“Life is but a mere blossom of youth. Once wilted, the last breath is followed sooner than the first. I am the youth. I am the blossom. And though I do not wilt, my last breath is nearer in the future than my first ever in the past.”
I sit with an upright, unyielding posture at the long dining table, facing my father, Robertson von Elisia, seated at its far end. To his left sits my eldest brother, Timothy, and before Timothy, the eldest daughter—also named Elisia—though still younger than him. I occupy the third chair to my father’s left, which places me directly beside my sister, Elisia, the 22nd, eleven years my senior. She, in turn, sits beside Timothy, her expression as polished and unreadable as the silverware glinting under the pale blue light from the windows.
I hold my fork delicately, pinched between thumb and forefinger, guiding it with practiced precision. I eat slowly, measured, never greedily—each bite no more than a quarter mouthful of the tender, blue-blooded meat. Judging by its buttery texture, it must be bred locally in the Kingdom of Avelor—a two-headed cow, no doubt—one of the rarer breeds, even among nobles. I pace my eating carefully, as though I am not hungry at all, watching across the table as the youngest son—though still a full decade older than I—chews in silence. His name, like our father’s, is Robertson, bearing the formal title of Robertson the 2nd.
In this family, names are inherited, not identity. I am Elisia the 23rd. My two older sisters, Elisia the 22nd and Elisia the 21st, carry theirs like crowns—or chains. The 20th and the 19th were gone before I was born, and the 18th, my mother, died the moment I entered the world—a legacy of blood, titles, and quiet funerals.
I chew even when I could swallow the meat whole, letting the flavor linger on my tongue before I set down the fork and lift my chalice. Three centuries aged; the wine is a deep purple with glints of blue and red that shift as it catches the light. I hold it with the exact careful grip, index finger balancing the stem, pinky extended. The gloves I wear are thin enough to feel the delicate texture of the glass, though they do little to warm the chill that seeps from within it.
As I take a small sip, I hear the low rumble of laughter ripple down the table—father’s presence is a rare thing at the dining table. He must have told some jokes before, though I’d been too focused on my posture, my manner, to catch it. By the time I tune in, Father’s voice is clear again, sharp with a mirth I don’t fully understand. “The Rosen’s are going to sabotage us, aren’t they? The Fellers, as well as the Schield.”
More laughter follows, though I can’t place the meaning. Still, I contribute my soft chuckle beneath the others, letting it blend into the noise.
But then Father’s hand comes down on the table with a crack that makes the dishes leap nearly an inch from the wood. The atmosphere collapses instantly into silence, the weight of it pressing over my shoulders. The only thing that remains of the earlier warmth is the mingling aroma of meat and wine, heavy in the air like a reminder of the feast to come when the golden moon finally rises from its year-long slumber again.
I lower my gaze to my plate, my hands, the fine stitching of my gloves. I no longer touch the chalice, nor do I chew, though the sweetness of the meat still clings faintly to my tongue.
“We are in a miserable state!” Father’s voice booms again, this time shaking the table so hard I think it might break beneath his strength. He pushes on without pause. “Once all their stoic faces arrive, they will look like friends—nobles bowing before us, worshipping us. But behind the smiles, they will mock us.”
I glance at him from under my lashes, my neck rigid, the weight of his anger pressing down like a physical force. He stands, takes his cup, and hurls it toward a painting on the wall. The impact splatters magenta wine across the floor and the curtain beside it, the spill glowing oddly beneath the blue sunlight streaming in from the tall windows.
“Not all, but most want their splendid lives to remain untouched, without a thought for their future,” he growls, each word deliberate. “But some—some want us down. These High Nobles think they hold the world in their hands, now that they have some more influence over us high-blooded. Sea-water-trading rats of roses. Ungrateful bastards!”
He seizes a plate, the half-eaten steak still bleeding faint blue, and flings it toward Robertson the 2nd. It lands just short, the juices pooling before him. The sound makes me hiccup involuntarily, and I freeze, willing myself invisible. Don’t let him see you. Don’t. Let. Him. I think to myself, as always.
His eyes narrow, turning back to my brother. “Look at the color, Robertson! What color is it?”
Robertson the 2nd keeps his head bowed, silent long enough for the tension to sting, before answering softly, “Blue.”
“Indeed. Blue!” Father’s voice rises again. “At the event of the Reds’ enslavement, we invited them to celebrate together. And for what? Why?! They toy with us! These lesser play with us, higher bloods!” His face is flushed with the deep hue of his orange blood, and he doesn’t stop.
He whirls toward my sister, Elisia, the 22nd—the one who would be queen if not for the eldest—his words like lashes. “And you? You played in their hands! For God’s sake, speak with us before you hand our kind over to the ships of the Roses!”