My gaze lowers in time to see one of them—the other-blooded—cutting his palm open.
The blood splashes onto the table in a sudden, savage gesture.
I watch as green blood splatters across the table. The man behind it is tall, thin, and stooped like a withered reed. He raises his bloodied hand and begins to chant in the tongue of the golden—the language of the gods.
“We, children of the goddess of mirage, of the goddess of veil. Oyá, we praise you. Let us, oh mother of nature, wield the power that flows through us all—once through you, and now through me.”
He stops abruptly, breath ragged, pressing his hand to his chest. I hear his heart hammering, so loud it seems to match the shuddering in my own lungs. Blood drips between his fingers—green as new grass—soaking the front of what was once a pristine white shirt.
He draws a cross over his heart, closes it with a circle. Over his chest, blood traces the crude shape of an eye without a pupil. I watch him, and for a moment I wonder if it’s only my imagination that makes the wind coil around his form.
But no—I see it. Oxygen thins in the room, the air swirling in distorted eddies, a maze that collapses and reforms around him.
This is what I’ve always longed to see. The power in our blood. Its true origin. The origins of blood itself—the legacy of the gods. The golden ones. Even though I despise them.
I keep my gaze fixed on him. His hair is the same brown as everyone else here, though there are variations—a bit more amber here, more burnt sienna there. Only the noble in disguise, Arthur, and I are blonde. But I can’t look away from the one performing the ritual, speaking the gods’ tongue, his eyes gone entirely pupil-less, shining with a deep emerald glow.
“I sacrifice my blood for your holy tears to fall upon us—for the sweat and hardship you gave us by making us mortal—to grant us the use of your powers.”
His fingers curl inward, closing over the blood. Everyone’s eyes are on the green luminescence spilling between them.
Most look unimpressed. Only I—and the red-haired girl—stare in open wonder. But the instant Eriksson squints in my direction, I force my expression to flatten.
The tongue of the gods... I know it. I’ve learnt it from a young age. However, without experience, a single slip can send your mind spiraling into madness. I exhale sharply, watching as the blood hovers mid-air, unnaturally suspended. It spreads, thins out, vibrates, and reshapes.
It’s there before me—clearer than any vision. Something the reds might call a hologram, except it’s made of blood, animated by power stolen from a true deity.
You can gain strength from consuming other blood, sure—you can even steal abilities that way. But you have to consume from other blood colors, other kinds. And with the prayer to the golden, you can ask for things you could never achieve by simple theft.
I focus, analyzing the ritual despite the awe clawing at my chest.
Harmon’s voice cuts in as the image forms—a picture of trees inside a vast estate. I see it first from above, descending abruptly to treetop height. The blood’s thin strands hang in the air, vibrating, generating a sound like rustling bushes.
It’s not perfect. Everything is in shifting hues of green, unpolished and raw. But the shapes are there. I can see them. I can even imagine touching the moving picture with my hand.
Leaves flutter. Flowers bloom in sped-up cycles. Then I see it—things only I would recognize. Ingredients, rare ones, growing only in the Rosengarten—the garden of my family’s estate.