At this hour, it was hard to see the sun. It had faded to a distant glimmer, the fusion light radiating from the orbit. Mira couldn't see it, and even if she did, what difference would it make? If that red sun were close enough, there would be no need for a fusion lamp in the sky. She sat on a cushion, frustrated. Could her life feel any more artificial? She told herself that, not far from her, Mara slumbered in a comfy wooden chair. Her shut eyelids covered her hunting green eyes, the book in her lazy, weakening grip about to fall. Perhaps its fall could wake her, but it wouldn't be enough. Her snoring was far louder than the faint thud of an old paper book.
"We shouldn't read poetry," Mira had told her, but Mara had made up her mind the moment they arrived at the palace. This was a new book her father had bought her, she'd said proudly—though its parchment was probably older than Mara herself. Mira could see the coffee stains lingering on the open book, remnants of Mara's palm, as her fingers slowly surrendered to sleep. A secondhand book, Mira thought. She and Mara were only a year apart, and Mara's mother had named her after Mira. Her father had saved Her and her unborn mara in the womb when a violent qouriol threatened them.
Mara was the closest to Mira in her group of friends. She was shy, easily frightened, but Mira liked her the most, almost as a sister. She also liked her father, Iliam, whom she called "uncle," though Mara towered over Mira by a few inches. Her father, Iliam, had the same height as her. Kenta always told Mira that she got her short stature from her mother. Ironically, Mara too inherited her height from her mother's side. Alison Rex was the tallest woman Mira had ever seen. Alison and Iliam were cousins who had married in an arranged union. Alison, too, had those green eyes, but hers weren't as striking as Mara's or Iliam's.
Iliam was the only friend of her father that Mira liked. He had the most civil air—no scars on his face, his demeanor one of an honored man, not a drunken soldier. And he, too, had those green eyes.
Mira had long envied Mara for those green eyes. Once, she had told her father that she didn't like to see Mara anymore when she was a child. Then, her father had told her that all eyes are an equal sight—even hers. He told her that, within their land, her eyes were common, but out there, no one else had eyes as dark as hers. The green eyes, he said, were the most common and least desired in the world. At first, Mira hadn't believed him, but when she learned that his words were the honest truth, she set her grudges aside and no longer felt bitter toward her friend's eyes.
The book dropped with a soft thud, as Mira had predicted. It did little to stir Mara, who simply rolled over to her left. Mira picked the book up from the fine marble flooring and glanced at the title: Ways of Freedom by Hector Salmo. Was it not enough that they were gifted with green eyes? They had to be gifted with talent as well, Mira thought to herself.
Was it their green eyes or their artistic tendencies that had led them to wage a war of genocide long ago, when their green eyes were far less common? What could make a man kill another for something as trivial as the color of his skin or eyes, Mira
wondered.
She opened the book to the page with the coffee stain—the one that always fell open by default. It was an old stain, a gift from the slippery hands of some previous owner.
"Freedom—all men desire freedom. No one must be more free than others. How can I truly be free while someone else is not? If I lack the freedom to free another, then I have no freedom at all." the book read.
An old book by an old poet who had outlived his purpose. His words, long stained and tired, were now working their way into Mira's thoughts, just as they had done with Mara. Mira yawned and set the book aside before it was too late.
She glanced at Mara. Her friend was fast asleep; only the shade of the lemon tree—not far from her bedding bench—could wake her. Nothing spoils a morning nap better than a passing shade, Mira told herself.
She stepped closer to her sleeping friend and tapped her shoulder.
"Let's go inside, Mara," she said.
Mara didn't budge. She only shrugged in sleepy annoyance. Mira knew her too well to expect words to wake her foggy head. She'd have to let the shadow do its work. Though the shade was near, it wasn't close enough yet.
Mira looked toward the palace servants moving back and forth, carrying furniture and decorations in and out of the walls. Whenever her father prepared to leave, he would order such feasts. But despite all the glamour, this one felt different.
Mira followed the marble path toward the glass doors of the palace, intent on witnessing the extravagance waiting inside.
Behind the glass door, a feast was being prepared. Mira felt a flutter of delight—at last, something worth her attention. Not only could she spend time with her friends, but she could also flaunt her father's wealth before them.
Inside, the table groaned under the excess. Platters of seared flesh—beast, fowl, and rarer, forbidden game—steamed between bowls of blackened fruit and thick, oiled bread. The air was heavy, pungent with spice, smoke, and the metallic tang of blood.
At the table's center rested a bird—or rather, its dismembered head—so enormous that it made the roasted boar beside it look shy. Mira couldn't tell what manner of creature it was; she knew it only by the feathers—long, glossy, and richly colored. Blue at the base, red at the tips, with veins of gold between. Its scent was foul, yet curiously enticing, stirring both hunger and disgust within her.
"What's that bird?" she asked a servant who had just opened the glass door to deliver wine.
"A royal grith, my lady," the servant answered, bowing slightly before hurrying away.
A royal grith… Mira repeated the name in her mind, half in awe, half in dread. It was a wondrous, terrifying beast—the kind that should have existed only in paintings or songs. She wondered if a creature like that would survive long in her father's palace. Even the sparrows she once begged him to import had perished before two moons had passed.
She remembered that day: she had pleaded for birds to fill the courtyard with song, and her father had given her a hard look before warning her of their inevitable fate. Yet she had pressed until he relented—just as she always did. Just as she had when she convinced him to replace the thick wooden doors that shut out the light with thin panes of glass, so she could see the garden from within, and the hall from the garden.
And through that same glass now, she saw him.
Her father.
Not as radiant as he once seemed. Draped in a long coat of serpent hide, adorned with gems mined by slaves from the planet's black veins, he stood silent amid the movement of servants. His black hair had faded to iron gray, his face marked by scars long healed yet never softened.
Kenta's beard was short and neatly trimmed—a soldier's precision even in age. But his eyes… those had never changed. They remained the eyes of a hunter: sharp, calculating, unwavering. They did not see much, perhaps, but what they saw—they completely saw.
He stood apart from the others, clutching the index finger of his left hand with his right, as though trying to pluck it out.
Mira entered the hall through the same door the servant had passed a moment before. She wove her way through the heaving dinner hall as servants ducked and stepped aside, giving her a clear path to her father. The smells inside were stronger—so thickly mingled that they formed an indistinguishable aroma, one that leaned just slightly toward rot. No wonder I could smell it from behind the glass, Mira thought.
"What's with the long face?" she asked, plucking a tangerine from the crowded table.
"I'm leaving soon, little girl. It makes me sad," Kenta answered with a sigh.
"You're always leaving, and you're never this frowny," Mira said with a quizzical glance as she peeled the orange skin with her small fingers.
"Do you like the bird?" Kenta asked, gesturing toward the royal grith's glazed head.
"Trying to shift the conversation, are we? All right then," she said, smiling brightly. "I'd say it's more beak than head."
Kenta gave a grim chuckle. "This beast can eat a man—a full-grown man—in one bite. It cost me a fortune to bring its head here."
Mira tossed the tangerine peel to the floor. A servant hurried to clean it, erasing even the smallest trace of disorder.
"Is that why you're grumpy?" Mira asked, taking a bite of the fruit. It was sweet—too sweet for her taste. Her father, by contrast, couldn't seem to find any sweetness at all.
"No, not that. Something else," Kenta replied, his voice low and rough.
"If it's not that, then what?" Mira said, her red lips curling into a half-smile. "You look as though we're celebrating our own deaths." She popped another slice of tangerine into her mouth.
"This royal grith," Kenta said, his eyes fixed on the monstrous head, "this magnificent, exquisite beast is descended from the humble chicken. On a world with lower gravity, it became a monster this size. Its wings could fill this whole room. It can almost fly. If evolution can do that to a chicken…" He paused, his gaze hardening. "…think what it can do to a man."
Mira studied him. "Do you want to talk about it or not?" she asked, her tone sharper now, tossing the rest of the fruit aside.
"There are terrible people in this world," Kenta said at last. "People who want to kill me—and who would kill you, just as they killed your mother."
As he spoke, a group of servants entered from the glass door, setting down clean plates and polished spoons for the evening's guests.
"That's nothing new," Mira said softly, repeating his own words back to him—the same words he had always used to calm her when she was small.
"I want to think that too," Kenta said, his voice caught between weariness and restraint, "but these are the most dangerous men. They hide their faces, hide their names." His tone was a strange blend of nerves and stoicism as he rubbed his eyelids with his fingers.
"You haven't slept all night… I thought you were kidding when you said, 'Let's sleep through the days and wake at nights,'" Mira said, taking his right hand in both of hers.
"We'll die of sleepless nights before evil men ever reach us," she added softly.
A sudden sharp rap on the glass window caught Mira's eye. It was Lysa. She had already snatched a bottle of fine wine from a startled servant, along with three glasses, and now gestured playfully toward the door.
"Lysa's here," Mira said.
"Go," Kenta replied. "Don't keep your friend waiting."
Mira's grip on his hand loosened. She took two steps toward the door, then turned back and threw her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his with the kind of affection he so rarely allowed.
"Everything will be fine. We'll be fine," she whispered in his ear.
"Sweet child," Kenta murmured, returning her embrace, "it's the father who's meant to say those words. I should tell them to you, not the other way around." He smiled faintly. "You've truly grown, my daughter."
He kissed her cheek warmly, and she turned away, slipping through the crowd and back toward the glass doors. Yet something gnawed at her as she walked. Her father was never like this. Not even when the mines began sending back corpses instead of gems had he looked so haunted. The fear and sadness in his eyes were not his own—they were the eyes of a man who already believed he was dead.
Mira stepped out into the lemon garden. The air was sharp, bright with the tang of fruit and earth. But Lysa was nowhere to be seen.
"Where did she go?" Mira muttered aloud. "Lysa? Lysa, where are you?"
She rounded a corner of the garden wall—nothing. No trace. She must have gone to Mara, Mira thought, and began down the marble path toward the garden.
"Peekaboo!"
Lysa leapt from behind a tree, laughing as Mira screamed and stumbled back.
"Gods—oh, you're such a child," Mira gasped, trying to compose herself.
"Can't help it," Lysa said between giggles. "A fine lady like you, wandering around without fear of the trees—someone's got to teach you a lesson."
"My scream satisfy you now?" Mira shot back, her tone biting. "Maybe next time wear a mask—it'll suit your sense of humor."
Still fuming, she quickened her pace, putting distance between them.
"Wait! Don't tell me you're angry," Lysa called, half laughing, half worried. "What were you talking about back there with your father—all formal and secretive?"
"It was adult talk," Mira said, her voice still edged with bitterness. "No need to trouble children with it."
"Come on, budge a little, Lady Iron Heart," Lysa said with a smirk.
"Oh, you're so infuriating. Where's the wine?" Mira demanded, rushing through the courtyard in distracted haste.
"Left it with the Sleeping Beauty right there," Lysa said, pointing toward Mara with her index finger.
"I can't believe she's still asleep," Mira muttered, a grimace twisting her face.
"What did you expect?" Lysa replied mockingly, the smirk widening.
"I expected the shade to wake her," Mira said, glancing toward Mara, who was still asleep. The lemon tree's leaves had spread, shading the bench and cutting the sunlight from her completely.
"From here, she looks dead. If not for the snoring, I'd be worried," Lysa joked, her tone more play than concern.
"Stop joking. Do something," Mira said, letting out an exasperated sigh.
"Do something like what?" Lysa asked.
"Wake her up somehow."
Mira sat down on the bench and watched as Lysa picked up the book from the small table where she'd left it.
"What's this?" Lysa read aloud. "Ways of Freedom by Hector Salmo, Co-Provost of the Academy of Hellebron and standing professor of linguistic arts at Gordsi's Liberal University… Wow, really prestigious, huh?" She snickered, approaching the sleeping Mara with slow, deliberate steps.
"Wake up, you lazy, snoring, indolent scum!" Lysa shouted, striking the book against Mara's breasts with all her strength.
"Ah—ah—ah! Fuck off!" Mara screamed, kicking Lysa off herself and off the bench. Lysa hit the marble floor hard, then burst into laughter.
"What the fuck was that, you sick fool?" Mara growled, snatching the old, dust-coated book from the floor. "This is the most priceless book on the whole planet!"
"Haha—well, that was the most priceless moment on this planet," Lysa smirked as she stood up, brushing the dirt from her dress.
"I'm not joking! For God's sake, I thought someone was stabbing me to death!" Mara gasped, still catching her breath.
"Relax," Lysa said, grinning. "I just thought you were dead. Wanted to make sure." She exchanged a sly glance with Mira.
"Unbelievable. Did you put her up to this?" Mara asked, turning to Mira as she set the book aside after checking it for damage.
"No, no—" Mira began, but Lysa cut her off.
"Enough with the chatter. Mira wants to talk about the rumors," Lysa said, pouring herself some wine and handing the bottle and two shining glasses to Mira.
"What rumors?" Mira asked, taking the bottle.
"Yeah, what rumors?" Mara echoed, sitting beside her and snatching a glass from Mira's hand.
"You don't know?" Lysa said, raising an eyebrow. "You, of all people? I thought that's what you were talking about back there with your father. But now I see you're completely unaware." She took a slow sip of her wine.
"Unaware of what?" Mira asked, pouring herself a glass before passing the bottle to Mara.
"There's a rumor going around," Lysa said, her tone lowering slightly, "that the Church of Karina is planning to liberate MelasOon from our grip—and slay us in the process."
"The Church of Karina?" Mira repeated, sipping the red wine slowly.
"A bunch of crazed men who wear masks and wield fluid-iron swords," Lysa said.
"Fluid iron's a myth," Mara interjected confidently. "Their swords are made of smart nanobots that reconfigure themselves mid-fight. They use the same nanobots in their bodies and masks." It was common for Mara to know such things—she devoured books daily, and knowledge was her armor.
"I haven't seen anyone wearing masks or swords," Mira said, though her father's troubled face flashed in her mind. If the rumors were true—and if they had disturbed Kenta—then they were worth worrying about.
"They're not here," Lysa said with a shrug, taking back the bottle from Mara. "If they're anywhere, they're up there—on the Black Rock in the sky."
"Why there?" Mara asked.
"For a bookworm, you're a bit dense," Lysa teased. "To start a rebellion, you go where the rebels are."
There hadn't been rebels on MelasOon since her father crushed the uprising two decades ago, Mira thought. Still, she couldn't help herself. She looked upward. The fusion lamp still burned high above, drowning the heavens in white fire. Beyond its glare, she could see nothing—no stars, no shadows, no masked men.