Origins of Blood (RE)

Eriksson's POV

"Do not dance with the fire, if you wish to live."

—Eriksson Lennard

The roof groans beneath my steps, wood cracked and patched with holes deep enough to swallow a careless foot. I move carefully, silent as the night itself, while the faint glow of a blue family flickers through the boards below. Their laughter hums softly under my boots, fragile in its innocence, and I murmur to myself, "The false god is out of order; he won't be trouble anymore. Now, assassinate the King."

The words leave my lips steady, but my hands fidget against the restless surge of blood boiling under my skin; that fire never quiets.

I've never seen Arthur like this. I've never seen any blue like this: his control wavers, emotions breaking through the calm exterior that usually defines his kind.

Far in the distance, Amber patrols march their rounds, their torches bobbing between houses. I lean against a crumbling chimney, bricks loosened to the point where one hangs sideways, ready to tumble with the next strong gust. This whole mission feels the same. One slip, one misstep, and everything collapses.

If Aston doesn't strike the King tonight, if he fails to carve that blade through the throne, then the prisons will remain stuffed with Reds, shackled until they rot. There will be no space to save them, no leverage to change their fates; and if Arthur cannot burn himself thoroughly—cannot condense his flesh and blood that not even ash is left—then no uproar will ripple through the city, no chaos to mask our strike. Failure lurks in every shadow, but I cannot dwell on what may break. We can only push forward.

I inhale sharply, then let the breath slide from me in a controlled exhale.

Something wet splashes against the back of my hand. Rain? No. Not yet; my gaze drifts toward the city's heart, miles away from Elisia's estates. The round marketplace stretches open under the golden moonlight, a fountain at its center where water trickles faintly.

Wooden stalls stand dormant, movable by design, waiting for tomorrow's Elysian Glow when the market bursts alive for its single weekly day.

Now it sleeps. Only tramps linger, drunkards stumbling from taverns, and weary workers trudging home from night shifts; yet I keep my eyes sharp, scouring every corner as an orange eagle scans the sea.

The clock strikes midnight. The death crawler's whistle shatters the stillness, a shrill cry threading through every street. My body stiffens at the sound; a constant tremor runs through my bones. For the false gods, the frequency is unbearable. For us, it's a reminder: all pieces are in motion.

We are scattered; some are stationed near Arthur, some with Aston, ready to tear him out of the King's chambers the instant the strike is done. It all depends on timing; the whistle cuts short, leaving silence thick as wool.

Then a voice rises—singing. Soft at first, unclear in the distance. My head turns instinctively.

It is Arthur.

Through the golden haze, I see him. His hand plunges a blade into his body again and again. Blood spills, black blue, hissing as it mixes with fire. His voice trembles, yet it does not falter.

He sings in the gods' tongue, every word a knife carving his fate. Alone, always alone. No one may step near him. None of us is allowed, not until his strength falters entirely. His sacrifice must remain solitary.

The flames engulf him, licking skyward, and smoke coils thick into the night, blending with the raven-dark heavens. The golden moon paints the scene in eerie light, and then the screams come.

Arthur's voice twists, torn from rhythm into raw agony, but he does not stop; he chants through the pain, forcing each line of sacrifice out until his voice breaks, until it is no longer words but only suffering. He offers his blood, his body, his very name to the flames.

He burns himself so utterly that not even ash will remain. A death so complete that the world itself will forget he lived.

I click my tongue in frustration, foot slipping into a hollow in the roof. For a moment, I nearly fall—but then I see it.

The false god.

He moves across the marketplace, not far from Arthur. His body gleams under the golden light as Arthur's burns brighter, like he was always destined to be consumed this way.

Arthur's cries tear the night apart, raw and furious. For a heartbeat, I think I hear regret in them, a hatred for the fate he must endure. Then the screams die. Silence spreads, heavy and absolute. The moon watches from above, silent as ever.

Arthur crumbles. His body folds in on itself, thinning to dust. The false god lashes out in vain, his strike ripping air and flinging a metal trash can meters away with its shockwave. His fist cuts through nothing; Arthur is gone.

I duck behind the broken chimney, as the others do, shadows within shadows. My breath runs shallow, rattling in my chest. Against my will, my thoughts flicker back—this morning, Arthur sipping his bitter coffee, watching me spar with Aston. Such a mundane moment, ordinary and warm. Now it is gone. He is gone.

I feel no tears. No outward grief bends my expression; only a weight, heavy and dull, sinks into me. I stare through the holes in the roof, where the blue family laughs beneath my feet—two children, stacking blocks with soft giggles.

Still, doubt coils inside me. Even if Aston succeeds, even if the King falls, what then? How do we carry the burden of saving them all? Of holding the chaos together?

No. Harmon has a plan. He always does. I search the skyline for him, hoping for his shape, his signal. Ravens screech into the silence, their cries like echoes of Arthur's final scream. I scan right, where he once stood, but he is gone. My eyes sweep left, past a tower, down a long street spilling into the marketplace. Distraction gnaws at me, but the false god suddenly shifts—running.

Too fast, and my stomach knots. Not even two minutes have passed since he abandoned Aston to hunt Arthur. His speed defies calculation. He must be of a high warrior breed, violet blood surging near its limit, a monster made flesh.

My thoughts scramble, reaching for Harmon's guidance, and then I feel it: a hand on my shoulder.

Harmon.

His calm steadies me at once, though his smirk carries the same fire as always. "Aston will manage it," he says, voice low and certain. His eyes flick to the moon, that eternal golden watcher of a moon. "Trust the boy. He will make it, and then we'll be able to save mankind." His hand tightens just slightly on my shoulder, grounding me.

He looks at me, and in his gaze I see resolve, unshakable as stone. "We will bring justice to the injustice."