After three weeks of sailing, they arrived at Thronehome.

Vayra made sure she was on the deck to catch the sight. She ran to the front railing of the quarterdeck, and when that didn’t give a good enough view, she sprinted across the ship to the forecastle and leaned over the railing.

A moment later, she heard footsteps behind her—running towards her. She glanced back. Bremi again.

“I can’t stay long,” he said. “But I’ve heard Thronehome is quite the sight.”

“If you’re going to get in trouble…” she warned.

“I just came to see it with you.” He paused for a second, leaning over the railing as well. “But…I better go.”

Vayra smiled a little, then turned her head forward again.

They approached the light side of Thronehome. It was an average planet, with only a few moons and a normal star. But its surface was covered in endless swaths of brown wood and marble—like Mascant, it was an ecumenopolis, and only small chuncks of the oceans were spared from the sprawl of the city. Clouds of city smoke wreathed the planet, and on the boundary between day and night, Vayra spotted vast formations of city lights flickering to life as the planet spun.

Only one branch of the Stream reached down to Thronehome’s surface, however. It shot towards the largest patch of ocean still open to the sky, carrying thousands of ships.

The Harmony sailed in a downward windlane, flanked by a few other galleons and a much larger Velaydian warship with three decks of cannons.

They slowed down as they got closer to the surface, conforming to the traffic around them and keeping the ship from burning up as it raced through the atmosphere. They passed through the highest layer of wispy clouds, and the atmosphere gathered around them. Vayra felt strong winds and smelled harsh city smells through her Streamrunning mask.

A few minutes later, they passed through a layer of gathering smog. The clouds peeled away, revealing the planet’s surface.

Tall stone towers crowded together like fields of reeds, and wooden structures filled the gaps between. The surface—or, at least, sea level—was still miles below, buried beneath thick networks of cobblestone bridges and walkways. Even during the day, light didn’t reach the dark undercity, and colourful light seeped out from the cracks between the buildings.

Once the spray of Stream water in front of the Harmony fell to a thin mist, Vayra ran back to the quarterdeck. She jumped up the stairs two at a time, until she reached the navigator’s table, where a couple officers, Pels, and Gheita had gathered.

“How far into the city do we have to go?” Vayra asked Gheita. “To reach the temple, I mean. Does Thronehome have fancy channels like Mascant does?”

“The temple is near the Stream, thankfully, along with all of the other administration buildings,” said Gheita. “There are no canals on Thronehome—it’s expansion as an administrative center was incredibly rapid, and you will find that most of the infrastructure has been thrown together quite haphazardly.”

Pels added, “It can take a couple months to get from one side of Thronehome to the other, and you wouldn’t want to try the voyage in the winter.”

“Where…where should we go?” Vayra asked. “The Temple, I’m assuming?”

“That would be a good start.”

The Stream levelled out and deposited them on the normal, flat ocean. The sun was directly overhead, and it rippled on the calm ocean. Vayra shielded her eyes from the glare, trying to see the shoreline ahead.

A steep cliff of buildings rose high out of the sea, stacked and packed on top of each other until they made a cliff thousands of feet tall. Some even leaned over the ocean, threatening to fall into the sea or crush the harbour.

Thronehome’s harbour extended as far as she could see from north to south. Piers clung to a harsh, cobblestone embankment, long enough to house multiple ships each. Gantry cranes reached over the ships’ masts, lowering cargo and offloading supplies. Still, it didn’t seem like the harbour was big enough. A near constant rotation of merchant vessels poured through the harbour—no doubt to fuel the planet-sized city with all the supplies it needed.

The navy docks, by comparison, were dead as a graveyard. Streamrunning warships laid at rest at piers, their crews lazily re-equipping them or performing maintenance.

They arrived at a barge a mile offshore, where a pair of Redmarines and a dockmaster in a white coat climbed aboard. After a brief conversation with Pels and Gheita, the dockmaster motioned towards an empty pier, and said, “I’ll call up a carriage for the Mediator and her companions.”

An hour later, the Harmony had settled down beside the pier, cushioned by sacks of straw and bound up by ropes. A gangway ran from the main deck to the pier. Vayra, Pels, and Gheita disembarked—everyone else, including Bremi, had maintenance that they needed to be doing or crew to keep in check. They promised that, by the time Vayra needed the ship again, it would be up to modern navy standards—and they might even get an extra two or three teraknots while running the Stream.

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At the end of the pier, they met a black carriage, driven by an Order of Balance disciple and pulled by a pair of white stalions. The young man wore a black coat, and his hair was bleached white—permanently. He jumped off the driver’s seat and bowed deeply, then said, “Elder Gheita, and Mediator Vayra. It is an honour to meet you.”

Gheita opened the carriage’s door for Vayra and Pels. Once the three of them were seated inside, she tried to tell the disciple, “To the Temple, please.”

“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, honoured Elder, but the King has requested the presence of the Mediator, and we would be very rude to not comply.”

“If King Tallerion requests it…” Gheita said.

“The King?” Vayra breathed.

Pels sarcastically. “You know, head of state, moderator of the Parliament, and—”

“I know who the King is,” Vayra hissed. “I didn’t think I’d…ever be in his presence. Let alone…be requested by him.”

‘You’re going to be requested by quite a few people in the coming years, I figure,” Phasoné told her. ‘For meetings, bureaucracy, mindless tedium, and more. And you can’t even fall into a cycling trance to ignore it all.’

“I just hope he’s got some proper sweets,” Pels muttered, leaning back in his seat and placing his hands behind his head. “I’m tired of ship food.”

The carriage began to rumble away, trundling along a road. It snaked away from the wharf and rose through the undercity. Colourful lanterns whipped past the windows, and the melange of scents from the nearby markets seeped through the windows. Painted billboards reflected neon light, demanding that they purchase goods from the nearby shops or sleep in the inns.

Buildings stacked upon buildings stacked upon buildings… When she’d visited Mascant, the scale of a city-world had never dawned on her. Now, it was almost too much to fathom.

Finally, the carriage reached the surface. It rolled along a raised road, surrounded by the rounded peaks of only the tallest buildings. Otherwise, she could only see a flat plain of shingled rooftops, broken up by the occasional open plaza or taller spire. On the horizon, she spotted a distant complex of taller towers, which they headed towards.

Gheita tapped her shoulder, then pointed at the towers, through the front window of the carriage. “That is the Main Parliament District, where most galactic—or, Velaydian—administration takes place. Where we are heading.”

In an hour and a half, the carriage entered the district. There were no walls, but everything seemed a little cleaner, and of course, the towers began to grow taller again. Soon, the carriage rolled through a valley of elegant spires. Each was covered in windows and wood siding, but they had stone frames. They had to have thousands of rooms.

King Tallerion’s palace was a short, stubby building at the center of an expansive garden. It was off along the western edge of the district, surrounded by taller buildings and much more ostentatious towers. No one had tried to make it the center of attention.

The palace grounds were surrounded by a simple wall, maybe only thrice the height of a man, and the garden beyond hung at the same level as the road—still perhaps a thousand feet above the surface.

They approached the gate, and a trio of guards—red-coated soldiers with tall, shako caps and embroidered sashes—approached. No matter who the disciple said they were, they gave the carriage a thorough inspection.

Once they were satisfied, they motioned for the carriage to continue onwards. The disciple snapped the reins and the carriage continued on through the gate.

The palace, at the center of the gardens, was a rectangular, marble structure, surrounded by pillars and tall, thin trees. The carriage approached the front terrace, then paused on the flagstone loop in front of the building.

“The royal family’s old winter palace,” Pels said. “Now, their only palace.”

Vayra nodded slowly, then glanced at Gheita. “Are we supposed to go insi—”

Before she could finish speaking, a high-pitched horn blasted. An entourage of guards ran out the front doors and lined up along the terrace, resting their muskets on their shoulders.

A moment later, a lone man stepped out of the palace’s doors, weaving between the guards and stepping to the front of the terrace. Everything about him—his size, his build, his face—seemed average, and if it hadn’t been for the crown nestled into his gray hair, Vayra doubted she would have called him a king. A spotted fur shawl hung around his shoulders, and he wore a yellow coat with a few military awards pinned to its breast.

“You,” Pels said, “should go out and meet him.”

“Pels and I were not the ones requested,” Gheita added, “We will wait in the carriage.”

Vayra pushed the carriage’s door open and stepped out onto the flagstones. She wasn’t sure whether she should bow right away, or whether she should approach the king, or what was expected of her. She glanced over her shoulder, debating whether she should ask Gheita or Pels what to do. But that wouldn’t look great, either.

‘Just be normal!’ Phasoné scolded. ‘The king couldn’t hurt you if he tried.’

Vayra thought too much about trying to be normal. Instead, she ended up walking rather awkwardly towards the terrace, then knelt right in front of the first marble step.

‘Good enough…’

One of the guards stepped forward, puffing out his chest like he was a herald. “I present: Tallerion III, King of Velaydia and rightful ruler of the galaxy, overseer of the Order of Balance, and Protector of the Remains.”

Vayra glanced side to side. Should she introduce herself, or—

Before she could say anything, King Tallerion stepped forwards, marching down the steps. He paused a few feet in front of her, then said, “You are the Mediator, I hope?”

Vayra looked up. She could only muster a nod.

“It is an honour to meet you. We have much to discuss…”