Water-based techniques crashed into the stone all around Vayra as she approached Farrir’s tower. She didn’t trust her Wards to block them—especially the blasts Karmion launched—without Phasoné’s bond.

  Instead, she formed her cycling loop with Adair and passed Arcara back and forth between them. Whenever her senses alerted her to a dangerous attack incoming, she leveraged Adair’s reaction speed and impulses for herself, dodging the attacks before they hit. The water chewed into the stone and blasted shards into the air, destroying the walkway behind her.

  The crowd all turned to face her, now that Glade’s first round had concluded. The nearest audience members fled, escaping the rain of high-pressure water and stone.

  Ten steps to Farrir’s tower. Its doors were wide open.

  Karmion hovered above, and with an angered shout, he drove a blade of water down at her. She ducked to the side, and it only sliced off a lock of her hair.

  Five steps.

  She dove over a coursing blast of water, then ducked her head and rolled. One more leap, and she passed through the doorway. She tumbled across the ground, then sprang back to her feet, expecting to face another barrage of techniques, but nothing came.

  The doors of Farrir’s tower slammed shut. Two Commodore guards pushed them closed. Water blasts pounded on the exterior, shaving off wood chips and making them rattle, but it held the techniques back.

  For now.

  “That will not hold them for long,” came a voice from behind. Farrir sprinted into the foyer, his hammer in hand. “You two,” he directed the Commodores, “flee. Save yourselves.” He turned to Vayra. “You have the weapon?”

  She raised the dark, slippery, crudely-forged scythe. “Here.”

  “With me, then.” Farrir turned and marched toward his tower’s central stairway. “Karmion will break through soon enough, but my forge has stronger defenses.”

  Vayra followed Farrir up the stairs, leaping up entire levels in a single stride—and keeping pace. They didn’t travel all the way to the top, but to a high-ceilinged room about halfway up the tower. It wasn’t as wide as his main hall, and it had no windows. Vayra sprinted across the flagstone floors with Farrir until they reached a hearth on the opposite side. Chunks of obsidian ringed it, and a pale yellow grout of Moulded Arcara tied them together.

  Currently, nothing within burned, but a stack of purple logs occupied the center. They radiated spiritual energy, and their Arcara channels from whatever spirit-tree they’d been cut from had carefully been sealed off, so the majority of their power would release when burnt.

  An enormous bellow waited on either side of the hearth, each with an Admiral to operate it.

  “I can operate the bellows,” Farrir told the admirals. “Escape while you can.”

  “Respectfully, father,” they both said, “we are with you to the end.”

  Vayra carefully stepped around a rune-engraved starsteel anvil, then handed the scythe to Farrir. “Whatever he did to the scythe is currently amplifying the…wedge he drove between Phasoné and I. When it’s near me, I’ll have problems.”

  “Its purpose is to cut souls,” Farrir said. “No matter what, you will find it unpleasant to use, but I can lessen its harmful effects. Do you have what I need?”

  She produced the Vale Core and the jug of Nathariel’s fire and set them down on the anvil, then withdrew one last item from her corespace—Larra’s pendant. “A powerful artifact from a powerful God-heir. Can you use it?”

  “I can absorb its effects, yes,” said Farrir. “I will imprint them onto the weapon.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t thank me yet. While I’m repairing it, you have work to do.” He produced the Godscourge book from his corespace and handed it to her. “Your task is twofold. Read me the bookmarked instructions as I forge—I have never worked with such pure Shadowthorns before, but this book provides a passage from a different scroll from the Mascant archives, which outlines the process.”

  “And…”

  “I can change the weapon’s purpose, make it less crude, less overbearing, and eagre to work with you, but you alone must repair your connection with Phasoné. He severed channels and damaged your soul, but…”

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  “How am I supposed to repair that in…what, a few hours?”

  “I imagine we’ll have about a half-hour before Karmion breaks in.”

  “In a half-hour, then?”

  “I sense something about you and Phasoné. There is a reason she didn’t have any heirs or children, even when she had eighty years to do so, and I figure she’s found a more permanent love.”

  Vayra sighed and blushed. “Uh…yeah—”

  “It is not the time for embarrassment. Your connection to her is strong. Stronger than most Mediators will ever have. Use that to your advantage. Rejoin your channels, and by the time I have your weapon made, you will be back in working order—at your peak functionality.”

  Vayra nodded. “I understand.”

  “Nilsenir!” Karmion bellowed. “Kalawen! To me, the both of you!”

  Even if they didn’t hear him with their physical ears, they’d sense their names being called—especially when it was Karmion who called them.

  At first, there was no response, but that was expected. They’d take their time. While he waited, he turned to the Admirals who had done a valiant job in chasing the Mediator and alerting him to her escape.

  But they hadn’t been fast enough to slow or stop Myrrir, if they’d sensed him at all. Least of all, the threat he posed.

  “Go to the fleet,” he commanded. “Send more ships from the blockade to wipe out what remains of the Velaydian fleet. No matter what, if they cannot leave the Shattered Moon, they will die.”

  “Yes,” they said, bowing their heads in unison and adding some form of “father” or “grandfather” or “ancestor” to their affirmation. Then, they activated their Bracing techniques and sprinted away.

  Karmion turned back toward the doors of Farrir’s tower and delivered a strong open-palm strike. Regardless of whether the doors had a pane of Emissary-grade Arcara in them or not, the crossbeam wasn’t as thick or durable, and after a few strikes, it shattered.

  The doors swung open, revealing a decorative foyer.

  Empty, but that was no matter. He could sense his targets high above, cowering in a protected room. They’d trapped themselves.

  Vayra paced back and forth as Farrir darted between his anvil and the hearth, holding the scythe in one hand with a set of starsteel tongs, and in the other hand, holding his hammer. He pounded its hilt, reshaping the Moulded Arcara and condensed Shadowthorns, smoothing them out and blending the strands together. Any stray wisps of water-aspect burned out, turning to steam in her spiritual sight. Under the crucible of Nathariel’s fire, the weapon turned more pure.

  The hearth blazed a brilliant orange-red, and the flame seemed almost liquid, tangible, like she could pour it from a spout. It was hot enough that, even standing halfway across the forge, she still registered the blaze on her phoenix skin.

  She held the Godscourge book open and read the passage Farrir had highlighted, providing instructions. They were from an ancient forging scroll, apparently from before even Farrir’s time, and they detailed the use of shadowthorns in weapons, though half of it had so much jargon and precise terminology that, even as an Admiral, she couldn’t understand what it was trying to say.

  But Farrir did. So she read the words, and instead, worked on her insides.

  She analyzed her own channels, pushing Arcara and mana through them to illuminate them. Her body was excellent for repairing damaged channels, but this was different. They’d been cut altogether. It’d take more concentrated effort, and she’d have to realign them as best as she could.

  At least she’d advanced her Arcara control and her ability to manipulate mana. If she could guide where it went, then she could move the channels.

  At the top of her neck, the channels were tiny filaments close to the surface of her skin, joining her soul to the rest of her system. There were hundreds of them all trying to connect, but they were frayed and severed. Completely sliced and disorderly, like a harpsichord whose strings had all been cut.

  First, she worked with one tendril, filing it with mana. When she willed the mana to move, so did the channel. Her neck heated up, and a spiritual sting lingered on the surface of her skin, but when she lined it up with its pair on the bottom, it rejoined and consumed the mana to seal itself back up—her body’s specialty.

  But a single strand had taken her minutes. In the meantime, Farrir had polished off more of the scythe’s haft. He now held the Vale Core over the junction between the haft and blade, and slowly consumed it. Magenta light bled into the now-purposeful engravings on the haft, giving it the appearance of a leather binding.

  She needed to go faster.

  Next, she manipulated two strands at a time, and it wasn’t too much strain. Now that she knew how it worked, she moved faster, but even two at a time wasn’t enough. She went on to three at a time, then four, then five. When they sealed, she grabbed a clump of ten filaments and pushed them back into place.

  ‘Vayra? Are you there? It’s…it’s really dark in here. I’m drifting. I can’t see anything.’ Phasoné’s voice rang out in Vayra’s mind, confused and quiet—much quieter than it’d ever been—and shaky.

  “Just hold on,” Vayra said. “I’m working on it. You’ll be alright. I’ll put us back together soon.”

  ‘Are you alright? It hurt so much, whatever happened to you.’

  “I’m alive,” Vayra said. “And in the process of repairing myself. You?”

  ‘I’m still alive. Bandaged myself up.’

  “Good.” Vayra sucked in a deep breath. “Phas, I’m glad you're still there. Just hold on. I’m coming to help—I promise.”