Myrrir walked into the port village unaccosted. He hadn’t even encountered a bluecoat patrol along the way or at the city outskirts—they were all at the battle. Within the city, there were a few bluecoats, but he kept his head down and stuck to the shadows. They probably wouldn’t recognize him, but he wasn’t taking any risks.
The Hyovao waited exactly where he had left it, but it was in much better shape. The ship’s purser had run about the city, hiring more crew members and anyone who was willing to work their way offworld, and the rest of the crew had almost finalized the repairs.
When Myrrir returned, he told them that Tye had been killed by the local Moro-ka, and most of the crew fell silent. They kept working on the ship’s final repairs, and Myrrir helped, but no one spoke.
Would they have done that Myrrir had died?
He swallowed uncomfortably. Over the next day and a half, they finished the repairs, but everyone stayed silent unless it was absolutely necessary to speak.
At noon on the second day, Myrrir’s lie almost fell apart: the bluecoats strung up Tye’s body in the central square, hanging from a noose as if the gaping musket-shot hole in his chest hadn’t killed him first.
Myrrir held back all surges of regret. His heart pounded and his stomach churned. At least he was the only one of the crew who ventured far enough inland to see it.
He commanded them to set sail as soon as he could—which was only an hour later.
They put the port behind them and turned to the planet’s only branch of the Stream. This whole ordeal would be over soon enough, and he could forget about it all.
When the system was only a faint speck in the void, he let himself relax, but everything still felt wrong. Everything was just slightly out of place. The boards of the deck were too pale, the lanterns too dim, and the crew too…quiet.
He heaved a sigh. The tournament would do wonders for his mood—especially when he could prove to his father that he was still the strongest Captain of their generation, and worthy of every accolade and praise he could give.
Myrrir told the navigators, “To the Shattered Moon.” Without thinking, he added, “Please.” He blinked a few times, then told himself never to do that again.
They set the charts and nodded, obeying immediately.
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]
The Shattered Moon had once been a planet-sized moon orbiting an orange gas giant, but an asteroid had smashed into it a few hundred years ago. Ever since, the moon had been falling apart. Shards of the planet were lifting away like flaking skin, and chunks of the surface and frozen mantle hung out the bottom. From a distance, the entire moon looked like an enormous spaceborne jellyfish, bound by the ever-weakening umbilical cord of the Stream.
Endless trellises of wood and Moulded Arcara held the three-quarter sphere of the main moon together. Cracks ran across the surface and deep into the core of the world, and some patches of surface were missing for miles around. The moon didn’t have a molten core anymore, nor anything in its core except air. Enormous floating runes sought to maintain the atmospheric composition, but they could only keep it thick enough at the moon’s empty core.
Any decade, now, the moon would lose all of its connection to the Stream, and it would just become a pretty object in the sky. But until then, it remained a location of great significance to the Elderworlds—and the galaxy as a whole.
It was where the Streamfather had struck down an ancient void-fiend from realms above—the Foe. Ever since, it had been the site of the Skyclash tournament, where the best, most prodigal Captains of their generation fought for recognition from their parents or grandparents.
Sometimes, even an uninherited Godly authority.
This time, more than just a Godly authority would be on the line. There were grander workings at play. In a few months, the tournament would begin, and Myrrir couldn’t miss out.
On the journey from the Kamoro system to the Shattered Moon (a short, two-day journey along the Stream), rumours circulated through the crew. They had heard from someone (who had heard from someone else, and so on) that Velaydian contestants would be attending the tournament.
If the Order of Balance had anyone at Captain, Myrrir would be surprised—and much more surprised if the Mediator made it to Captain in such a short time. But he figured it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities, considering how fast she’d made it through the other ranks.
The two galactic factions would draw lines in the sand, demonstrating their power and courage to their people.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The Hyovao approached the Shattered Moon as fast as it could. The Stream thinned as it approached the moon, fraying and fading off into mist. Tendrils snaked aimlessly into the void, and particles of unconsolidated Stream water left the protection of the arcane winds, freezing into iridescent hail.
The surface of the Shattered Moon was barren, now. Only the hardiest shrubs grew on the surface, and there were no settlements anymore. The Stream didn’t anchor to the surface anymore; it passed through an enormous crack.
The Hyovao slowed down on the descent. The deeper they delved, the weaker gravity became, but the greater the outside air pressure grew.
Miles below the planet’s surface, the Stream passed through a spherical boundary of mist. Within the boundary was a continent-sized floating island. Gravity normalized above the island, and the air pressure lightened.
The Stream sloped towards the island’s edge—where a slice of ocean waited. It was entirely Stream water, and it misted off the edge of the continent in waterfalls and rain.
The Stream anchored to the edge of the island, depositing the Hyovao just outside the main port city.
Within the misty sphere, the climate was mild. The system’s distant sun shone through the cracks in the Moon’s surface, illuminating the continent’s snow-capped mountains and forests in swaths. Every single tree was either a shade of sickly green, orange, or yellow, and entire bands of forest were dead.
The Hyovao sailed into the planet’s main port, approaching one of the hundreds of white marble piers that reached out into the ocean. Each pier was large enough to host multiple tallships, and most had at least two docking at them, if not three. The planet imported supplies, but also wealthy guests who wanted to stake out their place well before the tournament began.
And of course, entrants like Myrrir who had nothing better to do than show up early.
He retrieved a spare brass cuirass and gauntlets from the great cabin and donned them, then made sure his sword and powder flask were bound firmly to his hip.
Alone, he jumped down to the pier and dismissed the crew. They didn’t need to be here, nor did they need to waste gold on harbour fees. Under the command of an old quartermaster, now the honourary First Officer, the Hyovao set off. When the tournament was over in a few months, they would return.
Or not. Maybe they’d see an opportunity and make a run for it. Myrrir could find another ship. The tournament was more important.
He wandered the port city for a few hours, trying to catch his bearings and determine where he could make his entrance into the tournament official. Everywhere he went, city guards stared at him suspiciously.
The city guards weren’t bluecoats. They wore bluesteel armour (a material with the lustre of jade, but blue) marking their affiliation to the Elderworlds, but they had all specially trained to maintain the peace of the Shattered Moon. A few of them carried muskets, but most carried bluesteel glaives. They patrolled with grace, their cloaks flowing behind them with every step. Whenever a pair of merchants even began to argue, the guards stepped in and pushed them apart, stopping a fight before it could start.
For as long as the Shattered Moon had been significant, it had also been consecrated. Unless it was during the tournament, no violence could take place. That didn’t mean people wouldn’t try to start fights, and Myrrir could almost guarantee some sort fowl play would rear its head in the upcoming tournament.
Finally, when the sun was dipping around the bottom of the continent-sized floating island, he found a booth nestled into the side of a busy street. It didn’t look terribly important, with its tattered awnings and patinated walls, but a set of Elderworld banners hung beside it.
“Where can I register for the Skyclash tournament?” he asked the man running the booth.
The man was a mortal in a simple brown coat. A bluecoat sat in the gloom of the shop behind him, asleep, but Myrrir figured the man was more important.
“We can do the assessment here, son,” the man said. “But we’re closing up shop in ten minutes, so do as I say and make it quick. If you’re not at the right stage or don’t meet the entrance qualifications—at least half a core of Captain-grade Arcara—you’ll have to try again next time.”
The man was pretty confident for a mortal, but then again, city guardsmen stood nearby, holding their bluesteel glaives ready. They didn’t exert any spiritual pressure or presence, but their glaives had been marked with rune-lines (which they could activate at any moment with the vials of Stream water at their hips), and there were a great many of them.
“I’ll be quick,” Myrrir assured the man.
“One second, then.”
The man turned away and disappeared into the gloom of the little booth. After a few seconds, he returned with a small box.
“Your hand, please,” he requested.
Myrrir held out his hand. The man took a pin and a vial out of the box. He jabbed Myrrir’s palm with the pin, drawing out a glob of blood, then dropped it in the vial. The vial had already been filled with water and other liquids, and immediately, the blood reacted. It turned blue. Flakes of brown debris precipitated at the bottom of the vial.
The man swirled the vial, then tapped it with his finger. After a few more seconds, he held it up against a sheet of parchment with shades of pigment as reference. “Good enough,” he grumbled. “Exceptional amounts of precipitate—you’ve got a problem with blockages in your Arcara channels, son—but good strength. Acceptable. We’ll call it a match. Name?”
“Myrrir, son of Nilsenir.”
“Path?”
Myrrir scowled. “Really?” The man didn’t know Nilsenir’s heirs’ main Path?
“What Path, son?”
“Path of the Darkflag,” Myrrir grumbled.
“Any official Godly sponsors? Please don’t claim a godly sponsor who has not given you direct permission to do so.”
Myrrir was about to claim Nilsenir—and a few months ago, he would have been able to. But now, he wasn’t so sure.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Not even your old man? Thought you were supposed to be his favoured son and such.”
“Then you’ve been living under a rock,” Myrrir said as the man jotted down the answers with a quill. “This tournament is my way back.”
The man snorted, then tapped his quill harshly at the bottom of the page. “Well, Myrrir, consider yourself enrolled. And good luck.”