Eriksson's POV

A true smile cannot be faked, not even by my kind.

—Eriksson Lennard

I walk across the harbor, seagulls circling above me, their feathers impossibly white against the bruised sky. The girl is not with me. She's hidden beneath the golden headquarters, deep in the underground, shielded by those I trust—comrades who once stood beside me in the great fall of Empire Delora.

I run through the plan again. For the dozenth time. It cycles in my mind like an obsession. I still struggle to believe what Harmon has achieved during the years I've been gone. They want to evacuate the Reds—people who should have been sold into chains, bound for Elisia or, worse, the continent of death. Some were meant to be shipped to the frontlines of the imperial wars, where false gods clash with the burned violets, those brave souls defying monstrous divine technology.

I exhale under the salty air. The stench of rotting fish and dying Reds clings to the breeze, seeping into my lungs. I can hear the screams in the distance. I feel them. Their blood is soaked into the soles of my boots.

We've boarded countless galleons, half our unit spread across the vessels, the rest scattered across the dock. The plan is simple: extract the Reds, lure them to an island where they might start anew, free from fear, free from chains. I feel a smile curling onto my lips, subtle, almost an echo of something I once remembered as joy. It wears the face of the man I killed just days ago—the noble mask I now inhabit.

I don't call her my daughter anymore. I am not so selfish. But I do not know her real name either. I haven't had the courage to ask. Some weight—some guilt—presses on my chest each time I look at her. Why do I even feel so drawn to her? It's all a lie. But one I feel harbored.

The smile widens, uninvited. As if it's something I was never meant to feel again—something stolen from me a century ago. And it had been stolen. That much is certain.

"New wage is coming!"

A man roars from the docks, his voice rough as sandpaper, beard thicker than his forearm. His skin—arms and face both—has turned a deep sea-blue under the unforgiving sun.

Like the others here, I've been sent to speak with the galleon workers. The groundwork's been laid—eyes have already been on them. My task is simpler now: flash the gold, show them the profit they'll earn if they follow Harmon's plan. Just enough of a promise to light a fire under their boots. And yet, every time I do it, the same question returns—how did Harmon know all this would happen? Did he predict the Reds would be enslaved again? Or is he just well-connected enough to make it all look like prophecy?

My foot splashes down into blood again—thick, dark, and too familiar. Crimson seeps between the boards of the quay. I look up and catch the blue-skinned dockworker staring at me. The second our eyes meet, he bows his head. Deference. Mistaken identity. He thinks I'm nobility. Another highborn bastard come to inspect the labor.

"Lord…" he mutters, more question than greeting.

That makes fifteen times today I've been called "Lord." I reply with a name I made up an hour ago.

"Rosswand."

It sounds legitimate enough. Or maybe he's just too scared to question it. He doesn't ask for proof. No blood test. No ID. Who would dare, outside the police? And even they hesitate when someone like me looks the part.

I give him the gaze—the distant, unreadable one I've seen in mirrors too often. I hate it. Maybe because I've perfected it too well.

I raise my hand, hold it over his shoulder, but don't touch. My fingers pass through the air like a blessing or a threat.

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Blood laps over my boots again—just centimeters deep. But how many corpses does it take to create a sea like this?

Over a hundred, at least.

The worst part? No one's done a damn thing to stop it. Not even the nobles. You'd think they'd care about the drop in profits. But they don't. Maybe because they've already accounted for the losses—numbers, not people.

My fist clenches.

Behind a stack of barrels, limbs jut out—torsos, arms, feet. Dumped and forgotten. Like waste.

I glance upward, toward the sails—expecting nothing, but finding the same bloodstains as always. Then, higher: a corpse sways from a mast, body still mostly intact. Fresh. A day old, maybe two. I force myself to look away and focus.

Ship number 4287.

Christian Melloar.

Description: nose sharp like an eagle's beak, nostrils too wide for a face like his. When I spot him—obsidian-black hair and a face carved like arrogance—I know it's him. No exaggeration in the records. What kind of mother births a man like that?

He notices me, and while his eyes shift, awkward and nervous. The same reaction I've gotten from more than half of them today.

Overhead, gulls screech in the wind. More ships creep in from the horizon—dark silhouettes dragging Reds toward hell.

"Mr. Melloar," I say, adopting the polished, clipped tone of Elisia's upper crust. Still masculine. Still commanding. But high-born enough to make men sweat.

I comb my fingers through my beard and step closer.

"Let's speak for a bit."

The words stop him cold. He stammers, swallows.

"W–what… what do I owe the pleasure?"

His smile wavers. Hands tremble behind his back. I could knock him over with one kick. A child could.

I close the distance, and our faces are a breath apart. He doesn't stink of blood, not visibly tainted. Not yet.

I smile—barely.

"I'm with the Order," I say. "Let's talk business."

…

The rest of the day drags into repetition. Each hour, I pull out the same small pouch. It fits in my palm, tied tight, filled with rolled golden Notes—currency marked with Her Radiance, Elisia. The orange queen of this broken empire. Same currency for over a thousand years.

Every man I show it to stares like he's glimpsed salvation. Over a thousand in value. Enough to drown in dreams.

They all think they'll get it. Maybe some will, but probably not.

The thought eats at me as I shake my head, trying to ignore a loaf of bread trampled in the dust—someone's dinner turned to dirt.

The sky is still bright, but it won't be for long.

I breathe in the harbor air—salt, rot, and fish all blending together. Birds wheel overhead. Seagulls, mostly. Doves perch on tiled roofs nearby, cooing like they don't know the world's gone to hell.

I drift toward the edge of the market. Vendors shout over each other, pushing fish and meat and fruit with cracked voices and desperate eyes.

And for a moment, I almost forget I spent the morning walking through human blood.

This has to end. It will end.

She must live a life without cannibals in alleyways or rapists in shadows.

The thought cuts like glass, and my brows tighten. A knot digs into the space between them.

I shove the anger down and move on.

More galleons arrive, their decks loaded with Reds—skin burning under hot irons, hands tied behind their backs. Suffering disguised as process.

But not forever. Soon they'll be free.

My work is done for today. Forty-one spoken to. Same as the others, more or less. Tomorrow we'll do it again. And again. Until Aston's family finally sets the last wheel in motion.

I try not to think about the timeline. A week, maybe more.

Right now, I want to think about her.

Strange how much I've changed.

Just a short while ago, I saw the world as something to survive.

Now? Now I want to make it better—for her.

A small blue-skinned family passes by. Stoic, eyes blank. Except the child. She's beaming. The parents glance at each other, and for just a moment, I catch it—a tiny smile. Real. Fleeting. But it lives.

It reminds me of something I lost… and something I might gain again.

My feet carry me toward a stand at the edge of the market. The old woman working it is trembling. Her skin has the soft purple tone of faded blueberries. Her voice is thin, barely cutting through the noise around her.

But her stand is different.

Sweets.

Not fish. Not fruit. Not survival.

Joy.

I step closer. The scent pulls me in—warm, spiced. Fluffy orbs skewered on a thin stick. Brown fading to deep red, then orange at the edges. They remind me of her. Of the girl. Of the light she's brought into this rotting world.

I reach into my coat, fingers brushing over gold.

"One skewer of…" My voice falters.

The old woman finishes for me, smiling kindly. "Elena," she says.

Yes. That's the name.

I hand her a golden Note—far too much for the treat. Doesn't matter.

Today, I feel like this.

As I walk away, the skewer in hand, I catch myself smiling. Not forced. Not painted on.

A real one. The kind even my kind can't fake.

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