‘If I’m lucky, she’s buried in a ditch somewhere…’ Machaon thought before shaking his head.

Technically, nobody had seen Nesha since before Percy’s infiltration of the Thirsty Valley, so there was a slim chance that she was dead. Perhaps, one of the Red-born’s enemies had managed to get to her before they got killed. Or, maybe, Percy himself had grown tired of the girl, feeding her to his monstrous crow to get rid of the dead weight.

But this was too important for Machaon to leave up to chance.

What if Nesha was still alive, hiding somewhere? What if she and Percy were still connected? The little monster was growing like a cancer! Just a decade ago, he’d been a powerless nobody, yet he had already turned into someone who slaughtered entire groups of Blues every other week!

Left unattended, this matter could easily blow up in Machaon’s face sooner or later. The boy might grow strong enough to threaten him directly after a couple of centuries, and Nesha would likely keep digging up the past. To make matters worse, it was clear at this point that the gods had the mortals’ backs, despite their apparent apathy. Nothing else could explain why they would allow them to do as they pleased for so long.

‘Deimos probably understands this too…’

Even so, the stubborn fool persisted. He’d been assigned to the Aurora Dew mission from the very start, and it didn’t look like the gods or his superiors in the Divine Root had any intention of removing him from the task. Deimos had actually been the one to decide the bounties and coordinate the efforts to send many of the hunters after Percy.

Why he did that was anyone’s guess.

Some believed that he wanted to get back at the Red-born for humiliating him time after time, while others thought that Deimos was motivated by his unresolved issues with his father – perhaps trying to prove a point to the gods who’d kept him in the dark all along.

Machaon didn’t care which one it was.

He’d allowed the situation to play out, hoping one of the groups would get lucky and take the boy down. It would have been so much better if somebody else could do that and leave Machaon out of it entirely. Sadly, it had become painfully apparent by now that that wasn’t going to happen. It had been months since Percy had been spotted last, and Machaon wouldn’t be surprised if the boy could defeat most of the remaining teams by now. Sooner or later, Percy would be too powerful for Blues altogether, by which time it would all be over.

The Great Houses did have a few Violets available, but they couldn’t just deploy them on a wild goose chase whenever they wanted. These were all notable individuals with more important jobs than hunting down a criminal. Machaon’s window to act was shrinking rapidly.

‘Nesha is still the main problem, but I’ve no idea where she is. Right now, my best bet is to get rid of him while I still can.’

With Percy out of the picture, the gods wouldn’t give a damn about Nesha either. Machaon would be free to kill her with impunity the moment she resurfaced. At that point, people wouldn’t even question it, nor link it to her family’s destruction anymore, because she was already a notorious fugitive. Even her knowledge of the Aurora Dew wasn’t nearly as valuable now that the Root could extract it from Percy’s mentor.

Reaching his family’s estate, Machaon entered his office through the balcony on the third floor, before exiting into a long corridor. It was lit up by countless enchanted chandeliers, the polished crystals shining dimly over the wooden stands propping porcelain vases by the sides. The midnight blue carpet muffled the sound of Machaon’s footsteps, as he headed toward the living quarters of his subordinates.

The walls were decorated with portraits of House Asclepius’s former patriarchs – Machaon’s predecessors. One day, his face would also end up there, but that would most likely happen after he retired, passing the mantle to his successor. By then, the other paintings would have been replaced dozens of times, as even the most potent enchantments couldn’t preserve them for nearly that long.

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In some ways, being the leader of a Great House was the most enviable position on Remior.

Unlike the nobles of the lower Houses, Machaon didn’t have to worry about being assassinated by his enemies. Leaving aside the fact that few could even challenge him, the Great Houses simply weren’t involved in the political conflicts of their lessers, their authority fully solidified in the world’s hierarchy.

In fact, it could be argued that even the Green-borns had it worse, since their lives were also at risk. The gods had no choice but to send the Holy Children on dangerous expeditions outside Remior, not only to facilitate their growth, but also because they needed their help to harvest resources from barren worlds.

Meanwhile, Machaon was one of exactly seven people on the planet who would get to enjoy the rare privilege of dying of old age, after living out his entire lifespan. Even after his death, his memory would survive, his likeness forever commemorated in these very walls – at least as long as House Asclepius existed.

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just not good enough,’ he thought, not sparing the portraits another glance.

Forty thousand years was an unfathomably long amount of time, but it was ultimately little more than the blink of an eye to a god. And Machaon would have to spend some of it with a wrinkled face, suffering from his aching bones and crooked spine. And for what? What would be the point of enduring such a miserable existence, without a worthwhile purpose? What difference did it make if his name got passed down through the annals of history, long after his bones turned to dust?

No.

Machaon would live forever, or he’d die trying to.

Reaching his destination, he knocked on a wooden door. It opened, revealing a short man wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. His shoulder-length black hair was dishevelled, his differently coloured eyes – one green, the other blue – widening in surprise.

“Lord Asclepius! Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting you!” he exclaimed, stepping back. “I’ll put something on if you give me a second.”

He was about to turn around when Machaon raised a hand to stop him. Felhald still used his domain to grab a loose-fitting tunic draped over a chair, giving Machaon a curious look as he tossed it on.

“I need you to do something,” Machaon said, handing him the boy’s poster.

“Oh? I didn’t know you cared about the little monster,” the Blue mused. “I’d assumed the bounty was pocket change for our House.”

“Kill him. I don’t care about the bird,” Machaon replied, not bothering to explain. “Do it promptly and discreetly. If anyone asks, it was an accident. You tried to capture him alive, but it was too difficult.”

“This…” Felhald frowned, not accepting the mission immediately. The reaction was somewhat atypical of the seasoned killer, but Machaon wasn’t surprised.

“What? Are you afraid of him?”

Machaon wasn’t looking down on Percy. He was perfectly aware of how dangerous the Red-born was. Still, Felhald wasn’t a regular Blue. He was one of Remior’s most renowned assassins, having personally slain more Blues than anyone else on the planet, including Percy. Violets and Whites couldn’t be deployed easily, and the Divine Order had better things to do than sending their strongest Green-borns after a bunch of mortals.

Whenever a noble House wanted to prevent one of their rival families from getting a second Violet, it was people like Felhald that they hired to eliminate the competition – assuming they could afford House Asclepius’s hefty prices, of course.

In fact, Felhald was the only one of his ilk who’d actually killed a couple of Violets before. Not that he was strong enough to face them in battle, but catching one off-guard wasn’t impossible, given the right circumstances.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve been following the boy’s achievements closely, and I don’t think I’m the only one either – it’s not every day Remior gives birth to a mage like him,” the Blue admitted with a shrug. “I’m confident in taking him or his pet down separately, but together…?”

Machaon sighed in exasperation. “Pick three more Blues to go with you. I don’t care who. Just tell them I want the boy dead, and I want it done yesterday. Don’t speak a word to anyone else. Come back to get your memories of the mission erased the moment you’re done. Do you understand?”

Would it work? Machaon didn’t know. If the gods were keeping a close eye on Percy as he feared, they might step in at the last second to save him. Still, there was a chance. The Blue could easily execute one from afar, so he might succeed if he was fast enough – or if the deities had decided on a hands-off approach.

Regardless, Machaon had nothing to lose. Whether or not his subordinate failed, he had all the plausible deniability this time. After all, he was simply going after a criminal wanted by the Divine Root themselves. If anything, he was joining the party a year late, so nobody would suspect his eagerness or his motivations.

Oblivious to his thoughts, the veteran assassin grinned, his eyes gleaming with ruthless anticipation.

“Of course.”