Vayra inched closer to Phasoné, until the tip of her ear brushed against the Goddess’ shoulder. “If I’d just—”

“I know,” Phasoné whispered. “I know. You don’t have to say it—I can see all your thoughts.”

That didn’t stop the guilt and shame swirling around in Vayra’s stomach from doubling in size. “But—but I did this. You should be furious!”

“I was. For a long while. I’ve had a lot of time to be…” The Goddess’ voice didn’t sound warm or comforting anymore. A touch of cold anger slipped into her words. “I once feared you’d be willing to jump off a cliff just to prove a point.”

“Phas, I—”

“I’ll never get my arm and leg back, either. That would have been entirely your fault. But I don’t need your apologies; I know how you feel, and I can sense your remorse. Really, you owe Nathariel all your gratitude.”

“I know…” Vayra breathed. She shifted away, then spread her arms and let all the air seep out of her lungs. “I’ll make it better. I’ll fix this, and—”

“Like I said, it will be alright.” Phasoné reached out and placed a hand on Vayra’s shoulder. “It’s a good thing I can read your mind. That way you don’t have to promise me you’ve learned.” The Goddess paused, then heaved herself onto her side. She stared right at Vayra. “Now, you can’t spend the rest of your life in here. Get back out and talk with Nathariel.”

“Alright…” Vayra sucked in a breath through her teeth, and let it out one more time, then forced her real eyes open and peeled away the void.

Once more, she laid on a cot in the Harmony’s infirmary. Everyone was nearby, now. Nathariel stood at the end of the cot, with his arms crossed. Glade sat on a stool much closer to her head, and Bremi had just run through the door, clutching his straw hat to his head and panting. They all wore leather Streamrunning masks; the ship must still have been travelling down the Stream. She guessed it would be a week or so still before they arrived back at Thronehome.

“How are you feeling, Ms. Vayra?” Spawlding asked. He stood in a corner of the infirmary, holding a clear vial. He mixed up a green slurry with a stir stick. “Any nausea? Or sharp pain? When you’re not moving, I should say.”

“Not…that I know of,” Vayra replied. She looked at Glade, but she didn’t know what to tell him.

He set his hand down on the edge of the bed. His fingers were clenched into a fist. Vayra half-expecting him to lash out and reprimand her. First, his face contorted into a scowl. Then he grimaced, and said, “I am glad you are doing better.”

She didn’t know what else to expect from him. She’d only ever witnessed one outburst, if it could be called that. My father was a Redmarine. He lost his leg fighting bluecoats.

“Glade, this won’t happen again,” she whispered.

With a nod, he tilted his head towards Nathariel.

“I’m…gonna have to learn how to fight with a peg-leg,” Vayra said. “I’ll have to relearn—”

“No you won’t.” He shook his head. “Can you walk?”

“I can try.”

“Only for short distances,” said Mr. Spawlding. “Don’t overdo it. I only have so many painkillers, and even they have limits.”

“Come with me.” Nathariel stepped away from the edge of the cot, then turned around and marched out of the infirmary. As his footsteps faded, he said, “I’ll be on the gun deck. The gunsmith has been helping me with something. But I could use your hands—and stumps—too. Preferably, before they completely seal over.”

Vayra shifted to the edge of the cot, then glanced at Mr. Spawlding. The man shrugged, then said, “I helped him align the Arcara channels and the tendon-wires, if that’s any reassurance.”

Vayra raised her eyebrows, but everything that the two had said made her want to run up to the gun deck and see what was going on even more. She swung her real leg over the edge of the bed, then her leg-leg. Glade stood up, too, and he passed her a wooden crutch—it was designed for a much larger sailor, but it looked like he’d sawed the end off, making it about her size.

Vayra slipped the crutch under her right shoulder, but she had to reach across her body with her left arm to grab on—she couldn’t control the crutch with just a stump for an arm.

With a grunt, she pushed herself up to her feet. She wobbled for a moment, then widened her stance and thrust her real leg forwards to maintain her balance. A wave of soreness rolled up from the stump of her leg, transmitting through her bones like Arcara through a channel. She clenched her jaw, and she heard Phasoné hissing in mild discomfort.

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“Alright…” Vayra whispered. “Time to walk.”

She pushed her peg leg out. Her mind expected it to snap forwards, and she felt an invisible phantom of her leg following along with it. The phantom leg acted like a real leg, and she anticipated her movement based on it.

The peg-leg, however, did not work like a real leg. She stumbled forwards, instinctively hopping on her real leg to catch her balance, before also planting her crutch. Glade rushed over, poised to help, but she caught her balance and pressed her peg-leg down. She muttered, “Whoops.”

“You’ve got this, sis!” Bremi cheered from the doorway.

Vayra chuckled. Of course, Bremi would say that. She didn’t really believe it. Still, she took another step. Another stumble. She tried again. Another stumble.

The next try, she cycled her Arcara down to the stump of her leg, and with it, her mind and concentration. She moved the stump precisely, and the peg-leg followed. She landed on it, but it worked. She took a proper step.

Slowly, she hobbled out of the infirmary. Bremi walked in the lead, nattering nonsensical gibberish about Nathariel’s project—something about carved wood and starsteel wires, and how impressed he was by Nathariel’s anatomical knowledge.

Vayra nodded along. Of course an Admiral would have a vast array of knowledge about humanoid bodies; their magic passed through it, and they had enhanced their bodies beyond measure. She paid more attention to walking, however.

The stairs up to the gun deck were a challenge, and she decided that hopping on one foot was a better alternative than trying to work with the peg.

She found Nathariel in the center of the gun deck, surrounded by trinkets and half-formed wooden mechanisms. The gunsmith, Mr. Taramir, had set up a makeshift forge behind him, and was hammering away at a small metal rod.

“A little more heat, if you please, sir?” Mr. Taramir requested.

Nathariel turned around, then, with an open palm, blasted a bar of fire into the metal rod. It wrapped around the bar and turned it white hot.

“Thank you.” Mr. Taramir continued to pound away at it with his hammer.

“I wasn’t sure if you would make it,” Nathariel chuckled, turning towards Vayra. “I’ve been working on something.”

“I…I can see.” Vayra didn’t dare to sit down, for fear that she might not be able to muster the strength to stand up again—or maybe she’d fall asleep again. Better to stay standing. “Is that…for me?”

“Believe me,” Nathariel grumbled, “I don’t think I should be rewarding your exploits. But you survived, and having a cripple as a Mediator wouldn’t do any of us any good.”

“Pels told me I had to help,” Mr. Taramir piped up. “Though I admit, I wouldn’t want a lame Mediator, either.”

“Thanks…” Vayra trailed off. She didn’t want to sound rude, but she was still unsure what they were creating—or what to be thankful for. She bent over at the hips, inching her crutch forwards as much as she could. At the center of all the devices, Nathariel screwed together a long, natural-looking structure of wood, starsteel and string. The strings looked like tendons, and the wooden rods like bones. “That’s…a leg.”

It was the perfect size to fit her—and bind to her stump. It looked almost exactly like Myrrir’s prostethic hands. As soon as the realization hit her, her mouth fell open. She hobbled forwards and nudged Nathariel with her knee. “I know you’re probably mad at me…but thank you. Thank you so much.”

Nathariel glanced up at her and nodded gruffly, then turned back to his work. “Try not to cycle Arcara to the wounds. We don’t want the stumps fully closing over until we have the limbs attached. Binding the starsteel to your Arcara channels will be a little trickier, but not impossible.”

‘We’re lucky he sealed our channels with that elixir,’ Phasoné added. ‘Otherwise, they would have ended up frayed and broken, and you might have lost so much Arcara that your core would have bled itself dry. But as far as I can tell, you haven’t lost any cultivation.’

“What can I do to help?” Vayra asked.

Nathariel stroked his chin for a moment, then said, “Sit down. Take the peg-leg off, and help me get the articulation right. We can have it attached before the ship’s watches change, if you lend a hand here and there.”

“On it,” Vayra said.

‘I guess you’ll have to sit down after all…’ Phasoné remarked.

Glancing back at Glade, Vayra asked, “Could I get a hand? Please?” She wasn’t sure if she could sit down without falling flat on her back, and she didn’t need to hurt herself any more than she already had.

Glade helped her down to a sitting position, then returned to the edge of the ship. He sat between two cannons cross-legged, with his sword on his lap. Its hilt had been unwrapped, and he rested a bandaged hand on the exposed tang. Bremi scuttled closer and began to whisper something to him, but a moment later, one of the lieutenants peered below deck and called for him. He scampered away.

Vayra inched closer to Nathariel and the prosthetic leg—as close as she could get. As well as the metal skeleton, the array of trinkets included smooth, curved panels of black wood from the trees of Muspellar. She figured that, when placed properly onto the mechanical skeleton, they would form the shape of a proper leg.

“Nathariel, how did you know that you’d need these…replacements?” Vayra asked.

“These in particular?” He snorted. “I only prepared a basic set of parts prior. I figured you’d lose something, but didn’t know precisely what you would lose.” He tapped the leg with a finger. “I had a disciple who lost a hand, once, and we had to replace it. I’ve done this before, though you’re lucky we also have a surgeon of the Royal Navy aboard to help us.”

Vayra nodded slowly. For a few minutes, she watched him work—fastening bolts, adjusting the strings, bending the knee joint back and forth, and so on. When requested, she helped him hold a part or two with her one hand.

“I was not planning on coming back for you,” Nathariel said softly. “But I went to the storeroom as well, and basked in the powerful remains of the Arcara. I saw a vision of my old master, and whether real or not…he gave advice. I figured it would be worth a listen. So, I suppose this repair is worth a try, too.”

“I’ll do everything I can to make it work.”

“I was hoping you would say that. Now, I’ll need your fingers…”