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.
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. Visit * (*) for more.
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."