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.
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.
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.
"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."