Myrrir considered giving up. He couldn’t deny it. When he saw Vayra’s predicament, he realized how easy it would be to step in, slay the bluecoats, then claim he’d stalled her escape and done a great service to Karmion.

But he stuffed the thought down and whispered, “Sorry, Tye.”

He swung his legs over the quarterdeck railing and stepped out into the center of the deck, standing behind the bluecoats, and unleashed Reach technique after Reach technique until all the soldiers lay dead on the ground.

More stood on the deck, and the entire ship rose up in arms and panic as crewmen pointed and shouted at him.

But he was more worried about Karmion’s God-heir backup, and he didn’t have time to play with mortal crewmen. He sprinted into the great cabin and skittered to a halt before the Namola tree. “Are you alright, Vayra?”

“No,” she said. “But I need to get out. Can you cut me free?”

“Of course.” He whirled his sword and Warded its cutting edge, then Braced his arms and struck the branch just above her mechanical hand. The wood shattered, and her arm peeled free.

At first, he hadn’t been sure if he could cut it, but she’d gotten Nathariel free somehow, even if he hadn’t seen that much. It wasn’t a true Namola tree, and they were Admirals. As a cage, with one's limbs restrained, it worked, but not when two Admirals could direct techniques straight into it.

While he chopped her legs free, she blasted her other arm out with a set of starlight pulses. With her limbs free, she peeled herself out of the tree and stepped toward Myrrir. “Thank you.”

“There’s trouble coming,” Myrrir said. A troop of bluecoats ran up the quarterdeck stairs and pointed their muskets, and the first couple got a shot off before Myrrir stopped them—he raised his hand.

Vayra launched a Starlight Palm at the bluecoats. It washed across the quarterdeck, shattering the wheel hub, and flung a swath of them back down to the main deck. But it didn’t hit nearly as hard as it had before.

“Did you…make it weaker on purpose?” Myrrir asked.

“It’s the weapon.” Vayra bent down and snatched up the black scythe. “He damaged my connection to Phasoné. I can’t hear her, and…I’m used to having her around. Her presence was what helped me rise, and without her, I won’t be as strong. Unless I get far away from the scythe, but even then, he left a cut on the back of my neck.” She reached up and rubbed the back of her head. “It severed something spiritually, too.”

“So you can’t use it.” Myrrir cursed under his breath. This infiltration had all been for nothing.

“Not necessarily,” said Vayra. “I need to bring it to Farrir. I have Nathariel’s fire. I have everything we need.” She ducked around the shattered remains of a table, avoiding a barrage of musketfire. Myrrir launched three tendrils of gunpowder out, skewering the nearest bluecoats. He targeted the powder cartridges in their haversacks and ripped the little paper bags apart, then drew out the gunpowder for his own use.

“What were you doing?” Vayra asked.

“Thought you’d never ask.” Myrrir reached into his pocket and pulled out the upper cylinder device he’d stolen from Altrous’ tower. “This.”

The bottom runes glowed, but the upper runes, around the projecting ring, didn’t.

“I captured your conversation with Karmion,” Myrrir said. “The moment I have a direct line of sight with Altrous’ tower, I’ll activate the runes. They’ll be fresher and stronger, and they should take precedence over his current projecting apparatus.”

Vayra’s eyes widened. “And nearly everyone on the Shattered Moon will see what Karmion really thinks about them.”

“Exactly. You did wonderful, by the way. Did you know I was recording?”

“...No? I just said what I believed.” She rubbed her gut. “It tends to hurt.” But, despite her torn robes, the flesh beneath was already healing—visibly.

Myrrir winced. “Right. Sorry. Being good takes practice.”

She rolled her eyes. “We need to get out of here. I’ll take this to Farrir’s tower, and you show the arena the projection.”

“Sounds like a plan.” His senses provided a faint but distant warning. “The Admirals are coming, and fast. They’ve probably sensed what’s happening.”

Vayra activated her full-body Bracing technique, and white flame erupted across her body. “This one had nothing to do with Phasoné. It should work perfectly fine.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Don’t get caught. They’re after you.” He withdrew the Vale Core from his Corespace and handed it to her.

She took the core with a bow of her head and a grunt of exertion, then said, “After this moment, they’ll know you’re with me as well. Be careful.”

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]

Glade and Varion exchanged cautious blows in the center of the arena. Neither landed a hit. Varion punched, and Glade slapped his jabs away with the side of his sword. Glade made noncommittal swings. His blade brushed past the tip of the man’s nose.

It was just the first round, and neither wanted the disadvantage or anxiety of being on the back foot.

But tactics like that inevitably put Glade at a disadvantage. He couldn’t win a drawn out fight, no matter how few techniques he was using. He was still running a line of Arcara along the cutting edge of his blade, still fuelling his enhanced body with mana, and all of it drained him. The swordwyrm could only help take so much pressure off.

When his mana dipped below two thirds, he went on the offensive. He jabbed and lunged while the swordwyrm attacked Varion from behind. With a one-handed grip, he attacked from high angles, and drew on Varion’s concentration with a whip of metal filings and shards. It kept him busy with Wards.

Despite the constant pressure, Varion still drew water out from the orb and splashed it into the ground, then turned it to ice shards wherever Glade was standing. If Glade didn’t constantly move and dodge, he’d get a three-inch wide spear of ice through his gut.

Varion blocked swipes with his wrists. He conjured gloves of ice shards around his hands. It wasn’t a Brace or a Ward, and the mixture of Arcara in the ice indicated that it was a very temporary Mould. It wouldn’t last long against Glade’s sword, but it deflected well enough.

Glade drove Varion back across the arena until the God-heir’s heels hung over the edge of the arena and the moat. One more good lunge, and he’d push Varion over.

But Varion smirked, and Glade hesitated.

If he hadn’t, a shard of ice would’ve impaled his eye.

Varion raised a hand, and a coil of water rose from the moat, moving much too quickly for an Admiral. A wall of water rose behind him, climbing out from the moat. It split into individual droplets, then hardened into ice shards.

Glade leapt back, whirling his sword in a defensive pattern and deflecting a constant barrage of ice shards. They flew fast, almost too fast, and the Arcara guiding them, controlling the Reach technique, felt purer than Glade’s. It didn’t want to break when he struck it, even though he was closer, using a more condensed technique of his own.

A shard ripped through his shoulder and slashed his cheek, and another sliced his flank. He hissed and clenched his jaw.

When the barrage ended, he’d retreated back to the center of the arena, with only a third of his mana left.

Varion marched out to meet Glade again. He unbuckled the clasp of his fur cloak and let it slide off his shoulders.

The white frosty spikes didn’t retreat with the coat. They passed through it, held in place by the new strength of Varion’s spirit.

“Too slow,” Varion said. “You didn’t advance in time.”

Glade swallowed, then scanned his opponent’s spirit.

The frost spikes were the remains of a bonded spirit beast. Varion was a Grand Admiral.

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]

By the time Vayra made it to the arena, she’d picked up a trail of three god-heirs. They followed behind her, launching blasts of water or lashing out with long tendrils, trying to catch her and drag her down.

On the flat, open roads, she gained ground, using the Astral Shroud for speed. When she reached the outer ring of the arena, she lost ground as she scaled the outside wall. She had to jump between the roofs and awnings of the ramshackle heaps of buildings outside the arena, where the God-heirs hovered up on clouds of mist.

But they were only basic ocean-Path Admirals, and while they would’ve kept her in check in the tree, they couldn’t compare to Larra or Varion in any way. Silently, she thanked Myrrir for throwing a wrench in all of Karmion’s plans.

But now, only she could finish the job.

When she reached the upper ridge of the arena, she circled around, sprinting toward Farrir’s tower. Where she’d ascended to the upper ring, it was only a quarter of a circle away.

But if she didn’t go fast, she’d have bigger problems than three Admirals. Karmion hovered above the arena, and he’d notice her soon—scratch that, he already had, and he was descending now. Behind him, in the sky, enormous techniques flashed out, dissuading or distracting any Ko-Ganall that made for the Moon, but the battle was drifting closer. Shards of enormous bone burned up in the atmosphere, and chunks of the Ko-Ganalls’ bodies spattered against the outer crust of the Moon.

When Vayra passed by Brannûl’s empty tower, she finally looked down into the arena, and her heart nearly stopped. Glade fought Varion, but even without an axe, he was strong. Subconsciously, she scanned his spirit.

He’d reached Grand Admiral.

“Come on, Glade,” she whispered. “Advance now, or never.”

But he didn’t. Varion beat him back. The God-heir bashed the sword out of Glade’s hands with ice-shard-encased arms, then struck him in the gut with a fist.

From there, the fight didn’t last long. Varion threw Glade around the arena with brutish efficiency. Every time Glade tried to stand up and regain his footing, Varion was there—in the perfect place to counter him. Stronger, faster, with more powerful techniques.

When Glade surrendered, the crowd fell silent. Glade had come back from a loss in the first round before, but this time, he was facing an opponent a stage higher than him, with centuries more experience.

He had to advance. He had to.

But from the top of the arena, Vayra couldn’t affect the outcome of the fight. She needed to repair the weapon and reconnect with Phasoné, and fast.