Aston's POV

"Rape. Torture. Death. I hang here, thinking about the flood that turned my world upside down."

—Aston von Rosenmahl

Landing on the smooth rock, the jagged mountain of Ruby rises before us, half its peak swallowing the golden moon above. The light fractures, spilling shadows across the cliffs until darkness devours everything.

For a moment, it feels like the Eclipse has already begun—but it hasn't. Soon, the moon of God's hue will shift, dimming from Gold into the burning Red.

The sky above bleeds from dark violet toward obsidian. No stars. Only more than half a moon.

Behind us, the galleons have gone silent. Blues—most of them dark-skinned, their uniforms reflecting faint streaks of Gold—stand at attention. Reds are chained outside the ships, kneeling, breathing in the stench of salt and rust. The rest must rot in the prisons below deck.

Murmurs ripple through the ranks the moment we land. Some think this is Earth. Those fools. They cling to the stories their navigators told them—that the seas we crossed still led to Earth.

But hours here have broken their certainty. They've walked the cliffs, climbed the ridges for kilometers, searched for signs of it. There are none. No ice walls. No holes beneath the poles. No hollow world waiting below.

What they do not know is that we've led them astray.

Those who came from Elisia to Earth believed the mission was simple: bring the Reds here, slaughter them before the eyes of the nations, prove our dominion, and thin their number so the rest remain valuable. The world of money and blood—it doesn't take much to corrupt it. A bribe buys loyalty faster than fear.

The others who came from Earth were easier still. Their navigators were paid off and told to claim the golden moon's storms made a return impossible. So, they turned course, steering for Ruby instead, believing they headed back to Earth. The preparation from weeks and days ago pays off.

And now, they stand here, oblivious, their boots pressed to the island that will shatter everything they know.

"Are you ready?" I ask Eriksson. His face is carved from stone, jaw tight, his posture as rigid as a blade. He doesn't answer, only nods once.

We're a dozen against thousands. A handful of conspirators against the might of our own blood. The coast below swarms with Blues, Greens, and Oranges, each commanding hundreds of Reds in chains. Bodies scattered across the dark sand—naked, trembling.

Torches burn like stars stolen from heaven. Tens of thousands of flames turn the coastline into a false daylight. Light crawls over the restless sea.

I glance across the horizon. To the left and right, the fires stretch for miles. Further inland, beyond the rocky fields that climb toward Ruby's heart, even more lights shimmer.

How can we possibly win?

I force a smile anyway. Confidence is a weapon, even when hollow.

Looking down, the mass of soldiers below holds torches swaying like molten rivers. We stand atop a ledge of stone, a dozen meters above the field. Behind us, the mountain bird rests, massive wings folded.

Elena, Ella, Tristan, and Doran wait inside the translucent house, which is mounted on its back. Barrels of Green blood are being rolled out by Lenny—the smaller Green with the bulging temple vein and that ever-twisting grimace.

The sight of him makes me loosen my jaw, if only slightly. Even now, surrounded by madness, something about his expression feels absurd.

The plan is simple. Fool them.

But everything depends on obedience—on Harmon and Eriksson keeping the others in line. One mistake, one doubt, and all of us will die before the moon bleeds Red.

Below, the order starts to crumble. Half the Blues move inland, dragging the Reds like livestock. Others strike them to the ground, laughing. There's no silence here, never has been.

Screams tear through the night, sharp enough to make my gut twist. A woman cries, then another. Chains rattle. Bones snap.

Still, some remain, arguing, trying to decide their next orders. They think this is just another means of transport. Another purge. They don't see what's coming.

The noise is overwhelming, thousands speaking, hundreds screaming. Torches crackle like an ocean of flame. The horizon glows in every direction. The last fire burns miles away, beyond the curve of the shore.

Between here and there stretch endless bodies—enslaved people, soldiers, enslavers—all bound in this grotesque rhythm of power and pain.

And I, a son of Rosenmahl, stand above it all, choking on my own disgust.

My family would call this justice. Order. But I see none. Only rot and arrogance that will end us all.

The screams don't stop. Some Reds are raped. Some are beaten to death. Others lie there, waiting for it to end. And all I can do is watch, forcing myself not to move—not yet.

-----A/N-----

—Bloody Potato out

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