Myrrir arrived at Larin VI late in the evening. As the Hyovao sailed down the Stream, he basked in the glow of the sun setting behind the world’s vast clouds—and the hazy outline of the ringed gas giant it orbited around.

The first thing he needed was a plan.

He took stock of their situation: they had a ship, and it was fast, but no faster than the Harmony, a crew, and some remaining influence—for a few more months, until word spread about his fall from his father’s grace.

Father had said that the Mediator was on Ramesworld, but from the Tarrebian to there would take weeks. It didn’t take a genius to know that she would repel the siege and move on before he arrived. Nalla was in charge of Karmion’s armies, and the woman would get herself killed at Vayra’s hands in a flash. Myrrir would be chasing a shadow.

He could expect Vayra to move on from Ramesworld, that much was certain.

Folding his hands behind his back, he marched down from the quarterdeck and approached Tye. “It would be logical for the Mediator to head to Thronehome once her mission is complete, wouldn’t it? She could claim the full support of the Order.”

Tye stood just in front of the junk’s tiller, watching the sea ahead of them. TheStream curved gently towards the moon’s jungly surface, mixing with the small oceans to the north.

The man glanced back for a moment, then stroked his chin. “Yes, I find it logical. But we won’t be able to sail into the Thronehome harbour. They don’t take kindly to pirates, and they would hunt us tirelessly. They might send the Mediator after us, and she grows stronger by the second.”

“I figure, given how she behaved, she’s the type of person who will stall at Quartermaster for a while. We have time, and even if she does advance, we will too.”

“An valuable observation,” Tye said. “But the point remains: we would not last long in Thronehome, nor in Velaydian space at all.” He paused, then added, “I figure that’s why we’re here, correct?”

“We can work with a bounty hunter,” said Myrrir. “We’ll give them some clues, offer some extra compensation, anything to send them scrambling off to Thronehome. We need to scare the Mediator into action again, get her moving.”

Tye’s face scrunched into a knot. “You think you could scare her off Thronehome—perhaps the safest place in the galaxy for her?”

“If she gets attacked in the safest place in the galaxy? She’ll want to keep moving, if it’s the only way to ensure her safety. Then we’ll snap her up.”

“The bounty hunter will be seeking to capture Vayra as well.” Tye’s face was still twisted, completely unconvinced. “There is a high chance you are betrayed.

“But the bounty hunter will still take her off Thronehome…if we are betrayed, then we will act in our best interests.”

“If you command it, then it will be done.”

“I just need you to get us into the port. I’ll do the rest.”

“Yes, Myrrir.”

Myrrir marched down from the quarterdeck and ran to the junk’s bow. Larin VI was an almost-uninhabited, planet-sized moon in the Tarrebian, but its single city was home to a great many pubs and taverns, and for hundreds of years, it had been a haven for bounty hunters and other scoundrels.

Nestled into the forest, a village lined the coast. It was built mostly of wood, but the walls were daubed, making some of the structures look sturdier than they were. The windows began to flicker with orange candlelight and the busy streets settled for the evening—only to come alive a half-hour later with nightlife.

The Hyovao approached the harbour as the nightlife began to gather in the streets. By the time they had the ship tied up at an empty pier, the taverns had opened and patrons streamed into them.

Myrrir glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be back before the evening’s over,” he told a sailor who watched him curiously.

Then, he vaulted over the railing and landed firmly on the dock.

Keeping a hand on his sword’s hilt, he walked into the city. Every tavern was filled to the brim with heads, and he didn’t know where to start. He figured that at the lower end pubs, he’d find someone desperate enough to accept a mission on Thronehome, but he also doubted that a desperate bounty hunter would be skilled enough to strike the fear he needed.

There was one establishment, a tavern at the center of the city, where the outcasts hid. It was filled with people who were exiled from the bounty hunting coalitions, or so insane that even their comrades didn’t want to spend time around them.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

Myrrir walked down the central, cobblestone street, weaving between evening crowds and drunkards. He kept his head high, looking for the right sign.

Nestled into a corner, just beside an alley, was the Hand of Grog tavern. An unassuming sight, its walls were made of pale, plaster-covered wood, and its roof was an overturned, hollowed-out ship’s hull.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Immediately, he inhaled a breath of alcohol fumes, cigar smoke…and blood.

He switched to a cycling technique more appropriate for combat—fast breaths—and with the help of his mind, his Arcara began to vibrate. The gunpowder in his hip flask begged to be used.

Clinging to the edge of the tavern, Myrrir slipped into a dark corner and watched. The entire first floor was filled with tables. He could barely see across it—the whirling smoke was too thick—but he could make out humanoid shapes of all kinds. Not many of them bowed to the restrictions of modern fashion; most wore metallic armour of some sort, and he only spotted a few tricorn hats.

He’d only been to this planet once. It had been many decades ago, and he had travelled with his father. The memory grated on him like a sore, but he shook his head, pushing it away.

A pistol cracked, and someone hollered cheerfully. The crowd’s roar nearly drowned out a minstrel in the center of the room—a man with fox ears, strumming aggressively on a fiddle.

“Can I get y’anything, sir?” someone asked Myrrir.

He turned his head to the left. An employee of the tavern; an elven woman in plain clothing. “That’s alright. I’m hunting for a client.”

“Actually, it ain’t. You’re just taking up space if y’ain’t drinkin’.”

“I’ll pay whoever I pick well. I’m sure plenty of that money will return to you.”

The comment seemed to pacify the employee for the moment. She scoffed, then turned away.

As soon as Myrrir turned his attention back to the crowd, he felt a stir in the back of his neck. His spine began to tingle. Another God-heir was here. Did they have the same idea as him?

He pushed away from the wall, hunting for the person causing the spiritual disturbance. He dipped between tables, feeling for a harsher tingle or a softer tingle as he walked. When the feeling changed, he altered course accordingly.

At the other side of the tavern, he found her.

Five people sat around a table, throwing playing cards into a pile while sipping hard liqueurs and smoking cigars. He didn’t need to guess who the God-heir was; she sat alone on one side of the table, holding her cards with an array of magically-suspended wood chips rather than her hands.

She was a mothfolk. She watched Myrrir with empty black eyes, and her feathery antennae twitched. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of him, but quickly turned her gaze back to her cards. After a second of fidgeting with the collar of white fur around her neck, she plucked a card and threw it down on the pile.

Myrrir approached the edge of the table. He almost asked to be dealt into the game, but that was more tact that he figured he had available. “God-heir,” he said, placing a hand on the table. “What is your purpose here?”

“I’m a hunter,” she said, not looking up from her cards.

Myrrir married his eyebrows. Not competition, then? “Are you available for hire?”

Every head at the table turned towards him. Finally, the mothfolk tucked a strand of white hair behind her ear and said, “Depends on how much you can pay me.”

“Eight hundred Elderworld quivres.”

She chuckled. “You’re serious?”

“I’ll throw in fifty-or-so slightly-used bluecoat muskets, and the rest of their uniforms—bloodstained, a little—if you’d like.” After Father had banished him, Myrrir had disposed of the bluecoats who had been assigned to the Hyovao. Perhaps they would remain loyal, and perhaps they wouldn’t. Myrrir didn’t need to find out the hard way.

“You’re insane, giving that much to any bounty hunter,” the mothfolk said. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That’s double the highest bounty on the market.”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Everybody, leave us,” the mothfolk said. The others at the table pushed their chairs back and stood up, then dispersed around the room. As soon as they were gone, she flicked her hand outward, scattering her hovering wood chips and dropping the cards face-up. “Would’ve been a Straight Harlworth. Shame.”

“Your name, God-heir?”

“Wren Lee. I’ll settle for Wren.” She crossed her arms, rumpling her tunic and leather cuirass. “And I’m not a God-heir.”

“Yet you have magic.” Myrrir took a seat on the opposite side of the table. He pushed aside a cup of violet whiskey, then added, “Vallor’s magic, I’d say.”

“Not a God-heir.”

Myrrir squinted, though he didn’t press the topic. “I could use someone like you. I have a job.”

“What job could a pirate princeling offer me that he couldn’t do himself?”

Of course she had recognized him. He hadn’t taken efforts to keep himself obscure, after all. There was no point in dancing around it. “I need you to head to Thronehome. There, you will find the Mediator—weak and training. A God-heir would be best-suited for the task.” Surely, she’d be strong enough to at least cause Vayra a fright.

“Call me God-heir one more time, and I’ll give you the worst splinter you’ve ever had.”

“What would you rather me call you, if not God-heir?”

“Wren Lee Victra, is my name. Like I said, I’ll settle for Wren.”

From the Victra Kinship. Myrrir didn’t know them well, but he knew they were a powerful silk-weaving dynasty from the Elderworlds. As far as he knew, they had no God-heirs in their command, and…working as a bounty hunter, no less?

Myrrir shut the thoughts down. He wasn’t here to worry about the twisted tale of a bounty hunter.

“Well, Wren, will you take the job?”

She sat silent for a moment, fiddling with a long strand of her hair. “Fine, yeah, sure. I’ll do it. Should be somewhat interesting.” She drew a weapon from her hip—a carbine with an axehead fixed to its barrel. “Gotta test this bad boy out, anyways.”

“I need her alive. Not with a gaping bullet wound in her chest, or poisoned by rusty steel.”

“You got it. No murder, and I can only maim if I don’t poison her.” She ran one of her fingers along the axe’s blade. “So, half the gold now, half when I succeed?”

“That will do nicely.”