Galadriel staggers from the elevator back onto the bridge. Elandor growls and locks down the control switch behind them and watches until the doors hiss closed. Galadriel drops her hands down on her knees and sucks in deep breaths. Her legs are shaking and her head spins. The repel she unleashed on the twins nearly drained her unconscious. She swallows to keep from vomiting. Elandor rests a hand on her back to help calm her.

“We need to…” Elandor stops and Galadriel raises her head as the Captain's chair swivels around to face her. Thaliora taps her white nails on the armrest. Galadriel stands bolt upright to command the crew only to notice the grey cloaks standing in the room all around her. Elves shrink in their seats before their computers, all of them afraid to move.

“X.O.” Thaliora speaks low causing her aged voice to growl. “I don’t think you understand the situation we are in right now.”

“Situation? You mean mutiny?” Galadriel glares at the older elf.

Thaliora smiles and pushed her black hair behind her sharply pointed ears. They are like twin daggers at the sides of her head. Her grey eyes lock on Galadriel. “I am merely nudging you into making the right decision.”

The chief of operations subtly reaches for the alarm button. Galadriel catches the movement from the side of her eye but refuses to let her eyes flick in his direction. The grey watching over his station has been distracted by her entrance. Galadriel decides to capitalize on the distraction. She draws her sword.

Three greys raise a hand in her direction. She watches from the side of her eye as the chief stretches out a hand to flick the switch. The grey guarding his station lifts a finger in his direction, “Leh hah vah.”

The heat flashes across Galadriel's face as the C.O.O. bursts aflame. The chief screams and leaps from his seat. He makes it three steps and collapses to the floor. His flesh boils and the raunchy stench of burned flesh fills the bridge.

Thaliora doesn’t even glance back from her seat. She nods toward the sword, “Put those away.”

Galadriel digs her fingers into the hilt. It takes her a second to realize Elandor has also drawn his sword.

“No need for both of you to die. We will need your swords soon enough.” Thaliora stands from the chair and walks over to the window looking down over the city. She holds one hand in the other. Her long blue and silver robe drags across the floor. “War is coming.” She mumbles to herself. She shakes her head and then looks up.

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Galadriel lets her sword fall to her side. She sees through the glass beyond Thaliora, something impossible. Three dark peaks stick up from the water on the horizon. How could they have traveled so far in just a day? Her hand grows weak on the hilt of her sword. “Why did you bring us here?” Galadriel chokes out.

Thaliora laughs, “You think I brought us here? In an hour? Your uncle has been steering us in this direction for a month. You know the law. Every 50 years we must pay a tribute to the Triad.”

“Why would he bring us here? He loves, loved his people.” Galadriel struggles to make sense of what her eyes see. She squints against the brightness of the sun. “There has to be another way.”

“There were once thirteen cities.” Thaliora keeps her back to Galadriel. “Now there are seven. One by one Terre Goth cannibalized six cities. Barth, Grimble, New Babal, Vash, Wynthorne, and Ravenport.”

“I know the histories. Captain Faelivrin knew what an atrocity it was. He would never have put us in a situation for another genocide. You are trying to tarnish his reputation. All the easier for you to shine up your own while you overthrow his legacy.” Galadriel says her mouth growing dry. Her throat feels like it could swell shut.

“You would like to believe that wouldn’t you?” Thaliora says so calmly that Galadriel just wants to wrap her hands around the old elf’s throat and squeeze until her eyes pop from her narrow skull. “No matter. No time for a history lesson. We have until nightfall to deliver our sacrifice or we will all die right here in sight of the Triad. How do you want to handle this,” Thaliora turns from the window, “Captain?”

Galadriel wants to run to her uncle. She feels thirty years younger all of a sudden and wishes he were here. She swallows but doesn’t speak.

“Prisoners? Beggars, sickly? We need fifty heads and you are the face they will connect to this.”

Galadriel feels as if the room is spinning. “He didn’t do this. He couldn’t have. You did this. That is why those men jammed the rutter to bring us here.” Galadriel tries to rationalise.

“They were merely keeping you on course. It is too late to turn back. You saw the Obsidian. Stop trying to find someone to blame Galadriel. You are the Captain now. Who are you putting in the skipper? Load up a couple of blocks from the Valley?”

Galadriel wants to scream. She wants to charge across the room and stab the woman against the glass. She could repel again. Maybe she could buy a few seconds for her crew to regain control of the ship. But then what? The mountains are right there. They are too close, three ominous peaks rising out of the Nevers. Terre Goth can’t outrun Obsidians. Thaliora is right. A decision has to be made. Now. “Volunteers first.” Galadriel croaks.

Thaliora bellows a laugh “Volunteers.” She wipes her eyes. “You have one hour. I will call off the men in mechanical as soon as you have a skipper load. You can turn east and assume command.” Thaliora answers before turning back to look out the windows.

Galadriel motions for Elandrel to lower his sword. The greys around them lower their hands in response. The tension in the room remains palpable. Galadriel storms toward the blue room.