As the Harmony pulled into the Shattered Moon’s port, a buzz steadily grew in the back of Vayra’s neck. By the time they had anchored at one of the berths and tied the ship up, the buzz had spread all the way down her spine and turned to a pressure in her ears. There were hundreds of God-heirs here, and so many of them were Captains.
And there were still a few weeks until the tournament began.
If it wasn’t for the buzz and the anticipation of the tournament, she would have run around the Shattered Moon for days, trying to get the best views of the peculiar world. But first, she had to get herself and Glade registered—and make their presence known, if they hadn’t already been recognized.
As they stepped off the ship, she couldn’t help but look around and try to take in everything. The marble piers, the bustling port, and the half-rock-half-air dome that hung high above. Sunlight poured through the shattered crust of the planet (and the enhanced wood and Moulded Arcara trellises that kept it together). The larger orange gas giant that the Moon orbited occupied half the sky beyond the shattered crust.
She, Glade, and Nathariel set off through the city while Pels finished docking the ship in port. He wouldn’t stay long. When the main Velaydian fleet arrived, he would join them offshore, but until then, he would have to make do in the port.
They passed through a network of three-storey-tall buildings near the shore. Most were made of a pale marble like the piers, but there were still plenty of ramshackle wooden structures tacked on or squished between the others.
When they reached the main street, they hunted for a way to make their entrance into the tournament known.
Vayra had changed out of the Redmarine coat and back into her white cloak, sleeveless tunic, and short breeches—it was the best she had for fighting, and there was no need to wander around the port city in such obvious enemy garb, even if a pact of non-violence did protect the city. Glade wore a black cloak and a hat to hide his hair, and Nathariel had just accepted a brown cloak.
No matter what oaths people swore, it wouldn’t stop anyone from trying to get lucky. They didn’t need to make bigger targets of themselves.
They found a tournament application booth at a central plaza on the main street. A short line of God-heirs waited in front of it, and mortal civilians bustled all around, peddling wares and services. The three of them slotted into the line, waiting their turn.
It was midday (as best as she could tell through the cracks in the rocks), but a large chunk of rock had shifted in front of the sun and cast an enormous shadow across the continent-sized floating island. Lanterns and torches flickered to life, and a few of the God-heirs activated their seer-cores for light.
The line shifted slowly. Vayra paid close attention to the process, so she could be certain that they wouldn’t do anything unusual for her.
The line finally shifted and she reached the booth. It was a ring of temporary wooden counters set up in the center of the plaza with a fabric awning to shelter the mortal human workers. Elderworld banners fluttered outside it and hung from the awnings, and a few bluecoats waited at the center of the circle, fiddling with their muskets.
Outside the booth, guards in blue armour patrolled, carrying heavy glaives. A quick scan of their spirits revealed that they were also mortals, but they carried themselves with confidence. The runelines running down their glaives had to help with that—the weapons must’ve had a significant power output—and they had the numbers to back up their confidence.
Holding her hands out and cycling her Arcara, Vayra approached the booth. “Uh…hello. We’re here to—”
“One at a time,” the mortal worker said, shaking his head. He pulled up a new sheet of parchment, then an inkwell and a quill. Then, he pulled a box across the desk and drew a pin and a vial out of it. “Hold out your hand.”
“Glade,” Nathariel whispered, “you go first.”
Glade stepped up to the booth, and again, the worker asked him to hold out his hand. Vayra had been expecting the worker to ask for their names first, but she supposed they had to verify the strength of the entrants before they wasted any parchment.
Glade held out his hand, and the worker pricked the center of his palm with the pin. A glob of blood welled up, and he dropped it in the vial. After a few seconds of swirling, the vial turned a shade of pale blue. A few flecks of dark material precipitated out of the solution and sank to the bottom of the vial.
Vayra didn’t exactly understand how the test worked, but upon reaching Captain, the Arcara system became so integrated with the body that a simple blood test could tell a great many things about someone. Too pale, and the person hadn’t reached Captain. Too blue, and the person had already reached Commodore.
The worker held it up to a reference sheet on the pillar beside him, then nodded. “Just barely made it. Advance to Captain recently, eh?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Glade nodded.
“Name?”
“Glade Charl Arvitir.”
The man scratched his muttonchops. “You wouldn’t happen to have a Godly name, would you? Who’s sponsoring you?”
“I fight for King Tallerion and Velaydia,” Glade said.
The worker swallowed and took a step back. The bluecoats at the center of the booth stood up and cocked their muskets.
“Pardon me?” the worker asked.
Glade placed a hand on his sword. “You heard me.”
The bluecoats stopped behind the worker. It was hard to tell with their masks, but they seemed to be eyeing the city guardsmen, trying to judge what the reaction would be. The guardsmen were watching, but they didn’t budge, and neither did the bluecoats.
“P—Path, then?” the worker stammered. “What is yours?”
“Path of the Autumn Edge.”
So that was what he was calling it.
‘It has a nice ring to it,’ Phasoné commented.
The worker scrawled down Glade’s name and Path, then said, “Please move along. We don’t want any trouble here. You’re in, but don’t expect to last long.”
Glade nodded and stepped to the side with Nathariel, leaving Vayra at the counter alone.
“Next, then.” The worker looked directly at her. “Your hand please, miss.”
Vayra held out her flesh-and-blood hand, palm up. The worker pricked the center of her palm with a different pin until a drop of clear blood spilled out. He raised his eyebrows, but still whisked the droplet over to the vial and dropped it in. The liquid in the vial turned a shade of pale blue.
He swirled it around for a few seconds, but it didn’t change. He snorted, then said, “Impeccable spirit potential, and you’re at the right stage. No precipitate, so no blockages or char, either. You’re in prime fighting condition, miss.”
At the worker’s comment, a few of the other God-heirs lingering around all turned to face her. A few shifted away nervously. The bluecoats all turned to face her, and the city guardsmen closed in on them. Two of the guardsmen poured Stream water down their glaives, and the runes lit up. The weapons’ cutting edges shimmered with pale blue light, sparking and popping.
“Who’s your sponsor?” shouted a God-heir in the line behind her. He was a young man with feathers for hair and olive skin, and he carried an enormous blacksmith’s hammer on his back. In an instant, he Moulded daggers of shimmering yellow Arcara in his hands. They glowed, popping and sparking with the light of a forge.
The guardsmen stepped in front of him. Two of them crossed their glaives, preventing him from taking another step closer to Vayra.
“Get off me!” the God-heir snapped, then struck one of the guardsmen with a fist. His knuckles glowed yellow-orange, and when they struck the guardsman’s armour, the blue jade shattered. The guardsman slid back a few feet, but he was otherwise unharmed. The armour had saved his life. Two more replaced him, shoving their glowing glaives up to the God-heir’s throat.
“Stand down,” they ordered.
The God-heir dropped his daggers, and they disintegrated into sparks and dust. He still stared straight at Vayra.
Now was a better time than any. She turned away from the counter, then pulled down her hood. “My name is Vayra, and I am a Discarded. I have no family or sponsor, but I fight under King Tallerion as well—for the sake of balance in the Galaxy.” She jumped up onto the counter so she could see the entire crowd. A few more of the God-heirs unveiled weapons or half-formed techniques, but most of them backed away.
“I am the Godscourhe, and I will destroy Karmion.” She held out her hand and drew in a little starlight from her scarf, then used it to half-form a Starlight Palm on her fingertips—enough that they began to glow white, but not enough to break the pact of non-violence.
Glade and Nathariel both looked at her. Nathariel smiled, and Glade nodded in approval.
“And I am the Mediator.”
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]
“And how should I reward failure?” Karmion asked, walking a circle around Larra. He let the veil on his core slip a little on purpose, exerting a pressure that made Larra’s knees buckle. She fell to her knees. “Your standing must not remain. You were once fourth in line to inherit my Godhood, but I would make you last.”
“Let me fight in your name at the tournament,” Larra said. “I will make it right. I will destroy the Mediator for you.” She clutched at the tooth-shaped pendant hanging from her neck—the artifact that had once been set firmly in her pet wolf’s mouth, though Karmion couldn’t remember the beast’s name for his life.
“Had you succeeded, she wouldn’t be an issue,” Karmion said.
He turned, the tails of his coat snapping behind him. He marched to the other side of his audience chamber. The Mediator had advanced to Captain because of Larra’s failure. Larra hadn’t been able to capture the Mediator, and the longer this went on, the longer Karmion would be trapped between perceived honour and a genuine risk to his power.
He set his hands down on a table hard enough to splinter the wood, but he wrenched himself back under control in a matter of seconds.
“You will not be the only entrant from our family,” Karmion stated. “You will be kept under close watch, and you will win—or else. We will assert our family’s continued superiority at the tournament, and by the end, one of my children will crush that girl.”
Larra stayed kneeling on the other side of the room, her head bowed.
“If you want anything from me ever again, you had better win,” Karmion said. “If you fail, I will destroy you.”
“Understood, father.”
“Now get out of my sight before I change my mind. We leave for the Shattered Moon immediately.”
To Be Continued…