Still, he watches the vast Golden moon, while Green blood spreads across the sky like liquid glass—wide as a field, maybe more.

It's not hard to make out his shape, nor who's speaking. Everything glows in Green hues, though Gold still reigns as the moon's light bleeds through.

On the ground below, the torches still. Those on their way to the ships stop mid-step. Some have already reached the galleons, but most remain stranded on the coast.

"I am honored to stand here," Harmon says, his tone cutting through the murmur that spreads like a whisper of wind.

Beside him, Vis chants in a language I can't make out. For a heartbeat, I almost do—its rhythm thrums in my head—but then the words slip away, like soap in wet hands.

"I am honored to stand amongst you," Harmon repeats, louder now. "All brave warriors. Some of you fought beside me. Others have only heard my name. But I have returned."

A ripple runs through the crowd. The torches sway, small lights moving left to right as if the sea itself is watching. The blood that hangs above us shifts, illuminating Harmon's silhouette across the sky—a shadow carved in emerald light.

I stand beside him, naked, the cold air clawing against my skin—Eriksson's skin.

Harmon raises his fist twice to his chest, then opens his palm across it to hit one last time. I mimic it, a breath too late. Vis turns to me, his eyes glowing bright like jewels. Blood seeps from their corners and drips down his face. Then, as if the sky itself obeys him, the image above us changes. Harmon's form melts away into a blur of Green. Slowly, another shape forms—me—Eriksson.

My reflection hovers across the heavens. Medium-long hair falling over my eyes. Even through the Green tint, I see the contrast—topaz hair, emerald eyes, alabaster skin. This body's features twisted through color and light.

Below, thousands of heads tilt upward. They look so small from here, mere dots beneath the glow, and yet their gaze feels heavy enough to crush me. I repeat the sign Harmon made—the heartbeat. The Order. Great Fall of Empire: Delora's triumph.

And suddenly, memories surge. They rise like a flood bursting through a cracked dam. They drown me, pull me under.

The murmurs below swell into voices. Then into shouts, still barely audible. "Eyeless Storm!" The voice echoes up the cliff. "It's the Eyeless Storm!" Another joins, "False Gods' Slayer! The scarred cockroach!" More follow; dozens of names flung upward like rain from a weeping sky.

My body stays still, my breath trembling, while Harmon remains calm, his gaze still fixed on the moon—now almost fully revealed, casting its Golden sheen over all of Ruby.

The titles keep pouring in until Vis's blood vibrates, a low hum that silences them all. The sound isn't loud, but it shakes the air, deep enough to rattle my bones.

It reminds me of old concert speakers, back when Ren and I went to one together.

Ren.

The thought hits like a shard of glass through my chest, sharp and cold. I want to cling to it, to him—but the feeling slips, replaced by the rhythm of another man's heart. My body's not mine. My memories are not stable. They keep twisting.

Everything feels surreal. The sky of blood, the crowd below, the flicker of firelight. It all feels like something out of a story told by madmen.

Then the flood inside me turns violent. The memories—his memories—rip through me in flashes. A vision from long-lost memories.

A war.

Millions dead on fields soaked in color.

Beings too powerful to be called men.

Monsters worshiped as gods.

And he—this body I inhabit—stood among them.

Fought them.

Killed them.

Faces burn through my mind, one after another, until fire ignites from within me. Soldiers are rushing toward a castle, the ground beneath them painted with every color of blood: Blue, Green, Orange, but rarely Red.

Like a fever dream, and yet it isn't. Every sensation is real. My arms, my legs, my lungs—all awake. But I am not.

It's as if I do not exist. As if I'm a ghost wearing someone else's flesh, seeing through their eyes while my soul floats somewhere else entirely.

Still, the image in the sky—the faces, the names—feels familiar, not to me, but to Eriksson. He—I remember it the way a scar remembers its wound.

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

—Bloody Potato out

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