Ariesian Prince, Olivier Chance 

“What is the color of a person’s soul?”

Olivier Chance eyed Professor Morgan with annoyance.

Morgan was a young professor flexing his theories and methods at the Royal University of New Ram City. Rumor had it he was only two years out from obtaining his conducting license. Rumor had it that he’d even earned the highest score on the State Conducting Exam out of his entire cohort. Perfect for teaching others how to score similarly on their Conducting Exams. But Olive didn’t care about those rumors. He didn’t even care about the fact that Morgan was so young. What Olive cared about was the fact that Morgan himself cared about these rumors and let it affect his teaching style. Morgan was so desperate to please and to be liked that he’d even ask a simple question like this.

“The answer can be found by examining a person’s vitae—or so dictates the much disputed Anima-Vitae Hypothesis,” Morgan said with a charming smile that almost seemed to say, please tell me you’re enjoying this lecture. “And while we’ve known how to harness vitae for energy and channel it in different forms for several centuries now, we’ve yet to fully understand it. Which is peculiar to think about since it’s the basis for the founding of our thirteen countries here. I mean, we power our entire continent through these reservoirs—so, are we ignorantly dipping our hands foolishly in matters we don’t understand?”

“We wouldn’t make any progress if we didn’t,” said someone from behind Olive.

“Very true.” Morgan hummed. “Still, it becomes peculiar to think about when you realize we’ve fought a war over these things, right?”

Too much, Olive thought.

“Now, who discovered these vitae reservoirs?” Morgan paused for dramatic effect. “Our Ancestors, the nomads and first settlers of Signum, after whom our countries were named.”

Well, Olive supposed, as boring as it was to hear a rehash of basics, it was much better than having to slog through new topics.

“Quick question. What was one major result of this aforementioned Reservoir War?”

A hand shot up, and before Morgan even had the chance to acknowledge it, the hand’s owner answered matter-of-factly, “Well, Capricorn evolved into even more of a military-based government and Virgo started its isolation.”

“Okay, but—”

“And the peacekeeping city-state of Ophiuchus was established, professor.”

“Precisely. And what purpose–”

“To mediate positive, peaceful relations between the twelve countries. And… to handle the terrorist group ELPIS.”

“Great, Hannah. Perfect!” The professor clasped his hands. “Now, would you mind giving the others a chance to answer my next question?” He gestured to all of them. “Back to the matter at hand. Vitae. How can we visualize a person’s vitae?”

A dozen hopeful hands flew high, Olive dodging one that grazed his face. The glare he sent the girl sitting beside him went unnoticed. The offense wasn’t worth the effort of confrontation, so Olive settled on glaring out the window across the classroom. From his desk he could faintly make out the glowing cityscape beyond the rising red-brick walls of the school.

“Well, Chance, what do you think?”

Professor Morgan’s shadow passed over him.

“How do you think we can visualize a person’s vitae? …I’ll give you a hint. It’s through the same type of machines we use to power our country.”

Olive turned. The professor stood in front of him now with kind eyes and a smile even more desperate to please than before.

The answer to the question was obvious. A child could’ve answered it without a second thought. But that was why Morgan was asking it. An easy question, an easy answer. A feeling of fulfillment as teacher and student. All Olive had to say was, “You can see a person’s vitae color by having them use a conductor,” and then he’d satisfy whatever childhood dream his professor was holding onto.

Instead, Olive shrugged and turned his attention to the window again.

“Oh, come on, Chance.” Morgan chuckled. “Give it a try. Surely, the royal tutors have taught you all about the fundamentals of vitae. What do you think? I’ll give you another hint: the people who are trained to channel their vitae through these objects—often as weapons—are called similarly—Conductors with a capital C.”

Olive thought. Not about the question, but about the fact that it was around noon, which meant that his guards would be switching rotation. That meant the annoyingly dutiful Alexander would be going to lunch and the blasé Jacob would be taking his place outside the classroom.

Olive rose to a stand and paid no attention when Morgan stepped back in surprise. He approached the open window and swung his legs over the ledge.

“Wha—wait—”

And he leapt.

A blur of green and brown leaves rushed up to greet him while rustling and snapping branches echoed in his ears. After a couple beats, he landed on all fours in a bed of red flowers. He fisted the petals in his hands and shook off his disorientation.

Glancing upward, he found the colorful faces of Morgan and several of his classmates staring back down at him two stories up. No time nor care to read their expressions.

Olive dusted himself off and made his way out of the floral display and onto the stone path just beyond. The floral display he had fallen into was one of the many that lined the walkway, and the window from which he had escaped was one of many that dotted the Vitae Studies Hall. Sun sprinkled through the leaves of the trees overhead and through the archways that connected one study hall to another on his left. The golden droplets of light dappled the flags swaying on the walls. In the brightness, they glowed red.

Olive gave the flags a pointed glare before he dashed down the path. He could hear shouts of alarm and stampeding footsteps filter out from the classroom window behind him. Eventually, as he continued onwards, the sounds faded away and were replaced by the serene chirping of birds.

He slowed to a stop as the open pathway led to a roofed hall. The sunlight that spilled into the corridor of the hall from its open windows painted its black doors a blinding white. Just as he was about to duck into this hall, one of the black doors opened. In response, Olive flung himself into the nearest floral display and scrambled up the tree there. Wrapping his arms around the highest branch, he held his breath.

Below him came a pair of guards draped in red.

“Ollie, you can’t keep doing this,” whispered a voice above him. “Professor Morgan is gonna have a stress-induced heart attack one day. He really cares about you, y’know.”

There she was again. Her wisps of dark hair curled around her round face as she spied at him sternly from a branch above. The sunlight streaming in through the trees caught her hair in such a way that made it look ablaze.

“You’re too naïve,” he said. He wanted to sigh, but even that was too much effort.

“You’re too negative,” she returned with a pout. “Pessimistic.”

“Pessimistic implies that I care,” he muttered. “Which I don’t.”

He stared past her and over the roof of the hall to the city that lay beyond.

The sun beat down on the city traffic there like a whip. They looked like dots from here—the people. Tiny dots weaving around each other and sputtering v-ehicles in single-file. Almost like ants. But if anyone was an ant, Olive reasoned, it was himself.

“Ollie…”

He looked back up at her and returned with a roll of his eyes: “It’s just a figure of speech.” He turned back to the city view just in time to see a glinting speck on the horizon. A glinting speck hurtling right toward him. Closer, closer, closer.

An arrow. It was an arrow. An arrow shrouded in vermillion-red, flame-like vitae. An Ariesian must have been the archer. Closer, closer.

He couldn’t dodge it in time—but what he could do was try to activate his vitae and pull them up to his defenses. That arrow would be incinerated in an instant. But—no. That would be too dangerous.

He blinked.

The arrow pierced his shoulder and knocked him right out of the tree.

He heard a shout from a guard below.

But he felt no pain.

The air was no longer thin and dry but heavy and cold. The sun dimmed. The guards were still shouting. The flower bed on the ground was coming closer and closer to him. Rather, he was coming closer to it. It met him warmly, as did she as she knelt beside him to touch his shoulder.

Her dark hair fell like a canopy over his face as true darkness crept in at the corners of his vision. He couldn’t help but think the reason she was here was to watch this unfold. This?

Was this—

---

Geminian Swindler, Cadence Morello 

The air was thick with smoke and the smell of booze. The dim v-lights barely had the power to pierce through the veil of grayness that was the cloud of ash hanging over the room. The haziness was the perfect blanket for Cadence to hide in.

She sat at one of the many round tables that dotted the bar. On the table before her was an array of playing cards with small tokens interspersed in-between. The man sitting across the table from her was looking at her like he could read her like a book.

Damn. He was too predictable.

The watch he wore was a knock-off, indicating he was a show-off who was easily swindled. His tight monochrome suit that strangled his wrists and neck indicated he was either in denial of his current circumstances or didn’t did not have the funds for a new suit. In other words, he was desperate for money and respect.

The man sneered at her as he tugged his collar with one hand and waved his set of cards in the other. “Looks like this game is just about to wrap up, Antonio.”

That was not her name, of course. That was who she looked like at the moment. Yes, Antonio Figeroli was the guise she currently wore. Antonio Figeroli was a middle-aged man with a hanging gut and a sadly receding hairline. He had a swaggering demeanor and often threw his money at whatever caught his eye, be it women, clothes, or alcohol. He frequented this tavern so often that the bartender always prepared his drink before he arrived in order not to face the man’s impatient wrath.

It hadn’t been difficult to pick up Figeroli’s mannerisms. All Cadence had to do was swing by the tavern a couple of times and chat him up while he was drunk. He’d been even easier to read than this buffoon. At the moment, the real Antonio Figeroli was passed out in an alleyway somewhere in the city—courtesy of the Romano Family.

The fact that this man truly believed her to be Antonio Figeroli just highlighted how stupid he was. For saint’s sake, he was in the left Twin City: home of thieves and birthplace of everything underground. If someone in this city approached you out of the blue, it meant they either wanted your money, your life, or your body.

“Damn, Tulio,” she swore in the deep and rumbling voice of Antonio with a spit for good measure. She slammed her fists onto the table with cards still in hand just as Antonio would and bowed her head. Her rings clacked against the wooden surface as she tapped her fingers in mock impatience. “This can’t be right. You’re cheating.”

“Not cheating.” Tulio grinned. “I’m just that good.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and looked him over carefully. “Say, I’ve seen you here before once or twice. Always drunk as hell. Made me feel better about myself. So, what’s with the sudden confidence?”

Tulio considered her for a moment and then smirked.

Hook. Line. Sinker. 

The man leaned across the table and glanced around the tavern with narrowed eyes. She leaned forward to meet him and tuned her ears.

“Just between you and me,” he whispered, “I got myself a new gig distributing some state-of-the-art conductors to some very generous buyers. You wouldn’t believe how desperate people are nowadays for one of ‘em since Ophiuchian regulation makes ‘em impossible to get.”

“Don’t ya mean how desperate people are to make money sellin’ ‘em?” she returned.

A pause, and then: “Your voice—”

Rising to a slow stand, she wiggled her ringed fingers and felt them prickle where the metal of the ring touched her skin. Copper light blossomed from the area and crawled up her arm before reaching her face. When the light faded, the man sitting across from her let out a shout and fell backward in his chair.

“Y-You’re not…! You’re a Conductor!” the man stammered, pointing a shaking finger in her direction. “You’re a kid!”

She paused. Raising a brow, she lifted her hat and scratched her red hair. “Not what I expected to hear, but what can I say?”

“Who—”

Holding out her cards for him to see, she let them slip from her fingers and onto the table. As they left her hand, they glimmered copper, just as her body had. The two of spades became an ace of hearts. The five of clubs became a queen of hearts. The jack of diamonds became a jack of hearts. And the king and ten of spades became a king and ten of hearts. An illusion broken. A royal flush.

“The name’s Cadence Morello.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Personal associate of the Romano Family, at your service.”

At the family name, Tulio paled, then greened, then paled again. In an instant, he was on his knees, crawling to her ankles. “I… I… I…, please. I meant no disrespect! I’ve got a family I need to provide for! You understand, don’t you? My children! Please, I’ll give you all the conductors I have and—”

She took a step back from him with raised hands. “Ey, ey, I get it. These are hard times. People get desperate. But ya can only go so far and get sympathy, ya know? I mean, did ya really think ya could go encroachin’ on the Romano Family’s turf and get away without a single scrape? Even I’m not that lucky.” She fell to a crouch and met his gaze with a reassuring smile. “Look. If ya tell us who’s been providin’ ya with those conductors, then I might be able to get in a good word for ya. Maybe only two fingers cut off instead of all ten.”

The man’s eyes widened. He wobbled in place.

“Whoa, don’t go passin’ out now,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t want ta have ta drag your body ta the boss, ya hear?”

The man didn’t move. And then it clicked for her. He wasn’t staring at her in fear. He was staring at something behind her.

She turned her head just in time to see a flash of bright light followed by a gust of heat. The gust knocked her clean off her feet, throwing her backwards into the bar. As she hit the floor, glass rained down around her with clicks and clacks—a sound that matched the beat of the crackling and popping that echoed in the background.

With much effort, she cracked open her eyes.

The air was clouded in smoke. A shroud of it. But this time the shroud did not aid her. No, it was suffocating her with its gray hands.

She couldn’t breathe.

Not only that.

She couldn’t move.

Flames danced on the outskirts of her vision, their flickering embers reflecting in the shards of glass scattered around her.

No. It couldn’t be. Not like this. Not when she was so close.

She gagged, hacked, coughed.

Was this—