Origins of Blood (RE)

"Gods," I curse under my breath, the word more spit than speech. My thoughts scatter like sparks in a forge, each one burning for an instant before vanishing. The nearby clock tower strikes, its hands marking what little time remains—less than an hour before the assassination begins.

Blood rushes to my head, filling it until my temples throb. My fingertips ache, the pits of my nails biting into my palms as I clench my fists, leaving white marks, only to be flushed by green and orange away.

"We need someone to volunteer."

The words fall from Harmon's mouth, heavy as stones dropped into a well. My eyes turn, as do Amber's, and together, as Harmon automatically watches the blue, we rest them on Arthur as well. His face is stone itself, unmoved and solid, but I notice the small things. The stiffness of his fingers, curled into his palms, was like mine. The deliberate way he tilts his chin up, forcing himself to appear taller, prouder, even as the weight of what is asked presses down.

Harmon exhales once, then speaks. "Arthur, would you be willing to sacrifice your life so that the future of mankind may be one of peace and happiness?"

The words are blunt, cruel in their simplicity. They chill even me, and I have lived through more cruelty than most men could stomach. Years ago, I might have done it myself; however, I'm not allowed to die yet. But Arthur does not flinch. He does not hesitate. He replies with a single word, sharp and unwavering:

"Yes."

Silence follows. A silence that stretches so long I begin to wonder if it will ever end. Even Amber—who, of all of us, always finds a jest in the darkest of hours—remains wordless. The night itself seems to hush.

"Then so be it," Harmon's gaze locks with Arthur's. The wind brushes through Arthur's mane of hair, carrying it across his face like a funeral shroud. His jaw remains tight, but the flicker in his eyes betrays him. He is no unfeeling stone. He is human, as fragile as the rest of us.

Harmon steps closer. From his cloak, he produces the whistle—small, ordinary in appearance, yet heavier in meaning than any weapon I have ever held. His thumb alone dwarfs Arthur's fingers as he presses it into the man's palm.

"You will blow this whistle," Harmon instructs. His tone is pure command, stripped of sympathy. "Its sound will override every instinct, every call. The false god will answer it, no matter what. Just before the shift of the day, you will blow as hard as you can. The creature will rise, and within one minute, it will find you. That means you must be at least five miles away from the estate for this plan to succeed."

He does not stop. There is no pause, no reprieve.

"And when it comes, you must set yourself aflame immediately after luring it. If you do not, they will track you through your blood, perform their analysis, and uncover our involvement. Burn, and the trail ends. Burn, and the Kingdoms remain blind."

Cruel. Too cruel. My throat tightens, and I find myself unable to look directly into Arthur's eyes. But I do. Against my will, I do. And I see him trembling. His mask of coldness shatters, revealing the truth beneath. With every word Harmon pours into his ears, a tide rises within him. Tears slip down his cheeks—few, but undeniable. And yet, impossibly, he smiles.

"You know the dance with fire, the one sung by your god Helios?" Harmon asks quietly.

Arthur's smile wavers, fragile as glass. His chin trembles, but he nods. "I know of the dance with fire." His voice shakes, caught between tears and resolve. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs with courage he doesn't have to spare, and raises his chin higher still.

Harmon reaches into his pocket again, his fiery eyes colder than any blue.

He reveals a single leaf. Not ordinary, but something far more sacred: the Heart of the Phoenix. Shaped like a heart, its veins glimmer faintly in the moonlight. Its purpose is known to all who study the old rites—it ignites whatever it touches when bound with blood.

Together with it, Harmon hands Arthur a knife. Small, sharp, efficient. Enough to cut, to bleed, to hasten the ritual.

Arthur accepts both without words. Only a nod. A simple—solemn—gesture that seals his fate.