"A face cannot tell one a thing about a person."
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. Help us out by reading on *.
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.
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 —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.