Harmon lets the words sink in.
"If not for Aston, the bribes wouldn't have worked. You all know how hard we've worked our asses off to win over the low-blooded blue sailors and navigators. That money? Aston's wealth."
He pauses to let that truth anchor itself.
"Now, we can redirect the reds—all of them—to this island. It might be mistaken for the Earth Continent itself. Broad in scale, but it's just a mountain on top of an island, which is too big. A great empty stone like Earth."
My eyes stay locked on Aston and his ever-silent companion, Arthur. Then suddenly, as if summoned by ritual, Vis moves. Just like the first time I saw him do it, he slices open his forearm. His blood flows freely, thick and green, forming a contrast that catches the flickering light of the candles and oil lamps in the room. With practiced ritual, he speaks the words of dedication to Oyá, the goddess of his kind and half of mine.
The blood spreads like living paint, forming an image—a crude but recognizable representation of Hemorion, this world.
"The so-called island in the dark sea," Harmon announces, "we shall now call Ruby. It lies directly on the new shipping route. As of today, every vessel sails that course."
His voice, filled with conviction, casts a weight over the room. Harmon reaches out, gliding a finger over the blood-formed map. He points out the key landmarks: The continent of the Imperial War—the Violet Seas—which is on the top, the Continent of Death below, Elisia further down, and nestled within Elisia—Zentria, the kingdom we're currently in.
Off to the right lies Earth. By comparison, Earth is nothing but an egg beside the giants. Harmon traces a line from Elisia to a cluster of much smaller islands—one a quarter the size of Earth.
"Ruby will be our sanctuary," he says. "But first, we have other business."
He presses his thumb and index finger together, gliding them from Ruby back toward Elisia. He spreads them outward—a snap of sorts. The map zooms in, revealing Denklin, the capital of this kingdom. Somewhere in that sprawl lies our headquarters.
The map is massive, the size of a horse-drawn carriage floating mid-air over the round table. Harmon's hand covers the largest district with ease. He starts swiping to change locations rather than zooming in, and then he speaks again.
The moment hangs heavy. "Now, the next mission, the one that will bring the entire plan to life." He says the words, and the silence explodes.
"You gotta be kidding, boss," Evelyn, Dellin, and Leonardo say in unison. Grim and Valea trail behind, slower on the uptake.
Vis stays focused, blood flowing from his arm as he holds the image steady. Short and solid Lenny tilts his head like he missed the point entirely.
The only ones unaffected are Aston and Arthur.
Amber speaks up, and I'd nearly forgotten she was even in the room. There are just too many of us packed beneath this suffocating roof. Sweat gathers on my skin, and my thoughts drift to Elena. I want to be above ground, with her.
"What's our business with their highness?" Amber asks.
Harmon finally locks eyes with me, then, however, turns to the blues.
"We're going to assassinate the head of the royal family," Harmon says, calm as ever. "We need to throw this kingdom into chaos—cause a collapse. While the other nations feast on their bones, we move quietly, saving the reds."
Strands of hair—blond, unlike my natural color—fall over my eyes. A disguise, necessary yet foreign, brushing down over my gaze like an insult. This is a sample from *. Read the rest on *.
"Brilliant," Leonardo mutters beside me, his voice a low drawl soaked in sarcasm. His hair's tied back, sleek in a disciplined ponytail, just like always.
"Indeed. But let's be clear—we aren't just walking through the front gate to wave hello, slit a throat, and bow out with a farewell. This isn't theater. We're talking about assassinating a king. It has to be done in silence, not spectacle. Otherwise, the whole message dies with him." Harmon's words hit the table like stones in water, ripples of tension spreading outward.
Across the room, Harmon's eyes stay fixed on Aston—unblinking, unreadable. His expression doesn't change. Then, without warning, he smiles. Not with his eyes, not with his heart, just teeth. Orange gums bared in a broad, almost unnatural grin; a predator's grin.
"Aston," he says, as if it's a casual matter, "you will attend the gala, and you will kill Robertson, the King of Zentria."