Oranges. The muscle of every kingdom, and Zentria is no exception. Even when hundreds of thousands are deployed to distant battlefields, one percent always remain to shield the throne—especially here, in the central kingdom of Elisia. The name “Kingdom Zentria” comes from the gods’ tongue itself: Zentral.
But now... now it’s hollow. I have seen fewer than a hundred guards since I entered. Perhaps not even half of that number, and I’ve passed only one along my route so far.
Father’s plan—and Sebastian’s—worked flawlessly. How stupid they were to strip their own defenses and hurl their forces against the red-blooded. With my high chin and my new face—dark blonde hair nearly shading to black—I could mock them openly if I wished. The temptation itches at me, but I resist.
No. Fury is the right choice here. Fury at Their Highness for allowing such reckless deployment, for sending every soldier away to Earth. They are the only actual obstacle to our mission’s success, and yet they’ve weakened themselves for the sake of greed.
This assassination will be dangerous, yes, but compared to their armies, it is a lesser threat. The worst-case scenario is my death—my exposure—and the revelation that a blue-blood from this kingdom dared to kill a king of Elisia—the king of Kingdom Zentria.
But that outcome is not the future we want.
We seek not a war in the traditional sense, but a fracture—a deep, bleeding wound in their unity. We want unrest, disorder, the kind that makes it easier for us to spirit away even more Reds to Ruby. That future only comes if King Robertson dies quietly, without spectacle, without my corpse lying beside his. Still, the only clue is that some foreigner has killed him, the original owner of this body, as it seems a southlander of Elisia.
It must be clean. Silent, if possible, unnoticed for minutes—long enough for me to blend into the crowd of attendants, long enough for suspicion to spread without focus. If someone vanishes, and no one knows why or how, it will be the work of high blood in their minds.
We need the rumors, the whispers that some mysterious, higher-blooded assassin—higher than anything Elisia boasts—struck down the king. It will unnerve them. Agitate them. Drive them into reckless mistakes, and without a plan, they will grasp at shadows, dancing to the strings we have already strung. In the end, not long after we’ve sailed to Ruby, they will find out that some foreigner was the source of all this, not my Rosenmahl blood in their data, but Uhr’s, concluding in other rampages between kingdoms of the south with Zentria, but all these are things one cannot know for sure. Not for now, at least.
They will not crown another queen quickly. The process will be dragged further by fear.
As I pass through the outer courtyard, the orange carpet burns under my boots—its hue brighter now—infused by the golden mist cast by the moon and the warm amber light of the lamps. My mind circles the same thought: the importance of this act.
Without me, the whole plan will crumble. I must succeed. I must.
I let a faint smile curve my lips and nod toward a woman standing in the distance. My boots fall dully against the amber carpet as I move, the muted thud almost swallowed by the open air. Above, the sky has surrendered to darkness, stars beginning to pierce through like scattered pinpricks, but the moon dominates it all—its golden hue spilling across the estate in a warm, deceptive glow.
The woman’s brown hair catches the moonlight as her orange dress sways gently. She winks, and under the orange light, the deep blue of her lips stands out starkly, almost unnervingly.
I make my way toward her—perhaps a mistake, but my feet continue anyway—and in the back of my mind, I weigh what I already know: the greatest threat to our mission isn’t here in this hall, but on the sea—the Oranges. Every galleon is said to carry at least one. Some carry two. And if the rumors are true, there are enough of them out there to fill the high-five digits, perhaps even touching six. The sheer scale staggers the mind. If we cannot make them believe that Ruby is indeed Earth, then we will have to face every single one of them. That would mean death, not just swift, but the kind of inevitable death that swallows you whole.
It’s said that even a demon of the raven line wouldn’t withstand such numbers all at once. Hard to believe anyone could. Except, perhaps, a Golden.
I pull myself from the spiral of those thoughts just as I stop before her. My hand presses lightly to my chest, and I bow with deliberate grace, even though I don’t know her. “My lady.”
Her laughter rings softly, dimples cutting into her slender cheeks. Her teeth are pure white, her gums the unmistakable shade of blue, and she answers with easy familiarity. “Always so funny, Maximilian.”
I straighten at once, forcing my smile wider to mask the sudden unease that coils in me. “As ever.” The chuckle I release feels hollow in my own ears. She knows me well... too well, it seems. I curse inwardly, nearly biting the inside of my cheek. What a beginning, but instead of fumbling for words, I step forward and embrace her.
My arms move without conscious decision, as if my body recognizes the motion. She returns it naturally, and for a moment, the gesture feels almost genuine.