Vayra kept her lips together and didn’t dare to move. But staying so tense, her arms began to twitch. “Phas, how much mana do we have?”

‘Half left.’

Vayra nodded. Hopefully, she wouldn’t need anymore. If she waited a few more hours, evading Myrrir, he might grow complacent. She just needed a chance to escape—and enough time to sprint across the lava flats to the woods.

She didn’t know how much time passed. It could have been seconds or minutes. She couldn’t let her mind rest for a moment, lest her Arcara start moving again. And worse, she kept her back up against the wall and her jaw clenched. Her muscles began to ache, and her calves started to cramp.

‘He’s coming down,’ Phasoné warned. ‘Getting closer…closer…’

Vayra raised her arms. She let one hand hover over her scarf, ready to accept starlight into it and remake her scythe as fast as she could.

‘And…he passed us…’

Vayra almost let out a sigh, but she caught herself. It would have made her Arcara move too much. She whispered, “Do you think Myrrir was telling the truth? That the crew is already gone?”

‘He certainly sounded sincere. But he’s a pirate.’

Vayra wrapped her hands together and began to fidget with her own fingers. Waiting was the worst part. Instead of fidgeting, she bent down and reloaded her pistol. “Should we keep looking, then?”

‘He’s onto you. Your best bet is to get out and find the crew later. Otherwise we’ll all die. Or…you’ll be captured, and they’ll probably die anyway.’

Vayra didn’t want to agree, but she had to. Her mind ran around, trying to come up with a plan. She could run away for a few days and leave, then come back in a little while to search, or she could—

‘He’s going down,’ Phasoné interrupted her thoughts, seemingly purposefully. ‘Still going down, and—no, no he stopped. It feels like there are some pirates with him.’

Vayra rolled her lips inward. Her hands began to tremble, and something rose up from her feet, into her stomach—a slight wisp of Arcara that had gotten loose, combined with a surge of hopelessness.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He might have noticed that.

She glanced around the control room, hunting for a window she could break. She ran to the nearest and tapped it with her fist. The amber glass was thick, and she doubted she could break it with her bare hands. Even if she could, fitting through the window would be a tight squeeze.

Jumping down into the lava river below would be certain death—if not for her, then for Phasoné.

‘They’ve reached the landing…Myrrir’s coming down the hallway outside.’

Vayra raised her fists and loosened her left hand—as much as she could. She had to do this. She’d beaten Myrrir once before, and she could do it again. If she had the Mediator Form, that was…

Last time, the Mediator Form had been triggered by a desire to protect people. Shouldn’t it be the same, this time?

‘Or that wasn’t truly the desire,’ Phasoné said. ‘Your strength is tied to the universe, and your acceptance of its truths. The intent of your Paths, the importance of your duty.’ The Goddess paused, then said, ‘You did it once. But you haven’t exactly practiced with it, and it’s not reliable enough to build a plan on.’

“Then we need to fight him the old-fashioned way.” Vayra held out her hand. “He’ll find us.” She was tempted to lean around the doorframe, to see how close he was, but then she’d lose any inkling of surprise. She lowered her voice, whispering as quietly as she could: “Can I have a countdown, Phas? To when you think he’ll arrive?”

‘Ten seconds. He left the pirates at the end of the hall.’

Vayra heard heavy bootsteps and clinking armour.

‘Five.’

Vayra raised her arms back, then began to concentrate on the stars in the scarf. She’d need as many as she could get.

‘Three, two…’ The Goddess’ voice rose and began to tremor. ‘Now!’

Vayra gave Phasoné control of her right hand, and the scythe emerged out of her hand. The ghostly white shaft swirled into existence, and she swung it down as hard as she could—even if the blade hadn’t emerged yet.

The blow struck Myrrir in the shoulder as soon as he stepped into the room. Vayra followed up with a Starlight Palm, trying to fling him across the room. It pushed him a few feet back, but enough that she could draw her pistol and fire.

He shielded his chest—his brassy armour—with gunpowder, and the shot glanced off. She tossed the pistol aside before he could use it against her, then took a two handed grip on her scythe. The blade had emerged all the way.

As Myrrir staggered, she attacked, Bracing her arms to feed more power into her strikes.

With Myrrir on the back foot, his defenses were more frantic. He moved his sword faster, and it didn’t always feel like he anticipated her attacks. Vayra kept pressing. This could be the moment. If she could just…break though!

Her scythe banged against his sword, releasing sizzling pops and swells of sparks. He deflected the scythe’s head side to side, parrying each blow. She pushed him back towards a control panel, where a line of half-active runes still glowed faintly. Myrrir angled his sword, then stepped out of the way, and instead of pushing her to the side, he let her scythe slip off into the control panel.

As soon as the weapon sunk into the wood, he hammered it all the way in with a heavy swipe to the back of the haft. He kept his blade down, holding her weapon in place. Then he looked her in the eyes. “There is no other way to claim my Godhood. You will come with me.”

Vayra ripped her scythe back towards herself, tearing a gash of charred wood across the control panel. It severed the line of runes, and the entire panel went dark. “I’d rather not be Karmion’s prisoner. Doesn’t sound like a fun time.”

She swiped at Myrrir’s neck, but now, he’d taken a wide stance, and he held his sword up and ready. With a twirl of the pale green blade, he pushed her scythe into the floor, then slammed it into another rune-covered control panel. She ripped it free as soon as she could, but his sword had latched onto the crook of her scythe, and it wasn’t letting go of the bind.

“You could come willingly!” he yelled, then pushed her scythe down to the ground. It cut a glowing hot gash in the floor, and she had to Brace her legs to stop herself from sliding backwards any further.

‘Vayra, we need to run!’ Phasoné exclaimed. ‘The Mediator Form isn’t coming! Get out of here!’

I’m trying! Vayra thought—and she was. She’d learned well enough with the dummies that if she tried to back away without an opening, she’d just get hit. But Myrrir’s sword had wedged tight up against the scythe’s head, and he wasn’t releasing her any time soon.

She looked up and scowled. “I’m not coming with you!”

“I will not fail my father again,” said Myrrir. He heaved her scythe downwards with a heavy push, until the head hooked into the stone floor. Myrrir angled his sword, then ripped it free and swept up towards her hand.

‘Watch out!’ Phasoné yelped.

“Let go!” Vayra shouted. They both released their grips on the ghostly weapon and stepped back, leaving the scythe embedded in the ground. Myrrir followed through with his slash, hacking at Vayra’s unprotected hand. She pulled back, but the tip of his sword swished past her fingers. She felt a jolt up her arm, then a crunch.

Half her right hand—her pinky and ring finger—were…gone.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, and she gasped, unable to put a sound to the sensation. Like her hand was a sheet of parchment, and it just had a corner torn off.

‘Vayra!’ Phasoné screamed, a mixture of pain and warning. Myrrir swung again, his sword poised to land alongside her neck and force her to surrender.

Vayra prepared a Starlight Palm in her injured hand, trying to reach out and deflect the blade with a pulse of energy.

Before she could release the technique, Myrrir changed his slash’s course, and it was too late to do anything. He brought the blade down on her right arm, and with a heavy, powerful swipe, sliced through muscle and bone alike.

She stumbled backwards, but there was nothing to fall back on except a stump, leaking clear blood onto the floor. She screamed, though she could barely hear her own voice. Inside her head, Phasoné’s voice rang out, shouting and yelling and it all sounded like distant, unintelligible bells trying to warn her of something.

Myrrir loomed overhead. He raised his sword again. With her one arm, Vayra tried to roll herself, but her hand slipped in a pool of her own blood. Myrrir’s sword fell again, and another pain rolled through her body—this time, at her right leg.

When she looked down and saw nothing, a black veil fell over her eyes, and she passed out.