Aston's POV

"It is the inner self that defines us, not the outer. 'Clothes do not make the man.'"

—Aston von Rosenmahl

I twirl the golden Cont coin between my fingers, its weight a familiar comfort. My chin rests on my left hand as I gaze out the window. The sea breeze tempers the day's heat, and I watch the birds with their white-blue wings soar across the horizon—so carefree. I sigh, placing the coin down, only to pick it up again and slip it into my pocket. Leaning back, I let my head touch the cushioned frame of my chair, savoring the silence. My fingers drift toward the polished floor, a luxury the middle class can only dream of. My azure eyes shift from the sunless horizon, where galleons continue to transport reds, to the green liquid in the ampoule before me.

A vial filled with the green lifeblood of a shapeshifter. Like all abilities, each is equally challenging to obtain, the probability dictated by DNA. But this formula—unknown to me—transforms this blood so that anyone who takes it gains the ability to alter their form, their face, even their gender. I could become the princess, make myself king. And the best, yet most terrifying part, is that my transformation should, in theory, surpass that of a green. A shiver runs down my spine, and I swallow hard. Greens can change their appearance, but not their essence. The king must have his blood drawn daily, show his tongue, his gums. I shake my head; no, the king or the princess are poor examples—they are oranges. It would be futile unless an orange takes this formula. But I could seamlessly integrate into another blue family. My blue tongue, my blue blood would remain unchanged. My lips twitch, a half-smile forming. I am apprehensive, fearing it might be a trap, that Arthur is deceiving me. But what would he gain? An assassination? He knows I would tell no one about this blood.

I pause, closing my eyes, pressing my fingers to my glabella. With my other hand, I tap my index finger on the wooden table. It's possible, but I must act. Such an opportunity won't come again, not even if I lived a hundred lifetimes. My heart beats faster, my palms grow sweaty, my breathing quickens as I hold the ampoule in my hands. A syringe. I dislike such things—sharp objects, cutting—they remind me of the past, of Father. But I must overcome this. A phobia of needles is counterproductive in a world filled with blood. I hold the syringe with trembling hands, and with each movement, the long needle seems to grow larger. Despite my fear, I roll up my long silk shirt. My first time. I'm nervous. I approach, but my grip falters, and my face turns pale. It slips from my hand. The syringe. The green elixir. It falls, heading toward the floor.

Thud.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands continue to tremble. This can't happen. I open my eyes, peering down, and my heart resumes its beat. I exhale deeply and sigh. It's on the carpet. I push my chair back, the red-crocheted carpet marred with dark stains. I lie down beside the syringe. I don't care how foolish I look; I'll do it lying down, ensuring I don't destroy my treasure. I pick up the syringe again with my trembling hands and place it against my bare skin, specifically on the blue vein at the crook of my elbow. I groan, close my eyes, unable to watch as the green blood enters. My fingers depress the tube of green blood, and in return, blue blood oozes out. The formula is within me. I remove the syringe from my arm and press my finger, the one that injected green blood, onto the wound to prevent bruising. My first time, but even I know this much. As I lie on the blue carpet adorned with orange and violet rose patterns, I suddenly hear my door open. It takes at least five seconds; I roll the empty syringe under my desk, let my long white shirt hang down, and, blue-faced and breathless, I stand up and half-sit on my not properly positioned chair. A strand falls from my otherwise slicked-back blonde hair.

"Youngest," I hear a cheerful voice chiming. Lieben von Rosenmahl. The middle of the five Rosenmahl sons. My older brother, and the one I least tolerate, even though he, like me, is the second most ignored. "Yes?" I reply, glancing at a letter from this morning, one concerning news of an investment on my part. "Little one, are you engrossed in your finances again?" He approaches me with broad strides, his two strands falling forward while his shoulder-length hair hangs back. He smiles, but his steely eyes reflect the greed typical of the middle class. Go away. Don't bother me. I want to send him away, but I let him approach, my neck as always cursed by the thorns of our family. "Never mind," he says, placing his hands on his hips as he takes his final steps and looks over my head at the galleons on the horizon. "Father said we should gain some experience." He pauses and looks down at the naked men, women, and children who appear like ants in the distance. "We are to experience firsthand what our family takes for our glory." He wants to spit on my carpet but refrains. He can at least show his younger brother that much courtesy. His smile fades, and he clicks his tongue as I hold my breath, looking out the window so he doesn't notice my blue face. "We are to bring the lowly pigs to market ourselves." Lieben's hair rises as he clenches his gloves, which emits a squeaky sound. "We are to breathe the same stale air from their cave." Lieben's voice becomes mumbled mid-sentence, but he claps his hands, the sound muffled by his gloves. "Anyway, Aston..." He turns around, and I take a quick, shallow breath, the blood draining from my head, my heart beating again, "...let's do it quickly; I have a date today with the esteemed beauty from the Hunter family." As his steps echo in my chamber, he murmurs words unsuitable for children, but I pay no attention, merely biting my own cheeks. My fingers cramp, I feel the blood boiling within me, feel it in my fingertips as if pricked by needles. It doesn't hurt much, just uncomfortable, and so sudden. Suddenly, I feel my own body in every detail. Under my trousers and long-sleeved shirt, I sweat slightly, breathe a bit faster, even faster as I hear Lieben pass the guards outside my room. But I stand up, pause for a moment, take three deep breaths, shake out my arms and legs while observing the knight clad in blue armor, who, however, doesn't look at me but stares ahead like a cold statue. I take one last deep breath, run my fingers through my hair as I always do before leaving my chamber, and follow my older brother.

…

I walk alongside my elder brother—though, truth be told, we stand eye to eye. No, that's not accurate. I might even be a touch taller. Yes, I am taller than him. Amusing, in a way. But there's nothing amusing about our surroundings.

Reds. Men, women, the aged, and the young. Their lives, already brief, have been rendered even more arduous. I keep my gaze steady, betraying no emotion. My chiseled jawline, like Lieben's, casts a shadow over those around us. Not that it's difficult when more than half are mere skeletons, and the rest appear as though they've been beaten into pulp.

The Blues who've spent weeks aboard the ships fare no better. The few Greens and the rarer Oranges among them are rugged, masculine. Lieben and I, while masculine, possess a more refined appearance—softer skin, elegant attire, though perhaps not at this moment. But that hardly matters now.

Outwardly, I remain composed; inwardly, I shudder. I yearn to free them all—the frightened children lying atop mutilated corpses, the fragile elderly who are scarcely older than I will be in two decades, the unfortunate women who seem to have endured daily violations for weeks.

My once-clean shoes now squelch through the coagulating red blood of the people my family has enslaved with their own hands. I feel nauseated. No, I truly am nauseated, but I swallow it down. Some of the acidic bile escapes through my nostrils, forcing me to suppress a coughing fit.

By the gods, why was I born into this family?

I wipe my blue lips and gaze upon the heaps of corpses. Why must they all suffer so? Why can't we live normally? Why must such a power structure exist?

But I answer my own question as I look up at the cyan, slightly turquoise sky. The Golds. Gods. Apollo. They are the reason, even though we know nothing of their existence. We merely extract their powers through the rituals of the Nine—nine deities who have orchestrated this dystopian world. Nine divine beings whose blood is golden, unlike our blue, yellow, brown, or red. Simply because they are more powerful.

I stare into the sky with cold eyes, then shift my gaze to the sail. A ladder, a small platform, and at the top of the mast hangs a naked Red man. Nailed, hanging upside down like a cross, like the prophet of the Reds. Hypocritical, humiliating.

I continue walking behind Lieben until he stops.

"Down here," says another man, rough and reeking of fish, as he hands my brother a rusty silver key. Lieben clicks his blue tongue in disgust. Compared to us, he sees the Reds as coarse, puny swine, yet our blood is of the same kind.

The man's yellow teeth are hidden beneath his full, dark gray beard as he hastily departs—likely out of fear of making a mistake.

Lieben moves forward, his weight causing the dry stairs to creak and groan. The air shifts from the salty, fishy smell, tinged with death, to a suffocating stench where light barely penetrates. The air is not only stale but also reeks of feces and urine.

I peer into the darkness where the Reds have been confined for weeks. My eyes scan from cell to cell. Half have already been transported out to be branded and subsequently sold at small auctions, to direct buyers, or otherwise trafficked. The other half remains here, alone with Lieben and me.

They sit hunched, like animals in mass production, cramped in the tightest conditions. They whimper like dogs, flinching at the sound of our approaching footsteps. But it's not me they fear—it's my brother. He looks down upon them.

"Swine," Lieben mutters as he approaches a closed cell and unlocks it with a key. "One at a time," he says, his cold eyes appearing beastly to the Reds.

I wish I could buy them all, hide them somewhere, and grant them a normal life. But in this reality, such a wish remains just that—a simple wish.

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Lieben steps back as, every ten seconds, a Red man or woman emerges from the cramped cell and ascends the stairs. They don't all rush out at once. They don't attempt to overpower us. I shudder to think what must have happened to strip them of any desire to escape.

This also casts doubt on any future rebellion. How can Reds live normally—no, how can this power structure be changed—if no one is willing to do anything about it, let alone fight against it?

But I can do nothing. I am like them, signaling them to go upstairs, watching as the children, women, and men, all naked, ascend. Mere seconds later, I hear the hissing, the screams, and the cycle continues.

While I appear stiff and tense, Lieben seems relaxed, almost bored. I despise him. That the same blood flows through our veins. I don't mean the color, but that of our parents.

I sigh. No, I am the odd one, thinking the way I do in this world...

…

It takes longer than I expect. Time stretches in the darkness. Perhaps an hour, maybe two, or maybe less—after all, it's still bright outside. The sky is now a muted turquoise, dimmed but not yet in its violet splendor before dusk. And the golden moon is nowhere to be seen.

"Shit, you damn bitch!" Lieben screams, and I turn, startled by the sudden outburst. "You little pig!" Lieben swings his flat hand at a small girl, who holds her arms out in a feeble attempt to defend herself. She's the second to last. Behind her is an older boy, one who could very well be Lieben's own son. I glance bitterly at Lieben's back as he tries to hit the girl, only for the little boy to stop him. It's so dark that I can barely make anything out, but the next moment, I hear the boy slam into the wooden wall. He groans and crumples to the floor.

I approach my brother, my steps quickening, matching the increasing force of his swing. "Lieben," I say, my breaths rapid, my heartbeat pounding in my head. My hand shakes as I reach out to him, but he shakes it off. "What?" he snaps, his blond brows furrowed, his sea-like eyes glaring into mine. "How are we supposed to be noble if we indulge in these inferior creatures?"

He clicks his tongue and turns away. I exhale, closing my eyes in a moment of relief, but the next second, he swings again, and my breath catches in my throat. In the same instant, in the same heartbeat, which flows with cold blood, I swing my fist. My knuckles collide with the back of his head. His flat hand stops just before striking the little girl's eyes, and then, despite his weakness, he falls to the ground.

My breath is heavy, but I remain still. Damn it. No. I can't stay still. What am I fooling myself for? If Lieben gets up, he'll strike me too. I can handle that. The pain, the physical blows from him—that much I can endure. But he'll tell Father.

I glance at my trembling hands as I kneel before the tearful girl. I feel my heartbeat pulse through my veins, from my toes, through my ears, into my fingers. My throat tightens, as if it might explode. In the silence, I only hear my breath, my heartbeat. But something's odd. Thirty rapid beats. Too many have passed, yet Lieben remains sprawled in the filth, motionless.

My heart slips further down into my stomach as I step carefully through the blood and thick, pungent liquid. I forget the boy and the girl. I lay my hand on Lieben's neck, the place where our family's blood should flow. The spot where the thorns of roses make our blood simmer. But it's not there. No pulse.

I stand over him, my posture bent, and strangely, I'm no longer frightened or nervous as I was before. On the contrary, I've grown calmer. In one moment, I begin to breathe normally again, but in the next, as though I've just been running.

"Lords of Rosenmahl? Are you finished?" The voice comes from above, and I fall into panic once more. I glance wildly around—first at my brother, then at the children, then at the hatch, and back at Lieben. I run my hands through my hair, the same hands that have just killed my brother.

"No," I say, breathing deeply in and out to calm myself. "We want to have a little more fun. Give us some time before you must leave again."

Silence follows. The voice from above dares not look down but instead gives me, rather than us, permission. I glance from the faint blue light to the children, who stare at me with confusion and fear. They think I want to rape them. Spend the night with them. What's truly tragic is that they really believe that. But I give them little attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the older boy step in front of the girl, as if he will take everything upon himself. At the age of the Reds, he's probably only about nine. But I approach only my brother. My dead brother. Lieben. And strangely, tears escape my eyes, though I feel no sorrow.

Everything must happen quickly. I must stay focused. Analyze. Analyze Aston. What, where, how. I first examine the wood of the galleon in the middle of the cell. I run to it, knowing I can't waste time. No, not here. Too hard. It must be rotten. Rotten enough to break through. I run further, leaving the children in my brother's cell. I dash from one cell to another, the darkness making me paranoid that someone might come at any moment.

Finally. Rotten wood. I look inside the cell, which is three away from where my brother lies, to find hard objects. A body lies in the filth. I grab the arm of the already mutilated corpse and tear it off. Then, I swing the hard bone of a Red against the rotten spots of the wood.

To drown out the noise, I pretend to groan. I pretend I'm hitting the children. I repeat over and over how lovely it is when children don't scream during the act, but rather when they're unconscious.

After countless acts of this sickening charade, which makes me as repulsive as those above who do this every day, the wood finally breaks. I pull at it further, the splinters cutting into my hands, blue blood flowing from my palms as the pain from the adrenaline starts to fade. Finally. Strangely, I find myself grinning as the hole becomes large enough for a barrel to fit through. A barrel.

My eyes scan the darkness. There should be some here. A flash of thought runs through my mind, and I run again. I grab the heavy barrel, which has a few holes in it, and roll it toward the large hole in the wall. I run to Lieben, grab him, and drag him through the very thing he loathed.

Now I just need to get him inside, perhaps fill it with other things, making it heavier than the water, and let him disappear for now.

My breath remains heavy, my heart heavier, bordering on a miracle that I haven't passed out from the stress. I curse inwardly. What wouldn't I give for some of the empty herbs from our rose garden?

But I focus again. I slap my dirty, bloody hands against my face and look one last time at my brother.

His closed eyes, his long blonde hair, as magnificent as mine—only longer—his half-open mouth. But he is dead. There's no going back. Even if there was, I wouldn't change this moment. Not because I wouldn't want to, but because I know something like that would never happen. My eyes flicker for a moment, but I grab his shoulders, his arms, and break them. Again, I groan, pretending I'm starting another round with the children, a third, fifth, or however many more. Tears come again, even though I don't want them to. Not for him. Is it perhaps brutality? That I must break his limbs, his legs, so I can stuff him into the small barrel?

That as I squeeze him in, I mix him with the other red ones who died days ago? The sounds I make, the ones that escape me, are strange, but then, when I lick my brother's blue blood to activate my shapeshifting ability, I understand why. I weep, because, despite him being my brother, I am just as cold as he was to the reds, just as cold to him, to my family, and to everything my bloodline represents. I'm like them—a monster. A monster shaped by this absurd, brutal world. But I can't cry any more tears. I mustn't. I have to focus.

I calmly place the lid on the barrel, my hands shaking slightly, as I lift it, surprised by the strength within me, through the high hole, while I continue to groan, pretending to be in pleasure. I scream, as if I've reached the peak for the umpteenth time, to cover the sound of the barrel's contents, my brother, bursting. To drown out the bubbling sound as the barrel fills with water and the air escapes. And through it all, I just stare at the sinking barrel. At the bubbles, and then up to the sky, which has taken on a violet hue. Not yet the golden moon in an hour, but in about three. It's beautiful. A beautiful view. A beautiful world. But this world needs to be cleansed. Cleansed of the parasites that spoil its beauty, even if they are friends. Even if they are loved ones. Even if they are family.

I breathe in, then out. I savor the moment, the breeze, the gentle waves. I welcome the fresh scent of fish, but then, in the next moment, I vomit. Does it happen?

Has it activated? It must. It must work. Otherwise, I may as well start digging my own grave. But it works. I feel it. My fingernails extend, peeling off from my body, my skin shedding, my hair falling out and replaced by longer strands. It hurts. My blood burns. Like fire. My body is aflame. It hurts, but I groan again, pretending to start another round, screaming in pleasure as if today is my last day to create life. I hate myself. I hate everything, but I must push through. I watch as my face falls toward my knees, my skin peeling off and sticking to the new skin, even as my tight shirt and pants hold it in place, keeping it from falling into the filth of the reds. My hands are nothing but blue flesh, and every touch is painful, though not as much as it should be.

Still, it hurts. The touch, as I quickly try to take off my shoes, throw my shirt over my head, loosen my belt, and let my pants fall. Finally, my underwear, and now, I am a blue person. Blue like those burned by the sun, my smooth skin on the floor, but in the next moment, another layer forms over me. On my arms, my chest, my stomach, my face. I can't see it, but I know it's my brother's, Lieben's, skin. I am changed. I walk with bare feet into the next cell. My toes press into the muck, which feels like mud, but smells a thousand times worse.

I stand before the children, who cling to each other, trembling. They're naked, like me. I want to offer them my hand. To give them a new home. But I cannot. Not yet. It's too risky. I can achieve so much in the future, but not here. Not yet. So, I stand before them, sit behind them while they continue to tremble. It hurts me more to leave them, those I've only just met, than to kill my own brother. I strangle them. I don't kill them. I simply put them into a state of unconsciousness. It hurts to leave them behind. To hurt them, but I must. Only ten breaths, and they're still. Not like my brother, dead, but sleeping. Although this sleep will likely have worse consequences for them than if they had died.

I tremble at the thought, but I continue. Upward, letting the fading light affect me. The blues stare at me. "Lord Rosenmahl." I raise my fingers, interrupting them, the three who spoke simultaneously. I sigh. No, I can't expose these children to this world.

I must do something now. If not now, I will only delay everything. While I doubt my own guilt, an idea comes to me, and it convinces me to help the children after all. I give a disoriented smile, the one Lieben always has when he finds something amusing.

"Take them from below to this address." I glance at one of the three with disdain while I mime the action of paper and pen. As I wait too long, I click my blue tongue.

"Excuse me, Lord Rosenmahl." One runs hastily to a table, grabs paper and pen, and hands them to me. I look proudly at it, still murmuring something, inventing words that Lieben might say.

"Little piglets can be pigs too, don't you think?" My voice mimics Lieben's playful accent, but I regret saying it, as the three smile at me, leering.

Greedily, as if they now want to try what I supposedly did. "Bring these little piglets here, and only here. No one is to touch them. From now on, they are mine."

Even if Father won't like it, Lieben will suffer, not Aston. "Excuse me, Lord Rosenmahl." I look mockingly at the one weaker than the others. His crooked teeth chatter as he speaks. "What about the younger Lord?"

I stare at him, and he falls silent. "The youngest may mistakenly prefer the older ones."

I hand the note to the strongest of the three while my tone shifts from playful to serious. "He's long gone, probably to another brothel, but let me say it one last time. If I smell even a drop of your seed on them, know that your genitals will be the last thing I'll feed to the sharks. The two are mine, and I don't share lightly."

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