I pull away from his suffocating grip, my muscles rigid with the effort of not striking him. I turn and descend into the armory, the weight of my supposed honor crushing me.
The armory churns like a frantic school of bait-fish, the water filled with the metallic scent of fear and sharpened steel.Conscripts are fitted with heavy, reinforced plates of cured crab-chitin that click and groan as they move. Chainmail woven from treated iron-kelp rustles against the current. The heavy-lifters, the stonemasons, even Taren receive their gear. They look like impenetrable, swimming fortresses. They look like soldiers meant to survive a brutal impact.
They don’t give me armor.
I remain in the exact center of the chaos. My bare skin prickles in the cold as the quartermaster systematically strips away the heavy breastplate Mira tried to secure for me.
"Too much coverage," the quartermaster grunts, his voice a low vibration against the armory's clamor. He carelessly tosses the expensive chitin plate onto a growing discard pile in the corner. The sound is a dull, wet thud. "It hides his color."
"Heneedsphysical protection!" Mira argues loudly. Her voice is shrill and frantic over the din of clashing weapons.
She hovers close to me, her own standard-issue armor looking ill-fitting and absurdly bulky on her sharp frame. "You can’t send him out to the shelf in a mesh tunic. He’ll be shredded in seconds."
"These are direct orders from the Commander," the quartermaster says, not bothering to look up at her.
His blunt fingers continue their work, methodically removing each piece of protection. He turns around and hands me a vest made of thin, transparent mesh. It offers exactly as much physical protection as a drifting spiderweb.
"The primary target needs to be highly visible in the dark. If we cover him with armor, we lose our entire tactical advantage."
Mira opens her mouth to scream at him, her body trembling with rage and a terror that almost feels genuine. I reach out and put a steady hand on her trembling arm. My touch is not gentle. It’s a warning.
"Stop it, Mira," I say quietly. My voice sounds entirely dead to my own ears. “I don’t want to hear any more from you—”
"I willnotstop!" she snaps, turning her fierce, tear-filled eyes on me. "Vaelis, tell them the truth! Tell the captain you refuse to do this!"
"I can’t," I say, keeping my eyes locked on the stone floor. "You know I can’t. I’m conscripted by the High Elders. Treason carries the exact same death penalty as the Vanguard."
I take the mesh vest from the quartermaster's calloused hand. The material is as transparent as a jellyfish, clinging to my skin like a second. It offers no protection against the crushing pressure, no defense against sharpened bone and serrated teeth.
I turn slowly, my gaze falling on a polished bronze shield hanging on the armory wall. The distorted reflection staring back is a stranger.
The crimson of my hair burns against the dark stone. Without the pearl dust to soften the glare, without armor to break my silhouette, I am exactly what the Elders want.
Kael's voice rumbles in my memory, a phantom vibration against my broken ribs.Color is never for hiding. It is always for warning.
I am not warning today. I am inviting.
"Vaelis," Mira whispers, her knuckles turning bone-white around her spear shaft. "Stay behind me. In my shadow. I'll block their line of sight."
Her face is pale, her eyes wide pools of terror. She is trying to save me, trying to atone for the poison she fed him with my own hands.
"I'll never forgive you," I say, the words a hollow rasp. "And you can't block this, Mira." I turn away, my crimson fins flaring wide with intent. "I'm too bright for the dark."
The war horns blow.
A low, mournful vibration shudders through the water, rattling the stone floor beneath us. The sound is a death sentence, a promise of violence.
"Move out!" Taren shouts, his voice cracking with fear. He's a squad leader now because he memorized the rulebook, but his eyes are as wide and terrified as the rest of us.
We swim out of the armory, falling into formation. A river of bright, expendable flesh flowing toward the abyss.
To anyone who truly believes in the shallow pageantry of the upper city, the Reef Guard is an impressive sight. Endless rows of glittering iron pikes catch the filtered light. Brightly colored woven banners stream proudly. The synchronized movement of five hundred armored mers creates a thunderous, impressive sound.
But this is not a glorious army marching to secure a border. This is a glittering funeral procession.
We swim slowly past the towering residential spires. Frightened civilians watch our departure from their high windows and coral balconies. They wave their hands in solemn farewell. They throw handfuls of crushed flower petals into the water, letting the bright colors rain down over our heads.
I don’t look up at them. I keep my deadened eyes locked firmly on the armored back of the mer swimming directly in front of me.
