Aston's POV
"When a single rose in the bouquet begins to wither, the others soon follow."
—Aston von Rosenmahl
My hands are encased in soft, silk glacé gloves, their color mirroring the azure-blue sun. I stare at them, at the brilliant orange stones adorning my knuckles. My eyes lose themselves in their fiery glow as I take in the muted clatter of leather shoes against cobblestone, the rhythmic gallop of horses echoing through the streets. My lips, tinged an unnatural shade of blue, are slightly parted, my gaze vacant as though I might collapse at any moment.
"Lord Aston."
The familiar voice of my butler reaches me, pulling me from my trance. A single shake of my head sends a strand of hair tumbling forward. "Yes?" I respond, my tone composed, my expression a mask of practiced ease—until I absentmindedly push my hair back and let my brows lower once more. "I am coming."
I waste no breath. My steps ring out against the fog-laden, blue-tinted street. All around me, heads turn, their eyes drawn to my carriage, a royal blue masterpiece adorned with gold. The coachman, dressed as finely as the horses he guides, strokes their manes with quiet reverence. The people stare—clad in linen shirts and simple trousers, the finest garments they own. They wear shades of beige to black. No blue. They are middle class.
I understand their envy. But the greed—the greed that compels one in five of them to stain their hands red for a sliver of wealth—is something I cannot abide. My steps remain steady as I shrug off my silk vest, white with blue, orange, and violet roses embroidered along the edges, and drape it over my butler's waiting arm. Kayl stands at my side, clad in a deeper shade of blue, allowing me to shine like a star in contrast. He is old now, his once-black hair streaked with silver. Unlike most men of his age, he wears no mustache.
My shoes splash through the remnants of last night's rain pooled upon the pavement. I count to five in my head, and with every fifth step, I click my tongue. My tongue, which bears the same shade as the one I am staring at. Their envy twists into a smile—wilted, like a dying flower.
I am ashamed to be blue, as they are.
The street, cloaked in a pale mist and stripped of sunlight, looms around me. Towering spires and pointed rooftops cast long shadows, exuding an air of quiet dominance. I exhale softly, lifting three fingers in an idle gesture. Kayl halts, allowing me to continue forward alone, his keen gaze—so alike my own—watching from the corner of my eye.
Kayl is a good man. An honest one. Loyal, steadfast, and devoted to his work. I nearly smirk as he turns away, retreating to the carriage. No doubt he will sit there, smoothing the creases from my vest, stealing anxious glances toward the entrance, ready to retrieve me at a moment's notice—like a golden retriever awaiting its master.
My gaze lifts to a grand sign hanging above an even grander building in the heart of Zentria Street. The promenade. The very core of the capital, Denklin, and the modest kingdom of Zentria itself. Zentria: The Heart of Cultural Delicacies. A bland name, uninspired. But the food, at least, is something to take pride in.
My knees weaken. Today, I might finally obtain the information I seek—the origins of blood. True strength. The power of the orange-blooded. The cunning intellect of the yellow-blooded. I walk past the glass facade, my reflection ghosting alongside me. Then, a new face appears.
I glance at her, puzzled, but say nothing. She simply holds the door open for me, clad in the warm orange uniform of a porter. A young woman, my age. Before there was a man I had named Alex in my mind. He looked like an Alex. Short brown hair—no longer than the stubble on my jaw when I neglect to shave for a few days.
I miss his gentle smile.
Now, there is only a cold-blooded blue. A red, replaced by a blue.
How fitting for this new era.
I roll my eyes inwardly but maintain my usual air of detached poise, my chin tilted just so. My polished shoes dampen the deep blue carpet beneath my feet. My royal blue tie is neatly tucked into my high-collared shirt, a perfect match to the deep navy of my tailcoat. Two attendants, dressed in respectable orange and blue, greet me warmly.
The tremor in my knees vanishes. My brow furrows slightly as I ascend the stairs, met with one false smile after another. Blues. More blues. And even more blues.
This was once my favorite restaurant. A quarter of the staff had been red. Now, they are gone.
Replaced, like goods on a merchant's shelf.
Are they dead?
I pause before a painting, my steps faltering. A man with flowing hair stands at the center, his arms outstretched to a sea of bloodied figures. The blue light of the sun encircles him like a halo. I exhale and continue walking.
The reds were not like those of the Earth.
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They were reds from Hemorion.
Born here into slavery.
I push forward, met with more blues. Only the owner remains untouched—an orange-blooded man who stretches out his hand to me, as he always does. Wilson, clad in a blue suit—a symbol of our supposed unity. Yet, his handshake threatens to crush mine with its sheer strength.
He is a broad man, thick-necked, his brows and hair a striking shade of flame.
"My good man, Aston," he greets me, his grip unrelenting.
I force my fingers to tighten in response, prying my hand free with as much dignity as I can muster. "How are you?"
"Good! And you?" he asks, his fiery eyes glowing with warmth. My own hand, blue from the pressure, curls subtly at my side.
"Good," I reply, a strained smile tugging at my lips. My curiosity sharpens. "But tell me—what of your staff?" My gaze meets his.
Warm eyes, the color of sliced mandarins.
"The reds? Sold."
The words slip from his lips with ease.
I had held onto hope. I had believed he was different. But corruption spreads, seeping into its surroundings, tainting all it touches.
Was it Ronald? Or Teran? Neither are good influences.
Still, I force a gentle smile, pressing the words past my teeth. "A wise decision."
It tastes like bile in my mouth.
My hand clenches into a fist as I watch a blue-blooded attendant in the uniform once worn by the reds—the same reds who once brought me biscuits with my Avelorian cocoa when I was a child, and later, coffee as I grew older.
But I do not falter. I do not lower my chin. I smile.
"Good, good, Aston. At two, after the sun's crossing." Wilson clasps my shoulder, his biceps and chest like iron against me. "Arthur von Löwenherz awaits."
Oranges are strong, yes. But they are not delicate.
They are made for war.
Rarely do they own restaurants.
And yet, in the grand scheme of things, they stand above us.
For now.
We are quite appetizing to them as well, but in exchange for maintaining the infrastructure and everything that comes with it, they leave us in peace. In return, they are allowed to rule over us as kings and command our armies.
I feel my ribs pressing against my lungs, then the way my lungs fill with air again. "Well then, Aston, have fun." He flashes me his orange-stained gums in a grand smile beneath his apricot-colored beard. I nod to him for a brief moment, slightly submissive, before stepping back into the room with my head held high. The door locks behind me.
The room is silent. The room is cold. No sunlight, only the glow of a chandelier floating high above. Three of the four walls are adorned with blue-and-orange patterned wallpaper; the fourth is made entirely of glass, revealing a view of the opposite buildings and the wide street that cuts through them. The streets here are the broadest in all Zentria. I glance at the dark spires of the buildings piercing the murky turquoise sky.
"It will rain."
A blond man, bearing a striking resemblance to me, addresses me with his hands folded as he sits at the dining table. The only difference between us is the slight softness of his nose and the roundness of his face. He is in his mid-thirties, about ten years my senior. We are both still like pups. Compared to the Reds, we are barely teenagers, given our average lifespan of two hundred years.
I furrow my brows as I take a seat, removing my glaçé gloves and letting the orange stones at my knuckles reflect the chandelier's light. "How do you know?" I ask, though the answer is obvious.
"Blood." He smiles, revealing a flash of blue.
"Blood?" I repeat, my gaze lingering on the laugh lines and innocent dimples that crease his face.
He lifts his shimmering blue hands before the emblem of his family and spits into a bowl, rinsing his mouth with a glass of water. "I received a lower formula in advance." His pale blue eyes lock onto mine. "No, not really in advance—more as a means to assure me of their sincerity. The freelancers, I mean."
I study him for a moment. "Just call them Greens," I say, releasing a humble sigh as I pick up my silverware. Arthur von Löwenherz, son of the Löwenherz family, whose banks are scattered across all of Elisia, mimics my movements.
"The Greens..." He repeats the word with a hint of disdain. He cuts into his succulent, pale-blue steak just as I do. "...have a lower formula for you as well."
The moment he finishes his sentence and takes a bite of the blue meat—just as I do—the rain begins to hammer against the glass. First, a few droplets. Then, a deluge.
"The Greens may be despicable," Arthur continues, his voice calm, "the most barbaric and insidious of all bloodlines. But the ones I will introduce you to are different." He smiles at me, without malice.
I watch the rain pour down, the storm appearing from nowhere in mere seconds. The restaurant seems to be submerged. The blue meat in my mouth is sweet, far superior to any red meat in quality.
"And what kind of formula would that be?" I ask, my eyes gleaming with satisfaction as I spear a piece of asparagus with my fork. I pause as I see his mouth part slightly. "And what did you receive?"
He chuckles at my prodding. "So direct, Aston? But very well. It grants a glimpse into the future. More precisely, the formula is structured so that I can perceive natural phenomena before they occur."
He pauses, skipping over the bitter vegetable in favor of more meat. "You, however, will receive something far better. The ability to disguise. The Greens claimed they had only these two formulas available. Here—"
Arthur chews contentedly on the blue steak as he rolls a container toward me. A vial, a syringe. My eyes widen at the sight. Beneath the table, my legs tense.
"A formula?" I ask, more skeptical than before, bringing my hands to my chin and setting aside my cutlery and plate.
The syringe contains green blood, its liquid swirling within the ampoule.
"It is fused with twenty percent blue blood and ten percent orange blood," Arthur states monotonously, though his smile does not fade. "And a certain collection of herbal mixture designed to induce shapeshifting."
My own smile begins to form slowly. Normally, the abilities granted by blood are random. Everyone reacts differently, leading to endless possibilities. But with precise ingredients and rare herbs, one can manipulate the magical force coursing through our veins, molding it to achieve specific results. And if this is true—if this formula is real—then in my hands rests something worth an entire district of a city.
Rare. Precious.
"But why?" I ask, my voice measured.
"So that you trust me." He meets my gaze. "And the Greens."
I did not expect it, but my eyes shine. I want to scold myself for it, but I merely swallow at the sight of the green blood.
"So, what exactly do you need?" My brows knit together, my eyes, however, remain fixated on the vibrant green.
Arthur's blue eyes gleam—the eyes of a fisherman whose line has finally caught something valuable.
"Thirty thousand Elis. Truth spores. The seeds of the mantis. The plum of desire. And the herbs of panacea. Dozens of each. In return, they will provide us with formulas up to violet blood, as well as artifacts of the fourth grade."
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