Fynn screams, his arms flailing as he shields his face, only to stop abruptly and inspect his hands with a mixture of confusion and fear. His dark-blond hair partially obscures one of his crimson-glowing eyes, the vivid red light casting eerie shadows across his face. “What is going on?!” His wide eyes dart between his glowing hands and the endless expanse of red around him. His mouth hangs agape in disbelief, his voice trembling with uncertainty. Is this summoning so shocking to him? I ponder this thought as I observe the scene before me with the same neutrality that Eriksson always carries.

The others—Aston, Eriksson, and Viena—remain seated, their gazes fixed on Fynn. The red-blooded and brown-blooded are absent, likely because I have not yet entered their vessels, and the colorless ones—I have yet to drink their blood. My gaze drifts into the infinite crimson beyond this place, my thoughts momentarily lost.

Fynn continues to look bewildered, just as Aston does. Behind them, the fortress of iron does not reflect their unease. Fynn’s head swivels erratically, taking in the endless scarlet that surrounds him. His breathing is heavy, his movements desperate as his hands grip the broad armrests of his chair. He seems ready to rise but halts the moment his gaze shifts toward me. I sense it in the corner of my eye but do not turn. My attention is fixed on Viena.

Viena, with trembling hands, presses against her chest, as if trying to reach through the spot where a hole once existed. But her flesh and clothing resist her touch, intact once more. Her puzzled expression shifts as she glances into the vast redness of my palace.

Slowly, I raise my hand, as if moving mountains, and speak a single word.

“Silence.”

My voice carries through the boundless warmth of this crimson realm, plunging it into an icy stillness. All eyes turn toward me. My hand, raised slightly above my shoulder, commands their reverence. Though my gesture is calm, its weight is absolute. Their gazes lower; their heads bow slightly. None dare speak. They simply watch, frozen in awe, their breaths quieted by the authority of my presence.

Placing my hand upon the elevated throne that sits a few steps above the table, I lean forward slightly. The silence is almost deafening, save for the sound of Fynn’s energetic voice breaking through the stillness. “Are you... the God of Creation?”

His voice echoes in the space, shaking the air with its intensity. The others glance at me, their faces marked with various expressions—Aston’s head hangs the lowest, his hands firmly planted on his knees. Fynn, however, stares directly at me, his eyes burning like the yellow crystal before him. I meet his gaze briefly before answering.

“I am.”

My words ripple through the room like waves, filling every corner with their weight. Eriksson is the next to speak, his emerald-green eyes piercing into mine as though searching for answers buried deep within my being. However, he only sees a veil of colorless distortion before my face and body, as in the others but only in colors of their blood color. His gaze falters, confusion clouding his features as he turns his attention to the green crystal before him.

“God of Creation,” Eriksson begins, his voice firm but uncertain. “Why did you vanish? Why have you summoned us here?”

His question lingers in the air, the weight of it pressing down on everyone present. I take a moment to consider his words before responding, my voice low and resonant, as though carried by the very essence of this place.

“This is a meeting,” I declare, my tone unwavering. “A place of negotiation within my palace”

They listen, their gazes lowering further as the gravity of my words settles upon them. Viena’s dark eyes meet mine briefly before she quickly looks away, her expression unreadable.

“Here, you will gather,” I continue. “You will speak and exchange knowledge. You will intertwine your understanding of this world and its blood. The blood will be unified once more—from red to gold. And you... you are the chosen ones, selected by me to preserve balance, to ensure that all blood may live in harmony.”

I allow a faint smile to form, though it remains unseen. With a deliberate gesture, I raise my index finger, their gazes following my movements. Their expressions are a mixture of puzzlement and disbelief.

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Behind each of them, their chairs rise higher, the symbols upon them glowing with brilliance. Aston’s chair bears the emblem of a fortress; Eriksson’s, a veil; Fynn’s, a blazing flame; and Viena, a wing. The symbols stand tall, larger than their heads, casting their authority over each figure.

“In this realm,” I say, my voice sharp and commanding, “you shall not be addressed by your names. Instead, you will adopt titles fitting of your roles.”

My gaze shifts to Aston, whose smooth hair quivers as he recoils slightly. “Blue-blooded,” I announce, “you shall be Bastion.”

Aston—now Bastion—lowers his head in acknowledgment, his posture submissive. My eyes move to Eriksson, whose symbol is a veil.

“Green-blooded, you shall be Veil.”

Eriksson—Veil—nods solemnly, his expression unreadable. Finally, my attention turns to Fynn. Above him, the symbol of a blazing flame glows brightly.

“Yellow, from this moment, your name shall be Ember,” I declare, my gaze fixed on Fynn. His smile broadens, his fiery red and yellow eyes gleaming with intensity. Without waiting for his reaction, my attention shifts, this time landing on Viena. Behind her high-backed chair, etched into the wood, are the intricate shapes of wings. Her pale hands clutch the edges of her seat. She dares to meet my gaze for a moment before lowering her head.

“Black-blooded, your name shall now be Wing.”

Her lips tremble slightly before she nods, slow and deliberate. With that, my gaze sweeps across the table, lingering briefly on the faces of those whose bodies I have inhabited. Each of them, now bound by my decree, peers back with a mixture of reverence and fear. Their expressions betray the thoughts swirling behind their eyes: to them, I am divine. A God incarnate.

Fools.

They cannot comprehend anything beyond their mortal frames. Their necks bow involuntarily, as though my mere presence forces submission. They do not dare to look directly at me; their heads drop instinctively, straining against an unseen weight.

I let them wallow in their awe for a moment longer before I speak again, my voice echoing with quiet finality. “You may address me as Eos.”

A silence follows, one that stretches uncomfortably as the weight of my words settles. Each of them stares at the glowing crystals set before them on the polished surface of the table. Aston’s trembling hands betray his nerves. Eriksson, as always, remains unreadable, his emerald gaze as cold as it is sharp. Fynn, now Ember, beams, his grin undeterred, his fiery eyes alive with mischief. Viena sits motionless, her lips forming a line that I cannot decipher.

I break the silence. “But let my presence not be a distraction. I am merely an observer, a facilitator. This is a place for you to negotiate, to bargain. Trade wealth, power, alliances, blood, knowledge, or any other currency you deem fit. Your identities are veiled for your protection. Whether you choose to reveal them is your decision. But here, within my domain, consider me no more than a sounding board, one who ensures balance.”

Their responses vary. Aston swallows hard, his shoulders tense. Eriksson offers no outward reaction, his expression an enigmatic mask. Fynn, unsurprisingly, is the first to break the silence, leaning forward, his energy unmistakable. “Mr. Bastion,” he says, his voice warm and vibrant. “Where do you come from, and what is it that you do?”

Aston hesitates, his hand coming up to rub at his forehead before he reluctantly answers. “I come from the continent of Elisia, from the central capital of the Zentria Kingdom. I am… a nobleman. Nothing more.”

His answer is measured, but Fynn does not relent, his grin widening. “And you, Mr. Ember?” Aston’s tone shifts slightly, tinged with curiosity and a hint of suspicion. “Are you a fugitive, or perhaps a warrior from the false gods’ ranks?”

Fynn chuckles, undeterred by the subtle jab. “Like you, I am but a nobleman. However, I am currently stationed on the imperial battlefield, fighting against the Violets.”

At this, Eriksson’s sharp gaze cuts toward Fynn, studying him intently. Viena, seated farther away, shifts slightly, her attention drawn to their exchange.

Fynn turns to Eriksson next, the playful energy in his voice undimmed. “What about you, Mr. Veil? From where you hail?”

Eriksson remains quiet for a moment, his emerald eyes meeting Fynn’s fiery ones. Finally, he speaks, his tone low and even. “I am originally from Elisia, a small village in the Kingdom of Nigil. But now, I dwell beneath the surface, in the underground—among demons and angels.”

His words hang in the air like a challenge, and their impact is immediate. Viena’s eyes widen, her lips parting slightly in surprise. Fynn, however, leans forward, his curiosity ignited. “A Green… living among demons and angels?” His voice is laced with disbelief. “How do you manage such a thing?”

Eriksson exhales slowly, his gaze steady but guarded. “By taking in blood. Black, Violet, and others. The answer should be self-evident.”

The room shifts, the weight of his revelation pressing down on them. Even I find myself curious about the implications of his statement, though I remain silent.

“Mr. Veil, how long has it been since you first consumed Violet blood? And how much did you take?” Aston asks this time, his sapphire gaze sharp and probing.

Eriksson hesitates briefly before responding. “At least a decade. And the quantity… substantial.”

His answer is deliberate, but the tension it creates is palpable. Aston narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Eriksson as though searching for hidden truths.

Fynn, unable to contain his curiosity, leans forward again. “Mr. Veil, consuming Violet blood turns people like me into uncontrollable beasts. How do you avoid such a fate?”