Aston von Rosenmahl's POV

"The noble lie binds the majority in chains for the sake of order. The destructive truth tears them into the abyss of chaos. Neither leads to happiness of all. Rather, they are mere reflections of false freedom."

—Aston von Rosenmahl

My bluish eyes still shimmer as I idly twirl a golden Cont coin between my fingers. It bears the likeness of the first queen, Elisia, the very namesake of this continent. The blue blood staining my knuckles has been wiped away completely, along with the splatters on the floor and any other unsightly traces. I examine the seal of the Löwenherz family before breaking it apart with my free left hand. Like a brittle biscuit, it snaps in two. Setting the gilded coin aside, I turn my gaze toward the murky scenery outside the window.

A blue sun. A cold mist. A sky shifting between blue and green, nearly turquoise in its ethereal glow. Upon closer inspection, the waters below mirror that same eerie hue, a blend of deep green and blue. The last of the Reds are being driven from the dozen galleons, their bodies unceremoniously discarded onto the docks. More ships loom on the horizon, their blackened sails billowing against the turquoise-colored sky. My gaze drifts from the Cont coin to the letter before me. I exhale softly.

For a single piece of gold like this, Reds will toil for half their lives, yet here I am, playing with it like a mere child.

I scoff at my own frivolity and let my eyes settle upon the bold strokes of carrot-orange ink, stark against the deep blue paper. The cursive script is elegant yet firm, almost alive in its presence. The blue sun only accentuates its clarity.

…

Dear Aston von Rosenmahl,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. Until a year ago, we— the Löwenherz family— believed that your venture into the shipping trade would amount to little. And yet, you have proven wrong. Perhaps it would have been wiser for us to align with you, to multiply our fortunes tenfold. My father turns blue every time he reads about your family in the Zentria journals. The Elisian Times is particularly insufferable to him. My mother, my sister, and I must endure his constant tirades about you and the others who have disrupted the noble order of trade.

But enough about our fathers' grievances.

I have a personal request. A proposition, if you will. I understand, despite your lineage, you do not hold the greatest wealth among your kin. The youngest always bears the heaviest burden, yet you remain the son of the illustrious Duke von Rosenmahl. I would have attended the banquet in celebration of your victory, offered my congratulations in person—but, alas, my father forbids me from stepping beyond our estate. Even more so from setting foot in yours.

I apologize for contacting you through something as mundane as a letter, but I assure you this will not be a waste of your time. Through reliable sources, I have obtained information—methods to acquire other blood. Not just that, but formulas for binding powers, ranging from orange to— and I do not lie— even violet blood. Artifacts of the fourth degree may even be available for purchase. The only thing these freelancers demand is discretion. And, of course, what you possess in abundance— wealth and the finest herbs from the Rosengarten, your so-called humble 'greenhouse.'

I swear upon the name of the Löwenherz family that, should you agree to assist me, you will gain access to resources even your father would struggle to acquire.

With the utmost sincerity, Arthur von Löwenherz.

…

I read the letter once more, skepticism knitting my brows.

Binding powers from orange to violet? Artifacts of the fourth degree? Such things are rarely seen outside the grand auctions— the ones in which the King himself partakes. Held only once every few decades.

By the time my father allows me to attend one, I will already be rotting beneath the bellies of carrion feeders.

Only my eldest brother has ever been to such an auction. He was gifted twenty milliliters of violet blood on his thirtieth birthday. I was but five years old at the time.

I furrow my brow and dip the feathered tip of my quill into an open glass bottle of orange ink. The letter before me is replaced with fresh, thick blue parchment. I press the soft end of the quill against my upper lip in thought before beginning my response.

…

Dear Arthur von Löwenherz,

I have received your letter in good condition and trust you are well. It grieves me to hear that you and your family must suffer under your father's displeasure due to my own. As for your proposal— I find myself intrigued. How about we meet on the Day of False Gods, two hours past the Sun's Crossing, at an establishment befitting our standing? Let us discuss further there and hope fortune remains with us until then.

If you are unable to make it, do send word, ensuring it arrives at my estate by the Day of Strength. If I hear nothing by then, I shall assume we are to meet at the agreed time and place.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

With heartfelt regards, Aston von Rosenmahl.

…

I set down my quill, the orange ink still gleaming against the page. Beside me, a cloth rests on the desk, stained with ink from where I regulated the flow to prevent errant droplets. I lean back into my chair, sighing as I press the Rosenmahl family seal onto the letter's wax closure. Three roses, elegantly entwined.

Gazing out the window, I estimate that a quarter of an hour has passed. The Reds have vanished, and the galleons are already setting sail once more. The ships that had loomed on the horizon earlier now approach the docks with silent inevitability.

Stretching my legs beneath the deep, blue-stained hardwood of my desk, I extend my arms outward, rolling my shoulders before allowing my gaze to settle once more on the tranquil turquoise waves. The blue sun casts its eerie light across the undulating water.

Reaching to the side, I retrieve a pair of tight-fitting dark blue gloves from a polished brass stand. Even in the warmth of the day, I pull them on without hesitation. I turn my hands over, flexing my fingers. The wounds are hidden from sight.

Nodding in satisfaction, I take the sealed letter and run a hand through my hair, ensuring it is neatly arranged.

…

I walk through the seemingly endless corridor of my estate, my steps measured, echoing faintly against the polished marble floor. The air is cool, tinged with the faint scent of candle wax and aged wood. After taking two right turns and descending the grand staircase, I arrive at the rose garden.

"Father does not wish for me to meet anyone. Then let it be as our benevolent patriarch desires," I murmur with dry amusement, the rich leather of my shoes brushing against the turquoise-hued grass. The fragrance of a thousand blooms—flowers that exist nowhere but within the confines of our estate—fills my senses, a symphony of delicate scents woven into the gentle breeze. Towering trees cast cooling shadows, offering respite from the relentless sun. Outside, the world is perpetually dull, overcast with an air of somber stillness. But here… here, it is vibrant. Almost surreal.

The climate of the rose garden defies nature itself. Cool in summer, yet warm in winter, sustained by the rare herbs cultivated within the soil, each one imbuing the land with an unseen vitality. I stroll through this sanctuary, my posture relaxed, almost languid, as if still within the comfort of my chambers.

Only the gardeners ever set foot here, and even they come but rarely. Most of the flora tend to themselves, as though the garden is a living entity, thriving without the touch of mortal hands. Crimson roses bloom beside ice-blue blossoms, their velvety petals reminiscent of lion's mane. The deep auburn bark of ancient trees is entwined with violet vines, curling around the sacred fruits of the Earthly Tree. Woolflies—creatures both delicate and ethereal—hover over the blossoms, scattering their magical blue dust, coaxing the petals into their full splendor.

A faint smile touches my lips, something rare, something almost unfamiliar. I inhale deeply, as though I can finally breathe, and finally exist beyond the weight of expectations. The warm glow of the sun filters through the canopy, a baby blue embrace I do not deserve.

"Excuse me, my lord...?"

A delicate voice reaches my ears, freezing my veins. My breath catches, my blue heart turning to ice. I open my eyes, silently praying that it is merely the illusion of the Echo Blossom, a trick played by the garden itself.

But it is not.

She is real.

Beneath a cascade of fiery red-orange hair, a young woman gazes at me, her expression one of mild curiosity. Her delicate features—small, upturned nose, soft cheeks reminiscent of a child's—are bathed in the golden light of the afternoon. Her eyes, deep and gleaming like polished amber, mirror the hues of her elegant gown. A dainty hat sits atop her head, exuding an air of innocence, while a diamond ring glimmers on her slender pinky finger. Strands of orange pearls rest against her throat, bordering on gold in the shifting light.

She smiles.

Dimples of an angel.

She is missing only her wings, and she could be mistaken for one of the white-blooded.

She crouches on the grass, unbothered by the pristine fabric of her dress, the very picture of childlike ease. In her left hand, she holds an orange Titrius flower, likely plucked carelessly from some marketplace meadow.

My heart falters—twice.

Princess Elisia.

She should not be here. She should be at the banquet, dining amongst nobles, indulging in an extravagant feast of the rarest delicacies. And yet, she sits here, watching me with the quiet amusement of one who has uncovered some hidden wonder.

I part my lips, my voice instinctive, bound by duty.

"Aston von Rosenmahl."

I bow deeper than necessary. The moment stretches, my mind racing. Why is she here? The banquet is in full swing. She should be surrounded by courtiers, sipping wine from golden goblets, not idling away in the seclusion of my family's rose garden.

Elisia rises gracefully, the Titrius blossom still resting in her palm, while her free hand gently presses against her hat to keep it in place.

"Rise," she says with a soft giggle, reveling in the untouched beauty of my childhood sanctuary.

I lift my gaze, and I see only her.

My eyes reflect the flickering gold of her own.

She is a spark in the depths of a mine of amber.

I suppress the thought with a slight shake of my head, but a cold shudder races down my spine. My father.

Elisia steps closer, too close. Instinctively, I shift back.

She notices, tilting her head slightly, arms curling behind her back. "Tell me, Aston. Why is the son of the host absent from his own banquet?" Her tone is playful, the turquoise leaves of the garden swirling around her in contrast.

"I-I am not welcome," I say without thinking.

My heart stammers—for a third reason.

I should not have said that.

My skin pales, the natural blue of my complexion deepening as though I am deathly ill. A poor first impression might cost me my monthly stipend. A month-long confinement would be expected. Too many blood extractions—perhaps even enough to remind me of my noble lineage, of who I am meant to be. But if my words tarnish the alliance between the Zentria Kingdom and House Rosenmahl—

Death would be the only certainty.

Perhaps I am overthinking. But with the Duke of this estate, one never truly knows.

Elisia, however, merely laughs. Soft at first, then bubbling into genuine mirth.

"Forgive me, Lord Rosenmahl. Hehe." She covers her mouth with a gloved hand, her apricot-colored silk crinkling slightly as she stifles her laughter. "I expected many things, but not this."

She laughs harder, her voice rich, uninhibited. The Titrius blossom slips from her fingers, forgotten as she wipes a stray tear from her cheek. Another step closer.

I remain still.

I can only watch her. The orange pearls at her ears, the hint of warm apricot at her gums, the light catching on the curve of her lips.

She smiles, and for reasons unknown, I do as well.

My lips twitch, mirroring hers against my will. My head spins, my balance wavering. The garden tilts. I stagger, knees buckling as I clutch my forehead. Heat—unbearable, searing.

The realization strikes me too late.

The spores of the Truth Mushroom.

A slow, bitter chuckle escapes me. So that's why…

A favored luxury amongst the elite. A tool of espionage, used to extract truth from the unwilling.

Sweat beads upon my brow, yet my body feels cold. Nausea grips me, yet I do not yield. My ears ring with silence, my vision blurring into shifting hues of green, blue, and violet. Elisia kneels beside me, concern evident in her sparkling amber eyes. She speaks, but her voice is lost to me, drowned by the pulsating light surrounding her.

I stare at her lips, the only thing unmoving in a world that is spinning.

My world dims.

The letter...

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