My pulse quickens as the mud-laden earth beneath my feet gives way to the imposing silhouette of Zentria’s walls. They stretch endlessly, a testament to the kingdom’s might, reaching out to the borders of Avelor and Elitra, and beyond, to the obsidian waters of the Black Sea. A realm where demons and angels dance in eternal conflict. The mere thought sends a shiver down my spine. In comparison, our wars seem but childish squabbles.
My pace slows, each step heavier than the last. This war, though, is a gentle one. Typically, legions of orange warriors would clash, with fleeting yellows and even the rare violet joining the fray. Occasionally, a brown would emerge. But now, only greens march. My once-drenched brown hair clings to my forehead, partially obscuring my green eyes. I ponder the current political climate. It’s only the third day, yet our forces are sparse. But who can resist the allure of storming the continent of Earth? To indulge in one’s desires? Too many oranges and greens wreak havoc there.
I sigh, shaking my left hand, now numb. No longer orange, it’s mottled with pink and brown patches. What joy do they find in tormenting the frail humans? They can’t even corner a lion, let alone lift a stone their size. Even the weakest blue can manage that. Well, perhaps every third one, discounting children and the physically inept.
The stone wall looms closer, its surface mirroring the mud that covers me. The rain has ceased, likely the work of the cowardly blues. Or perhaps I’m overthinking. The sky is clear, a cyan hue with neon undertones, and the sun hides within, a glaring white point emitting a bluish glow. Why must the sun shine in the color of the second tier? The blues consider themselves superior. Behind our backs, they believe they’re above us. Because of their numbers, because we bow our heads, because we rely on them. But we do. The world would be chaos without them. Yet they think this makes them more important. But one wrong look, a glimpse of our green or orange lips, our tongues, our eyes, and they fall silent.
I cradle my heavy left arm, the prosthetic crafted by the yellows. Too expensive for someone like me to wear.
"First reconnaissance! Last survivor!" I shout up to the towering walls, so high that only yellows can ascend with difficulty. Oranges and greens stand no chance, and blues and reds? Not even worth mentioning. I look up, spotting two silhouettes in blue armor. The sun blinds me. Now I remember why our numbers were so few, aside from the red’s breach by Apollo and the subsequent flood of greens and oranges to Earth. It was merely a reconnaissance.
I hear massive chains clinking, the gate between the stone walls rising. No matter, I savor the scent of rain, the raw aroma of mud, the sweet blood of the orange ogre splattered across my uniform. It’s tight, dark brown for camouflage, consisting of a shirt and pants, though the shirt is gone. Only my white undershirt with a wide neckline remains. In my small pockets, where others keep weapons, I have nothing but the spoils of victory: the tongue and eyes in orange splendor.
The gate stands tall, and as I stride through, it falls. "Last," says a female voice, not Merry’s as I had hoped, but another. She stands upright, clad in gleaming blue armor, untouched by blood. A blue. I click my tongue, running my robotic hand through my coarse beard. Through the yellow technology’s sensors, I feel every hair, the prickling reminiscent of my father’s touch a century ago.
"I’m tired," I say, sluggishly sidestepping the advocate woman. She stares at my back, and I turn slightly. She doesn’t retreat as I expected; instead, she steps closer. I roll my eyes, letting my heavy shoulders droop.
"Very well. What is it?" I ask, annoyed.
"You know it yourself," she replies coldly, her voice as icy as her blood’s hue.
"An orange, dozens of greens, and hundreds of your kind as backup. They might have controlled the weather, possibly manipulating the mud, making it so moist, so flooded, to use the environment to their advantage."
I continue forward, clutching my aching shoulder.
"Understood. The orange?" she asks monotonously.
I point with my metallic fingers to the hanging pouch at my hip.
"Tongue and eyes," I say, exhaling.
"Understood," she repeats, and I hear her heavy armor turning.
"Today is the day to celebrate the ventilation of the false gods, the yellows. Go to the guild; the bureaucracy for state campaigns is temporarily closed." She speaks again, her voice fading with each word.
I nod, though she doesn’t see it. My eyes wander to the open street. A crossroads, ten times wider than the streets in the Mellingen district’s city center.
I see people. Fewer than expected. I continue moving forward, my new destination: a guild. Yet in the same moment, I halt. Once again, my metallic hand braces my shoulder. I stare, puzzled, at the pointed rooftops in the distance. I know what guilds are—I’ve worked for them myself—but this is my first time here. Where exactly is one supposed to be?