“H—how?” Vayra whispered. “How did you stay hidden from the other gods?”
“In truth?” Nathariel—or Lyze—shook his head. When his hair stopped whipping in front of his face, his eyes now glowed brighter, and the irises guttered like a candle flame. “By staying away from them. There is a reason I spent much of my life on Muspellar.”
“But…why? You were a god!”
“I was tired, Vayra, so tired. I wanted a simple, lowly life, where I could live out my days without jockeying for mortal prayers or debating with the pantheon over whose follower sects deserved what planets for our sanctuaries—what planets the Mediator allowed us to have.” He breathed a sigh. “And now I’m free.”
“Nath—Lyze,” Vayra said, “we need help. They’re going to destroy us.”
“Please, I prefer Nathariel.” He grimaced. “I have had my fill of calm, I think, and much more peace than I deserve. It’s true that I spent my youth advancing at whatever cost, even at the cost of other people and innocent mortals. I will fight, and I will die.”
Vayra blinked. “But…you’re a god!”
“I made a deal with Farrir. In exchange for a century’s worth of dragonfire in his forges, he’d smith me the finest core-shroud possible—a soul-mail hauberk to hide even the strongest God-heir from prying eyes. It made me appear first as an initiate, and when I appeared out of nowhere in the Hayden family, they believed the tale that I was a long lost relative. See, first I figured I’d lead a lowly sect, and that was it, but I realized even then that was too much.” He snorted.
“But you were an Admiral when I found you.”
“I could release the shroud only up to the Admiral stage,” Nathariel said. “Beyond that, if I released the shroud, it would kill me. I am on a timer, and I will only hold together for so long.”
“And…you released the shroud?”
“Aye, I did.”
“No…” Vayra whispered.
“The gods will let this moon die before long.”
“King Tallerion is sending a fleet to help us evacuate.”
“He’s not here yet.”
Vayra shut her eyes. “No, he’s not.”
“You still have a god to kill. Find the weapon, then get out of here. Get back to the arena.”
“Nathariel.” She paused. “I spoke to Farrir. He agreed to make the weapon suit me, and to repair the hasty forging Karmion did. But he needs some of your fire to do it.”
“Of course he does,” Nathariel grumbled. “He burnt through what I gave him in a matter of years, forging great weapons, of course, but it couldn’t compare.” He marched across the cabin to a table. There were jars, elixir vials, silver tongs and chisels and hammers—all tools for forging a weapon. He held out one of the largest jars, one a half-foot wide and tall, and placed his hand over the opening.
Flame and Arcara spewed from the palm of his hand and swirled into the jar, filling it like some sort of precious, neon orange ale. It grew more solid, more physical than regular flame, and its blaze was more like waves on the sea than the crackling of fire. When the flames reach the top of the jar, he snatched up a silver lid from the table and screwed it on. Only a few wisps of orange light seeped out.
He passed it to Vayra, and she readily took it. “Thank you,” she said. In her arms, it nearly pulled her to the floor—she hadn’t expected it to be so heavy, both physically and spiritually.
“Phasoné, can you hold this?” Vayra drew the jar inside her corespace, and though it weighed her down spiritually, at least it wasn’t in the way.
‘I’ll keep it safe,’ the goddess confirmed.
Vayra turned back to Nathariel. “Could you fight Karmion? After releasing your shroud, could you do it? You have the strength of dragons, and…”
“I would not win.” He knelt down and gripped her shoulders. “Vayra, he has the love of the mortals. Those nearest to him provide him the greatest strength, and he knows it. With their wills and love behind him, he will draw on them. They have made him a symbol, and they worship him—and he receives power from it as an Emissary.”
“So I take him away from here, and—”
“Do you want to fight him on even ground, or with an advantage? No, keep him here, and use that against him. Your Mediator Form can achieve the same thing, as advanced as you are. Turn the mortals of the Shattered Moon to your favour, and you will match him—if not be a step above.”
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Vayra nodded, then leaned forward and hugged Nathariel. “Thank you. I…no. Just thank you. And goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Vayra. Tell Glade that I’m proud of him, and I hope you know I feel the same about you. I have never felt more alive than the days I spent teaching you two.”
Nathariel encased himself in a sphere of flame, and Vayra leapt back. It scorched the deck and seared her eyes, and she had to look away.
He sprinted to the back of the room and smashed through the stern windows, then blazed up into the sky, arcing away from the surface and approaching the other gods.
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All around the Shattered Moon, people felt the presence of a fourth God completely unveil itself, but the Pantheon felt it most of all.
Hovering in the orbit of the Shattered Moon’s parent gas giant, holding back the void with his miniscule authority over wind, Vallor turned to Brannûl and Bharrelion. They panted, catching their breath from their latest exchange with a Ko-Ganall that broke off and made for the Shattered Moon—now, a spatter of blood, bones, and tentacles, all searing toward the moon’s surface in baskets of flame.
“Did you feel that?” Vallor asked.
“Look,” said Bharrelion, pointing her moon-dust-encased arm down toward the Shattered Moon. A speck of glowing orange flame raced toward them.
“Lyze,” breathed Brannûl. “It’s him. I sense his spirit at last.”
“Is he coming to fight us?” Vallor whispered. One day, Lyze had grown a love for mortals, and the tactics of the Pantheon hadn’t sat well with him after that. Or so the story went.
“He’s defending the moon,” said Bharrelion. “For the moment, we are allies.”
In a flash, Lyze streamed past the other hovering gods and punched the nearest Ko-Ganall in the forehead, popping one of its eyes and shattering its skull. A burst of flame spewed out in all directions, lighting the sky for stellar miles in all directions.
“We can’t have him upstage us, then,” said Vallor. “With me!”
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Vayra darted around the Cardinal Arrant’s great cabin, tugging open drawers and pushing over cabinets. The weapon had to be here somewhere.
When she used her spiritual senses and concentrated on her surroundings deeply, a great well of darkness weighed on her mind—like the aura that had emanated from Myrrir’s old shadowthorn. It was here, but she couldn’t pinpoint where. The aura was too overwhelming, too strong, to say exactly where it came from. Especially when she’d only been able to use her spiritual senses for a few weeks.
“Nathariel…” she muttered. “Couldn’t have stayed and told me where the weapon was?” She dropped down on her stomach and pushed the corpse of the Admiral guard away. “If you even knew…”
‘It’s possible he didn’t. He had no mana until you entered, and he didn’t look in the best condition. Probably was in and out of consciousness.’
“And he’s capable of fighting Ko-Ganall?”
‘Mana does wonders for one’s will to live. Also for one’s regenerative abilities.’
“Fair. But he’s nowhere as near as capable as regenerating as we are, is he?”
‘I imagine he has effective regenerative abilities, still.’
“Better than yours?”
‘Guaranteed. I had very few followers, and comparatively, I had only been an Emissary for a short period of time.’
Vayra was about to move to the next drawer and push it over, but a glint of something wet, sickly, and black caught her attention from the corner of her eye. She stepped back. It came from the Namola tree. It could have been some unnatural diseased sap leaking out from the intertwined stalks of its trunk, but it was too flat.
She ran back to the tree, nearly tripping over one of the elixir tubes, then ducked around back to its front. Nestled into the branches was a curved blade of black, watery slime in solid form. It was slippery, almost like glass but if that glass had a slimy coating, and any depth or detail seemed painted onto the fabric of the world itself with watercolour.
She blinked long and hard. It was almost impossible to look at for long, and now that she was aware of it, it weighed down on her with spiritual weight. Not as strong as the Vale Core, but its form and materials were what they needed.
She Moulded her scythe and drew it back, ready to slash through the branches of the tree and reveal what lay below, when her spirit cried out in warning, begging her to turn around. Instincts.
Instead, she ducked, dropping to her stomach. A bolt of surging, ripping water blasted through the front wall of the great cabin, smashing glass and shattering the thin wood. It raced just over her head and struck the Namola tree’s trunk, tearing its bark off and shattering a set of tubes.
The weight of a God descended behind her. She sprang upright and whipped around to face the threat, activating her internal Wards to protect herself from any blood manipulation. Another blast of water surged through the three-foot wide hole in the wall, then arced around from the side. She pushed an external Ward over her shoulder as well, but the water struck with such concentrated force that it flung her off her feet.
One moment, she was standing, and the next, she lay against the side wall of the cabin atop a splintered wooden table. She rolled to the side, avoiding another lash, then hopped back to her feet—and just in time for the front wall of the cabin to burst apart. The entire wall shattered into splinters and shards of glass, and a torrent swept in, washing her to the back of the cabin.
The waves receded to the sides of the room, held in place by an enormous Reach technique, and a silhouette marched in.
“What providence,” said Karmion, spreading his arms. He pulled his hat off his head, revealing a mane of watery hair that used to be the plume—it clung overtop his normal hair, like an ancient centurion’s helmet ornament. “If only Nathariel had waited lingered a little longer, then I could have made him watch his disciple’s ultimate defeat. But I will settle when the opportunity arises.”