I flex my hands again, feeling the steady drive of blood through my veins. I am alive, I tell myself. No more, no less than anyone else.
The pain in my ribs flares when I stand, forcing me to stifle a cough. My body protests with each step. Some of the ribs may be bent—or broken—in ways they shouldn’t be. The green blood will heal them, but I know better than to expect perfection. A healed bone can still be deformed forever.
I swallow the thought as I walk into the corridor. Arthur is further ahead now, seated with Vis and Lenny; both green-blooded, one short, one tall, and Arthur perfectly in between.
But my attention shifts past them to the window where sunlight dances across the ground’s shadows. From here, I can only see the jagged tips of pointed rooftops. My feet carry me onward, steady despite the pain, until I spot Harmon in a separate room. He’s speaking with Eriksson, both of them standing in that calculating stillness soldiers use before deciding something important.
Most of the others are elsewhere, some stationed above the headquarters, and others handling preparations for the mission. I know a few are securing a carriage, while others are already surveying the royal family’s castle. My knees tremble faintly, but my stride does not falter. The thought keeps gnawing at me: I will be the reason Robertson, ruler of the Kingdom of Zentria, the family whose name is known all over Elisia, draws his final breath. I will stop that powerful heart of his, and the thought pushes me forward.
I catch fragments of conversation as I pass, something about Elena, the red-haired girl who never seems far from Eriksson, but the moment I step into the room, their words cut off like a blade through rope. They greet me with tight, wry smiles.
“Finally awake, Aston,” Harmon says, while Eriksson remains silent, as usual. After all, his voice is a rare thing.
“I’ll get the other carriages for backup,” Eriksson mutters, turning to leave, his breathing heavy. He speaks as if he weren’t the one who had beaten me to the brink of collapse hours ago. But Harmon’s hand snaps out, gripping Eriksson’s collar, dragging him back with an ease that suggests this is not the first time. The sight makes me smile, something I would never have done years ago. Not even months ago, perhaps not even weeks. But now I find a grim satisfaction in it.
“Aston,” Harmon says, voice low but carrying weight, “today you’ll get some of Eriksson’s blood.”
Eriksson’s gaze shifts to me, and I see his reluctant face. My smile falters, and a sudden dryness in my mouth forces me to swallow hard. The saliva feels like glass sliding down my throat, scraping at my Adam’s apple, and I take another step forward. Around us, the voices of the others fade into silence. They always do when Harmon speaks, probably out of respect, but maybe out of fear.
I mock them in my mind for it, because I despise the silence that comes from fear. When it’s quiet, I can’t overhear their idle talk about the newspapers or the latest political tensions between Zentria and Nigil. Now, with most of the Oranges gone, the war has dwindled to skirmishes between minor powers. It’s a bleak picture for both sides.
Nigil’s strength lies in its economy—tobacco, coffee, grain, corn, and its lucrative alcohol trade. But our kingdom holds firm through its alliances, especially with Elitra. Sighing, I rub my glabella and stare down for a few heartbeats at the ground.
Yet what does it matter? My whole life has been sculpted to think of such things—economics, politics, power. Father’s voice is carved into my mind: Always watch over the shareholders. Forge alliances. Make smart investments. Stand high. Stand above. Rule. I learned it all, excelled even, and still, he looks at me with nothing but disdain.
I’ve brought forth ideas no other in my family would dare conceive—innovations that strengthened our holdings. But perhaps my last suggestion... perhaps it will be the ruin of the von Rosenmahl name.