When the blast doors are thrown back in a deafening hail of molten slag and broken metal, having been weakened enough that the blasting charge could tear them apart like the claws of a furious beast, the corridor is empty except for the broken remnants of a thunderbolt. The dark passage ahead, lit only by those fading embers, is perfect for a trap; and so the phalanx moves through the broken corridor seal, carefully, bristling; if Redana jumps out at them, or leads a counter-sortie against them, or even lies around the corner bleeding out face-down, they will be ready. So they steel themselves, and advance.

King Jas’o, flush in the victory of piercing his quarry, bringing her down to ground, does not notice the single droplet that bursts next to his foot. And why should he? Ships like this are always leaking: condensation, or oil, or coolant. The ceiling is a nest of cables, thick and coiled, hung with blessed cords and circulating the life’s blood of the ship. In the low light and clinging shadow, he is to be forgiven for not looking twice; in such lighting, even the most precious blood appears black.

The phalanx surges deeper into the ship, seeking out the bridge, or else the engine room, to leave the ship a drifting, useless hulk. And in the stillness they leave behind, Redana drops down to the floor and stretches. “Okay,” she hisses; even though her wound is already closing, the speed incredible, it’s still sore and complaining about how deep and dangerous a wound like that was. If it had hit her dead center, she’d be dead. Very dead. Her heart’s hammering like a drum as she turns and starts loping down the corridor.

Then she stops. “Oh. Shoot. This is my actual job, isn’t it?” She’s the champion, after all. It’s her sacred duty to serve as the captain’s sword and shield, monster-slayer and hero, resplendent in the eyes of the gods, seeking their favor on behalf of the entire crew through daring and piety, valor and submission.

She starts back after the phalanx, and then stops again. Hades just did her a favor and implicitly gave her a command. Insisting her job’s more important here... “That’s hubris, isn’t it? That’s real hubris.”

She looks over her shoulder to where she will find a skiff capable of taking her to the dead leviathan, the Eater of Worlds. Then she looks back at the dark where the intruding force has vanished to. “Maybe they’ll just get lost looking for me?” No, that’s wishful thinking.

She slips an obol out of an inner pocket and sets it against her thumb. “Father, Keeper of Fortunes, Lord of Honor, Stormbringer and Titan-feller... please tell me which one is [i]right.[/i] Heads I go and charge Jas’o’s rear guard, wreaths I find Hades’ daughter and help her. Guide me, father, and this too shall be yours.” Even as she says it, it feels right: she’s out here to help everyone she can, after all. And Vassila would probably be angrier if she brought Hades’ wrath down on the ship.

But she still flips the coin, because she doesn’t know for sure which course of action is most virtuous. (And if she asked Apollo, he’d take far too long getting her to walk herself to a conclusion.)

***

[Get Away: [b]10.[/b] Quick and safe.]