Captain Pels dropped down to the deck as a barrage of cannonballs tore over the quarterdeck railing. Splinters and wood shards tumbled through the air, and powder smoke choked him. Arcara sparks rained down over the quarterdeck as an Adept and a God-heir traded blows nearby.

  When the sawdust cleared from the air, Pels staggered back to his feet, then hauled the coxswain up as well. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m good, sir!” the young man shouted.

  “Keep hold of that wheel! Bring us about north by northeast, or that frigate will rake us!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Mr. McHyll!” Pels shouted. He ran to the quarterdeck railing, clubbing a bluecoat with his pistol along the way.

  “Yes, captain?” the mortal lieutenant replied.

  “I want us alongside that frigate in range of pistolshot!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The rigging was fraying, and the sails were tattered, but the masts hadn’t sustained any real damage. Pels shielded his eyes from an Arcara technique flashing in the distance—Myrrir occupying the two other lesser gods. Vayra was nowhere to be seen.

  “Carpenter!” he shouted. The old Master of Carpenters had been killed a few minutes earlier, and one of his Mate’s took over. “Damage report!”

  “We’re patching three direct hits to the hull, captain!” a young man yelled from the main deck. “They hit us from upwind, and on the flat sea, they’re below the water line! Hull integrity is dropping!”

  “Just hold us together and keep the mast bases stable!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  The Harmony shifted, angling away from the Velaydian formation. Out of nowhere, their only first-rate ship ruptured, and a shockwave raced across the surface of the water. Flame spewed up from its magazine, ripping its hull in half and collapsing its mainmast. For all purposes, it was as good as done.

  Pels cursed softly, then opened his mouth, about to shout to the crew and instruct them to get back to their duties and hold the ship together, but most of them turned the other direction.

  Pels slapped the side of his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ear, then turned to face in the same direction.

  The buzz and windchime-like rattling in his head morphed into a faint warbling of bells. At the edge of the Stream, and at the very edge of the Shattered Moon’s central island, was a fleet of Velaydian warships.

  Tallerion.

  Pels smiled, then raised his pistol to the sky. “The king! The king has come!”

  King Tallerion had an excellent view of the carnage on the descent to the planet’s surface. Fires and smoke burned in the port city, cannons flashed, and desperate civilians rioted while gods duel in the sky above.

  Bone debris rained down from high above, and steaming Ko-Ganall innards flamed over half the city.

  In the harbour, the remaining squadron of Velaydian ships were surrounded, and as he watched, the single first-rate ship’s magazine ignited, vapourizing the nearby ocean and sending up a column of steam.

  Farther away, in the middle of the harbour, was a massive trench in the water, where two miniscule forms duelled on the dry ocean floor.

  At first, Tallerion clung to the railing of the quarterdeck, deflated and desperate. He was too late, and their numbers were too few.

  But he tightened his grip, then held out his hand. “My musket, if you please.”

  “Yes, my lord.” His low-aide handed him a gold-gilded musket with a brass dragon head for a muzzle.

  He tightened his grip on its barrel and straightened up. Their fleet reached the base of the Stream, in the sliver of ocean between the enormous watery slope behind and the line of Elderworld warships in front.

  There was nothing else he could do except make one last charge into the fray of battle, hoping that they might turn the tide.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Signal flags fluttered all across the Elderworld fleet’s ranks, and the ships turned to present a wall of cannons. They condensed to meet the threat, forming a line tip-to-stern.

  Musket in hand, he marched to the mortal navy admiral who’d travelled with the fleet—the highest ranking of them all. “Send forth a squadron,” commanded Tallerion. “Break open their line. I’ll move in astern and rake them as we pass. We make for the shore. Get as many ships to the port in one piece as we can.”

  “Sir? You don’t mean to wipe out their fleet?” The admiral tilted his head.

  “I mean to preserve the lives of the civilians. The moment Karmion realizes they favour Vayra more than us, they will be the primary target. Vayra needs their loyalty and belief in order to turn the tide. Our best bet for victory is to preserve their lives.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll make ready a squadron.”

  King Tallerion then strode back to the center of the quarterdeck, and faced the entire ship. “Hoist the Velaydian stripes! We charge straight for them, numbers be damned. You are man of the navy, and we’ll fear no gods! Forth!”

  The ship’s bell tolled once more, signalling to the rest of the fleet, and an entire choir of bells rose up around them.

  Even if Kalawen and Nilsenir were weaker than Karmion, there were two of them. All Myrrir could do was run, drawing away their techniques and keeping them from striking the mortal ships.

  Arcara blasted through the air. Waves of gunpowder washed around him, splashing into the ocean and slicing past his back. Illusions danced in front of his face and tried to alter his mind, and beams of purple Arcara tried to slice his soul.

  He barely registered the first chorus of bells signalling the arrival of the Velaydian fleet, but when the bells began ringing again, and the ships sloshed forward in two columns, racing to break the Elderworld lines, he paid slightly more attention.

  No matter what happened to him, it was almost over.

  And, likely, it’d end for the worse.

  He drew up the little jade spirit he’d been cultivating over the past few days or weeks. The jump wouldn’t happen alone, and this spirit had no mind or soul. He just needed to absorb it.

  Acceptance. He knew the profundity of his situation, and it came clinically. He’d known it since he made his pledge to Tye’s corpse. Only now did it resonate properly, pushing him over the edge of the advancement.

  In an instant, the body of the spirit dissolved, and his last advancement began.

  At first, in her excitement, Vayra pushed too hard. Adair’s fur turned to strands, and in her spiritual sight, a blue dust leaked off his soul and poured through the air toward her. She didn’t pull as hard with her Arcara, and instead concentrated on keeping the loop between them contained. She pulled strength over from him, and he sent it back, maintaining their mutual cooperation.

  Instead of pulling apart Adair’s material, she simply drew on his mana, partially manifesting elements of the cat’s soul and permanently accepting his abilities as part of her bond.

  Where others would manifest an element of the bonded spirit—Phasoné’s eyes or Karmion’s mane—a tingle emerged atop Vayra’s head. There was no physical change, except for two blazing torches of blue Arcara. They bent back along the side of her head, like a cat’s ears in a fight, and whenever her cycling Arcara reached a low point, they dimmed.

  She cycled faster, and the light of the faux-ears throbbed. The enhanced reflexes stayed.

  Reaction time, reflexes, and innate instinct. They flooded into her, stronger than before. With it came an increased grade of Arcara, which she poured into her Astral Shroud. The flames flickered across her skin brighter, and the scythe’s Mould blazed with intensity.

  The vortex of sparks fell, and she landed right on her feet, facing Karmion at the bottom of the ocean. Water techniques raced inward, striking from all angles, but she Warded herself and spread her stance.

  The advancement hadn’t used up all her mana, and though it was dipping low and her mouth was parching, there were pools all around.

  Water smashed against her shields, but this time, they held.

  This time, she’d face Karmion on her own terms. On as even ground as she could.

  Glade only realized he was pulling too hard on the swordwyrm’s form when chips of metal flew toward him. Its swirling, rusty form began disintegrating.

  He yelped, then, realizing he had been playing right into Kalawen’s hands, fell back on the loop he’d been practicing earlier. He knew exactly what the swordwyrm meant to him and why he advanced with it.

  A numb tingle emerged behind his ears, like his Arcara channels were trying to push out of his skull. Wings of sunset-yellow Arcara emerged from his head, angled backwards. It had tiny, straight blades rather than feathers.

  The swordwyrm remained, but Glade had perfect control over its abilities now.

  He hovered off the ground of the arena, floating before Varion as the vortex of metal filings fell still. Grand Admiral grade Arcara flooded into his limbs, empowering his enhanced body and allowing him to match the power of Varion.

  He pushed himself forward, calling on the swordwyrm’s ability to fly, and using its innate nature as a sword beast to boost the sharpness of his blade even further.

  With a slice, he smashed through Varion’s Warded forearm and left a gash along the surface of the man’s skin. He attacked from above, using the superior angle to his advantage. A satisfying crunch ran through the sword as ice crystals shattered and Arcara bend before his blade.

  “No…” Varion breathed.

  Glade and the swordwyrm attacked in unison, driving Varion back across the arena, until they reached the center once more. His sword whirled, chopping through Wards and deflecting ice shards, until finally, he whirled it up to Varion’s throat.

  “Make me do it,” Glade whispered. “Make me kill you now.”

  Varion narrowed his eyes. “Once more. Refill your mana, Orderman, and we fight the last bout immediately. We’ll see who’s the best without a freak advancement.”