Origins of Blood (RE)

"Uhr!"

A voice cuts from my right, followed by a hand clapping lightly against my shoulder. I turn, still faintly catching the woman's perfume, her long earrings brushing softly against my cheek as she pulls back. A man stands there now, stepping into my space with easy confidence. His scent is different—less floral, more like aged timber. It's strong and masculine.

"It's been months, man," he says with a familiarity that sharpens the pressure in my mind again. His tone is too casual for an acquaintance. Too easy for anything short of a long-standing friendship.

I curse again, this time twice over. My eyes flick over him quickly: half a head taller, hair dark brown and tied into a ponytail, a broad nose that speaks of southern heritage. He's not a stranger, which means I need answers fast.

One—judging by their features, all three of us are more Avelorian than Zentrian, and from a southern district at that. Two—none of us hail from the great houses; our families are likely small to middling in status. Three—they know me far too well. If they ask anything too personal, or catch the slightest hint of something amiss, I'm finished.

"You've grown an inch over your vacation," he remarks, but his voice lowers with each word, his eyes flicking side to side as if ensuring no one overhears. "Have you eaten an Orange all by yourself?"

I narrow my gaze. The question is absurdly dangerous, yet he smiles as if it's nothing more than a joke. He shouldn't be speaking so lightly; if someone of high station overheard such words, he could be exiled, hanged, or worse. I click my tongue—quietly, so no one notices. "Indeed," I reply, stepping subtly from his hold. His arms are too long for a Blue. They remind me more of a Green.

"Many things happen in a short time," I add, steering the conversation before suspicion blooms. "What about you two? What have I missed?" I angle my body toward the entrance of the banquet, taking the lead. Guards stand posted in their stations, the silver of their armor catching moonlight.

And then I see them—Oranges. Not one, not two, but three within a fifty-meter radius. My stomach knots, my knees nearly give, and I imagine how strands of hair might fall if this body's hair were longer. So much for no Oranges in Zentria. Shouldn't they be fighting the war with Nigil?

Yes—they are. I confirmed it only two days ago. The frontlines still hold, which means they do have forces here, just not in excess. I cling to that optimism, though it feels thin and frayed.

The golden moon continues its slow climb, its light pouring into the courtyard in a faint mist that clings to the air. It's beautiful, but it's also dangerous at the same time. If too many patrol the estate tonight, our escape window will narrow to nothing in the event of failure.

I frown as my gaze rests on the great double doors ahead. Whatever awaits me beyond them may well dictate whether I leave this place alive. The air here is colder, not warmed by the distant sun; after all, it's nighttime.

A hand finds my shoulder again, startling me. Nearly fifteen seconds have passed since my question, and now he's caught up beside me. "We really have to talk about many things since our graduation," he says, voice tinged with something between nostalgia and intent.

I narrow my eyes, but he takes the lead this time, guiding us forward, and my frown deepens. This night will be a trial—one long stretch of walking a knife's edge. If only the formula of disguise could grant the memories of the person whose skin you wear. But perhaps that's a trick reserved for some special Greens, or for those who've consumed blood higher than this continent contains.

Or maybe it is something only possible through the blood of the deities themselves. But such blood is impossible to acquire, and even if it weren't, it might prove far too weak to be the actual source of their own lineage.

I follow them anyway, each step measured, my eyes catching on a clock mounted high above the hall's entrance. The hands are steady, unyielding: Shortly after two p.m. A little over two and a half hours remain until the hour strikes zero.

Two and a half hours until I must assassinate the king.