Eriksson's POV

"A face cannot tell one a thing about a person."

—Eriksson Lennard

It's the third day of the second-to-last week of Astra—the month devoted to the color of our deities. The day of the Verdant Haven. The weekday that represents half of my kind, the green-blooded. My eyes linger on the calendar mounted on the wall—Astra, the final month of the year, its fifty-three days stacked like a staircase to a vanishing peak. Five weeks in total for a month, and seven days remain before the last week arrives. And once the final minute of that final day ticks into nothingness, the great golden moon will vanish, swallowed by the sky.

In its place, a smaller, burning one will rise, red in color.

Rhea, as it always begins the year.

Unloved, uncelebrated, and forgotten, especially by those of the higher colors. To them, Rhea is little more than a passing shadow, a footnote in celestial rhythm. I stare at the golden moon instead. It looms large outside the high windows of the Order's headquarters, immense and indifferent, glaring down like a watchful god. Its glow presses against my eyes, and I feel its judgment. Even in their absence, the golds remain superior.

They are gods, after all—not to be seen, only feared, and worshipped.

The rain has just passed, drenching Denklin in its wake. I can still smell it through the cracked glass—petrichor clinging to the stone, mixing with the grime of alleyways. The sky has begun to shift now, from violet to indigo. Soon, the raven wings of demon-born dusk will fold over the city entirely. I rest my forearms against the window ledge, letting the chill seep into my bones. It grounds me.

And still, my mind returns to her. Elena.

That's what I call her now: a name borrowed from a brand of sweets; I've bought the very first day I patrolled the outer quarters. I was looking for people who could be bribed to help the Reds. That's the plan, or at least Harmon's version of it.

He's clear about the surface of it. But what lurks beneath? Shadows. There's more he hasn't shared. The question remains: what will we do with the other bloods? The blues should pose the least threat. Greens—my own people—will likely be scattered or indifferent. Some of us even fought the yellows and lived to speak of it.

But if we take only one thousand ships—a modest estimate—nearly a quarter will be occupied by oranges. And half of those will contain greens, some of whom will turn. Not all, but some.

Perhaps it won't be one thousand galleons, perhaps it'll be dozens more.

I sigh, and my thoughts betray me again—Elena's bittersweet smile surfacing in my mind. Those amber eyes of hers glinted like topaz beneath candlelight. Eyes too old for a child. I push the thought aside and leave the window, descending into the hidden levels beneath headquarters.

There are many rooms here. They are spacious, and once used for entertainment, but now repurposed for training, equipping, and surviving. I'm not here to train, not today.

I'm here for her.

She sits curled on a couch too big for her frame, nose buried in a book nearly the size of her torso. She's gentle and always has been. It tears at something inside me to see her like this—so small, so fragile, so undeservedly wounded by life. She reminds me too much of my daughter.

I whisper to myself, almost under my breath, "Harmon, you better make that plan come true."

As I move toward the crates of freshly delivered herbs—strong stuff, from Aston's Garden supply—a hand clasps down on my shoulder. Firm and familiar. The pressure alone gives him away, and I don't even need to look. I grit my teeth—but only inwardly. Outwardly, I do what every green-blooded veteran does best. Smile.

Harmon's voice follows. "What about me, Erik?"

I fake a chuckle, letting the grin stretch across my face as I turn to meet his burning eyes. "Nothing, Ham. Just hoping everything will work out."

His eyes hold mine, glowing like kindled fire, and mine start to brighten a little too, caught in his gravity. Harmon has always had that effect. His energy is relentless.

He claps my back, walking past with the grace of a man too big to move that lightly. "Come in a minute, we've got something to discuss. Important." The word important is said almost too casually, in that playful, infuriating way of his.

I scowl. I've known him long enough to know that important, in his tone, almost always means trouble.

No one knows him better than I do. No one, perhaps, except the woman he lost, but I stop thinking right there.

Harmon was the first to strike a yellow. The first I ever knew to fight two—and win. Alone with no help, and still breathing after. Harmon is two heads taller than I and built like the demons we used to fear in childhood tales. I don't need to see his veins to know the power in them. He's stronger than he's ever been; a monster, shaped by grief, fury, and the obsession to win.

My boots click along the hardwood as I follow him toward the meeting room, but then I pause. There are dark footprints and small at that.

My brow furrows, and my hand rubs across the stubble of my recently trimmed beard. These steps are too tiny to be Harmon's.

"Elena?" I call quietly, but I get no response. Has she gone out?

Even now, calling her Elena feels strange in my mouth. I once asked her for her real name. It was during a calm night—one of the rare ones—when the sea was still and the ships moved like silent ghosts. She refused, saying her old name reminded her of her parents, especially her mother.

So I took her at her word and never asked again.

If she ever wants to tell me, I'll be there to listen.

She's still sitting there when I return. The book opened in her lap, her little hands holding it steadily, eyes wide with excitement. She turns, smiling as she sees me.

"Erik!" she beams. "This book is amazing! The princess is going to be saved by three different princes! But one of them's not even really a prince, and the other proposes and—"

Her words spill out like a river, and as much as I'd love to listen to her unravel the entire story, I can't stay. I crouch, hug her briefly, and she hugs me back without hesitation. That always breaks something in me.

"I'll be back in a minute," I tell her. "The boss wants to talk to us all."

She nods, her smile faltering slightly. Her head dips, the energy dimming, but not gone.

As I walk away, I call out over my shoulder, "And don't go walking the streets alone!"

I flash a wink, half-turning, and catch her shy smile before I'm gone. Her shoulders rise, her head ducking, retreating into her neck like a startled bird. And once more, I smile from the heart.

…

It begins with Harmon, who opens the meeting with his usual composure, delivering the latest updates from the past few days. We're gathered around a large round table—not the stiff and formal kind from the main stage, but one that's comfortable enough to stretch our legs under. I shift slightly, letting my knees relax beneath the table's solid wood, eyes scanning the others seated around me as Harmon's voice fills the room.

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According to him, the last couple of days have passed rather smoothly. Out of a total of one thousand three hundred and forty-seven meetings between our sailors—those who coordinate the halts and deliver the narratives on each voyage—only four handfuls of encounters ended in death. I've yet to earn the pleasure of causing such outcomes myself. That burden—or honor—lies with Grim, Valea, Lenny, and Harmon himself. Three heads credited to Lenny, two to Harmon, one to Valea. The rest? Grim.

Everyone glances at the scarred man, and Harmon tries to brush past the detail quickly, but Grim simply shrugs, entirely unbothered. Sighing, I catch that damned grin of his—the one he makes no effort to hide.

"Can't stop what I can't stop," Grim says, his voice gravelly and flat.

No one pushes the matter. No one wants to. That's how this works: don't ask, don't look, don't flinch. Instead, the room's focus returns to Harmon, our leader. I stretch out my legs beneath the table and keep listening as Harmon lays out our next steps. His attention, however, shifts to Aston.

"Our money pig, as Grim likes to say..."

There's a ripple of laughter. Even I allow a corner of my mouth to twitch.

"...has not only brought us gear to strengthen us by a quarter at least, but he's also pulled the strings within his bloodline."

I glance toward Aston. Something about him unsettles me. I can't pinpoint what it is, maybe it's that damned expression on his face—stoic, like every other blue-blooded bastard. But there's more to it. If I stood up right now and punched him hard enough to send his skull flying, I swear he'd just sit there, unflinching, dead-eyed and blank-faced.

Then he smiles. It's subtle, but it sends a chill down my spine. I don't like him, not even a little.

Harmon raises his voice slightly, snapping me from my thoughts. "Thanks to Aston, we now have the means to relocate the enslaved—to rescue them and deliver them to an island buried in the dark sea. A hidden place, though not invisible to radar. It's a dead island between the Continent of Death and the Continent of Earth."

Harmon lets the words sink in.

"If not for Aston, the bribes wouldn't have worked. You all know how hard we've worked our asses off to win over the low-blooded blue sailors and navigators. That money? Aston's wealth."

He pauses to let that truth anchor itself.

"Now, we can redirect the reds—all of them—to this island. It might be mistaken for the Earth Continent itself. Broad in scale, but it's just a mountain on top of an island, which is too big. A great empty stone like Earth."

My eyes stay locked on Aston and his ever-silent companion, Arthur. Then suddenly, as if summoned by ritual, Vis moves. Just like the first time I saw him do it, he slices open his forearm. His blood flows freely, thick and green, forming a contrast that catches the flickering light of the candles and oil lamps in the room. With practiced ritual, he speaks the words of dedication to Oyá, the goddess of his kind and half of mine.

The blood spreads like living paint, forming an image—a crude but recognizable representation of Hemorion, this world.

"The so-called island in the dark sea," Harmon announces, "we shall now call Ruby. It lies directly on the new shipping route. As of today, every vessel sails that course."

His voice, filled with conviction, casts a weight over the room. Harmon reaches out, gliding a finger over the blood-formed map. He points out the key landmarks: The continent of the Imperial War—the Violet Seas—which is on the top, the Continent of Death below, Elisia further down, and nestled within Elisia—Zentria, the kingdom we're currently in.

Off to the right lies Earth. By comparison, Earth is nothing but an egg beside the giants. Harmon traces a line from Elisia to a cluster of much smaller islands—one a quarter the size of Earth.

"Ruby will be our sanctuary," he says. "But first, we have other business."

He presses his thumb and index finger together, gliding them from Ruby back toward Elisia. He spreads them outward—a snap of sorts. The map zooms in, revealing Denklin, the capital of this kingdom. Somewhere in that sprawl lies our headquarters.

The map is massive, the size of a horse-drawn carriage floating mid-air over the round table. Harmon's hand covers the largest district with ease. He starts swiping to change locations rather than zooming in, and then he speaks again.

The moment hangs heavy. "Now, the next mission, the one that will bring the entire plan to life." He says the words, and the silence explodes.

"You gotta be kidding, boss," Evelyn, Dellin, and Leonardo say in unison. Grim and Valea trail behind, slower on the uptake.

Vis stays focused, blood flowing from his arm as he holds the image steady. Short and solid Lenny tilts his head like he missed the point entirely.

The only ones unaffected are Aston and Arthur.

Amber speaks up, and I'd nearly forgotten she was even in the room. There are just too many of us packed beneath this suffocating roof. Sweat gathers on my skin, and my thoughts drift to Elena. I want to be above ground, with her.

"What's our business with their highness?" Amber asks.

Harmon finally locks eyes with me, then, however, turns to the blues.

"We're going to assassinate the head of the royal family," Harmon says, calm as ever. "We need to throw this kingdom into chaos—cause a collapse. While the other nations feast on their bones, we move quietly, saving the reds."

Strands of hair—blond, unlike my natural color—fall over my eyes. A disguise, necessary yet foreign, brushing down over my gaze like an insult.

"Brilliant," Leonardo mutters beside me, his voice a low drawl soaked in sarcasm. His hair's tied back, sleek in a disciplined ponytail, just like always.

"Indeed. But let's be clear—we aren't just walking through the front gate to wave hello, slit a throat, and bow out with a farewell. This isn't theater. We're talking about assassinating a king. It has to be done in silence, not spectacle. Otherwise, the whole message dies with him." Harmon's words hit the table like stones in water, ripples of tension spreading outward.

Across the room, Harmon's eyes stay fixed on Aston—unblinking, unreadable. His expression doesn't change. Then, without warning, he smiles. Not with his eyes, not with his heart, just teeth. Orange gums bared in a broad, almost unnatural grin; a predator's grin.

"Aston," he says, as if it's a casual matter, "you will attend the gala, and you will kill Robertson, the King of Zentria."

The air is stripped clean, and everyone freezes. No words. Just that sudden vacuum of disbelief.

"Pardon me?" Aston says, voice steady but laced with quiet disbelief. He's as stunned as the rest of us. This isn't just some mission. This is the mission. This room—our so-called headquarters—holds the strongest warriors on the continent, second only to a rare few, yellow-blooded. Many of us here, me included, have slaughtered those false gods, exposing their golden blood for what it is: the same damn fluid, just a different shine. Once, they called themselves divine. People believed it—idiots. They saw gold and heard salvation. I don't laugh at that memory. Not because it isn't absurd, but because there's nothing funny about it.

Even the weakest of our green-blooded could crush a royal guard, assuming those guards bleed orange. If they bleed green, the weakest of us could take ten, maybe more. But we'd win. Even that thick-skulled, short-bladed idiot Lenny could do more in a real fight than one of those pompous noble statues.

For the first time in this entire cursed meeting, I let my voice rise. "In all honesty, Ham, what the hell are you playing at?" I glare across the room. "A blue? You're sending a blue-blooded to assassinate the king in a palace swarmed with royal guards, and that under constant surveillance?"

But as the words gather in my throat, Harmon's glare slices clean through them. One heartbeat of eye contact—enough to paralyze a man—and then his smile returns. Calm, cold, and calculated.

"Erik," he says smoothly, "I understand your concerns. Truly, but Aston is the only one capable of this. Hell to Valhena, he's the only one in this entire chamber who can do it in silence."

Eyes shift back to Aston. He doesn't protest, doesn't blink, doesn't even breathe. He just sits there, chiseled and unmoving, like someone carved him from stone; a statue, a relic, like a weapon waiting to be unsheathed. His lips curl slightly upward—not a smile, but something colder, quieter. Resignation, or perhaps control.

"Spit the plan already, old geezer," Valea snaps, the youngest among us. No patience, no reverence. Harmon doesn't flinch at the insult, though a vein pulses beneath his jaw. Three hundred years will make you old, no matter how straight you stand. He's twice my age—twice the battles, twice the ghosts, but like me, he has lost everything.

"The gala," Harmon begins, his tone sharp and decisive, "takes place at the estate of Elisia's founding lord. Attendance is restricted to blue-blooded nobles—no exceptions."

He nods toward Vis, who lifts a hand and wipes the glowing green map from the table.

In its place, the light dims and sways like water, and Vis's pale face floats above the surface like a drowned thing.

"Aston is the only one here," Harmon continues, "who not only carries noble blue blood, but also possesses the ability to disguise himself, like half our green-blooded do. He's already been administered the formula." He pauses. "Unfortunately, we've run out of the necessary herbs—none of the leaves from the tree of the hanged men remain. The rest of you can't transform your blood color. Am I wrong?"

Silence stretches like a blade, and he gives everyone whose blood runs green a look.

Then Lenny pipes up, loud and dumb. "Oyá changed from green to gold! A god in her name!" He thumps his chest, proud as a preacher.

Amber, beside him, slaps the back of his head with a sharp crack. "Everyone's heard your bedtime stories, Lenny. Shut up."

He looks hurt, puzzled, and he still doesn't get it.

Harmon raises his voice again. He dismisses the interruption with a breath; his gaze returns to Aston, who's now looking down at his folded hands. There's no defiance in him—just silence, and something that might be grief.

"Be honored," Harmon says, voice deepening, "child of noble blood."

He speaks now with purpose, each word chosen like a blade from a rack. "You will go down in history as the savior of the red-blooded. The sacred blade that pierced the heart of Robertson, tyrant and soon-to-be memory. Lift your chin, Aston. You are the one who will lead us—lead them—into Ruby. Into the night, when Rhea awakens and Astra shuts down. When the moon shifts and the calendar dies. You are the last breath of the old world and the first strike of the new."

My heart kicks once, hard, my toes nearly curling inward at his speech.

He leans forward, voice dropping into near reverence. "This won't be remembered as the start of a calendar; it will be known as the year the world broke. And you, Aston without a name… will be the man who brings justice to the world."

And then—something I've never seen on Aston or any Stoic blue—A flicker of warmth—Aston's stone face cracks; just a fracture, but enough. A single tear slides down that marble cheek of his, and a smile forms itself, blinding like the azure sun.

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