Aston von Rosenmahl’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.
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.
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.
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 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.”