“It is the inner self that defines us, not the outer. ‘Clothes do not make the man.’”
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.
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.