I swallow, my throat dry.
The green blood changes shape again, forming dim outlines of people in a room. There’s a window, curtains drawn, obscuring their forms. The voices leak through, warped and underwater.
“Their Highness has agreed to Sebastian. They’ll send a few thousand more over the next days, maybe more in the future. Those pigs can’t rebel now. All hope they had is lost.”
There’s a short, ugly laugh. The curtains part.
A young woman with blonde hair, so much like my own.
She leans on the sill, half-naked. My father is there too, equally exposed, watching us through the window. Maybe a foot away in the blood-born vision.
“Perhaps you should concentrate on the estate,” she sighs, voice low, “rather than these pigs.”
My father looks at us with grim eyes, his imposing hands closing the curtains.
“Hire more maids to make sure no birds defile our grounds...” He says, and I feel my stomach twist.
The blood pattern collapses, colors darkening to deep green with streaks of azure light. My jaw works soundlessly.
If these higher blooded claim to care for reds the way I care...
But my thoughts are cut off as the picture twists again.
Now it’s waves. Rolling, boiling, vast.
Massive fish—whale-like creatures break the surface of green-lit water. One launches skyward in a shower of pale droplets. In the distance, a ship cuts through the murk, sails reduced to pale green shapes.
Fog peels back. Clouds churn.
Their bodies split lengthwise, bones snapped open, organs hauled free. They’re eaten alive in crude, methodical bites.
I lower my head, but I don’t close my eyes. I watch.
No one else does except the red-haired girl, her hands, knitting the shirt of Eriksson.
We all look the same. Skin, eyes, bones. Blood color is the only difference. And for that, we do... this?
Even now, I don’t understand. I don’t want to understand.
But the answers are always the same: It’s healthy. It’s nutrient-rich. It will make you stronger.
Human meat is cheaper than animal stock. Easier to come by now. Said to be better than low-blooded meat.
I feel bile rise in my throat as the bird’s-eye perspective shifts. The vision swoops from galleon to galleon, revealing the same horrors on each deck. Everywhere, at least one orange among the crew.
And all the while, the others in the room turn to stare at me as the images fade.
The man who performed the ritual—face ashen now that the blood is gone from his body—leans back on his heels.
Harmon’s voice is calm. He doesn’t care how they found me out, how they know I side with the Reds.
He just says my name like an accusation and a promise both.
My knees start to bounce beneath the low table. I only now notice how low it really is—far lower than anything back home. Everyone sees my agitation.
But Harmon smiles at me. Not a mockery. A genuine, warm smile. He watches my hsnds, continuing to knot the carpet, then meets my eyes.
“We want you to know we’re on your side. On her side.”
He nods toward the red-haired girl seated beside Eriksson.
“We just want one thing.”
His gaze is steady. The others in the room are silent. Over half of them are strangers to me; the other half have faces I can barely stand to look at.
I realize too late that I’m smiling—lips drawn tight, the faintest curve at the edges.
The sight before me swims, blurs like it did when the green blood was hovering in the air.
Except now it’s my own eyes watering.
There are others like me.