Aston's POV

"There is no bigger pressure than the expectation of a father."

—Aston von Rosenmahl

I sit on the grass, lungs filled to the brim until the pressure becomes unbearable, until it burns, and then I exhale, letting it all go. My shoulders drop. My neck gives in, and my head lolls forward as if it's finally too heavy to carry the burden any longer. Above me, the leaves shift, a soft rustle under the turquoise sky, shimmering like polished emeralds in the light. This place—my place—is the only one where I allow myself to forget. Forget the sharp tone of reprimands. Forget the constant, silent demand to be better, to perform, to deserve the name I carry.

Rosenmahl. A name sharp as thorns, as cold as steel.

I don't know what I did to deserve being treated as though I didn't belong to it. Or maybe I do. Maybe I was simply born last. Maybe that was enough. They see me as one of them, sure—but only in public, only when the illusion must be maintained. Behind closed doors, I am merely tolerated. Like a servant who dares to wear his master's clothes.

Some days, as I let the damp blades of grass soak into my fingers, I think of the girl who died because of me. A servant. A red. Just one among many, my family has sentenced to death without blinking. One life. Countless others. Banquets where screams were muffled by music, where blood was served like wine. Like pigs, they were slaughtered.

I stretch my legs out. The damp earth clings to my clothes. My gaze drifts to a patch of mushrooms clustered near my boot—truthspeakers, they're called. Their toxins don't kill. No. They only ensure that every word spoken after their consumption is honest. A cruel joke of nature. I watch insects flitting from bush to flower—some of these plants rare enough to buy a district, all of them mine.

Still, even here, in the only place I feel like a human being, I cannot stay. So I rise. I walk. I head toward the estate, toward those who share my blood but not my heart. A lineage of cruelty held together by power and fear.

The grass squelches beneath my steps, dark and still wet from the rains yesterday. My mind wanders to Doran—my nephew. No, on some days, my son. As leaves fall from the tree, whose hair protects me from the sun in the color of my blood, I think of Emma von Jäger. She still insists on calling from time to time, asking for favors, for attention. Always something shallow. Our relationship was never meant to bear fruit, and yet, all we do when we meet is do adult things.

For that reason, I hate Lieben the most. Couldn't he've done something more beneficial in his free time? But then again, I think of Doran, the boy who was created by the man I've killed, my brother. He's innocent still. There's hope for him. And there are red children in his care now, serving in the Villa of Lieben. I'll make sure he treats them as people. That he learns what the older generation refuses to accept. No what everyone refuses to accept: the blood in our veins doesn't make us better—only more dangerous. We shouldn't watch from above but help on the same level.

I walk through the estate's corridors. Daylight floods through high windows, reflecting off marble and oil painting scenes of conquest, still life, nobility frozen in time. Every fourth or fifth is a landscape from some of the other continents, reminders of a world beyond power, even though most painters have never been there themselves. Dunes in vibrant colors of purple, waves of sand flooding the violet desert; from there the name, continent of violet seas. There are machines as big as our estate, and temples beneath the sand, worms being the way beneath the surface. Some are even abstract, mostly surrealism.

Then I reach the door. The root of the thorns, I call it. The one who bleeds me without a knife sits beyond. My father.

I knock. "Enter."

The door opens. He's already seated, posture relaxed in a way that dares you to speak out of turn. Beard the color of sand, brows thick, grey threading his hair. He looks like me. It infuriates me. One leg crosses over the other. His hands rest on his knees, still wearing the family coat, despite the heat. The crest of the three roses is embroidered proudly on the chest, as it is on mine.

"Youngest," he says. His voice hasn't changed. Cold. Measured.

"Father."

My eldest brother stands beside him, silent, gazing out the window at the sea. From here, one can see the galleons. The wage shift. Reds traded like cattle.

I give him a nod, and he squints slightly but says nothing.

My father speaks again. "What do we have to hear from you now?"

His tone drips with irritation, and I want to match it. But I don't. I wear a smile instead. Hollow. Practiced. It makes my stomach churn.

"Regarding the transportation of the reds," I begin. My thoughts have been simmering since I left the golden headquarters, nearly a full day's journey, and now they must boil.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"…it is inefficient."

My eyes meet his. His gaze is a slab of ice. Blue against blue. But unlike him, I see the sea.

"Elaborate."

He leans forward. So does my brother, turning ever so slightly.

"The golden moon," I say, "beautiful as it is—vast and divine, yes—but it ravages both sea and land. The waves. The floods. We all know what it brings. The Continent of Death suffers under it. As does the Continent of the Pigs, Earth."

I take a step forward, casting my gaze over his shoulder to the sea.

"We're playing it safe. Too safe. If we truly aim to dominate this continent—if we want to stand above the rest, above the high-bloods—then we must act like it. No more drips. We need floods. No more months of waiting for a few. We need masses, and we need them now."

My smile stays. My insides rebel.

"There is risk, of course, but the flood only comes once a week. My acquaintance—reliable—tells me it passed just yesterday. If we act now, we could cut our time in half. Or better."

I pace a little, slowly, like a predator circling its prey.

"We could double our intake. Triple it, even. And if we scale correctly, we could increase revenue fivefold. Five times the current income of our family. In less than two weeks, we'd be wealthier than the entire royal family. We would have more influence, and we could rule over Zentria—probably even the entirety of Elisia—if we play it smart against the other kingdoms." I catch a slight breath. Never have I spoken this much in front of the cold man who rules over the Rosenmahl estate. He eyes me now, and shockingly, he smiles back. For a moment, I believe the world itself has stopped.

But then Sebastian interrupts me.

"What if the flood takes all the ships down?"

I press my nails into my palms, trying to relax my arms so I don't reveal anything. In the end, I force a confident smile. "Then we will take the loss." I meet my father's gaze—cold meeting cold. "But if we don't take this chance, I don't believe their Highnesses will remain friendly with us. Up until now, perhaps because they saw opportunity and profit, they tolerated us. And though they are Oranges, they aren't stupid. They'll eventually realize we're making enough money to wield war ourselves. Now is the time for that realization—especially since nearly none of their kind remain in Elisia."

I take another step forward, loosening my fingers. My white palm floods with blood—hot and cold at once.

"They might start to believe we'll begin forging ties with the false gods, just like in the great fall of Empire Delora. That we might gain enough influence and wealth to buy their higher bloodlines."

Sebastian glares at me. My father, on the other hand, nods in agreement, his thick thumb stroking over his beard.

So I continue.

"Before they even start to think of it—before they can retreat, imprison us, fabricate something to take us all down—we should already have it all. We need to strike first. Now is the time for it. Perhaps it's already late—but tomorrow will be too late. Either we sacrifice now, or we lose it all shortly."

Then Father smirks, a hearty laugh escaping his blue lips under the beard that stands in near contrast to the rest of his being.

"Good, Youngest."

Sebastian eyes me coldly. He will never accept me, even though we share the same father. But Father's grin continues to widen. It feels alien—to see this cold-blooded man looking at me with wrinkles favoring me in this moment.

"Aston. Good. Good."

But I clench my teeth. I know it isn't because of me—but because of the opportunity he imagines. The expansion of his influence, his strings, through the suffering of the Reds.

Sebastian turns back toward the horizon, where more slaves are being deported under our orders.

"Then let us take the quick route!" Father nearly shouts, grabbing a pen and dipping it into orange ink. "Let's do it that way!"

And he starts to write.

…

I step out of the private carriage—one of the two that belonged to my brother Lieben. I am now nothing more than his living corpse, stolen and alive in his place. Not Aston, but Lieben von Rosenmahl. Hair longer. Face sharper. Hands behind my back. I stand tall, my feet in dark, bluish boots thudding over the asphalt.

I notice the young butler—not Kayl, the old golden retriever-like servant, who originally served me, but another whose name I do not know. He's younger than I, and catching him in my peripheral vision, I casually throw my shirt over his bowed head, while passing with a smile put on.

I walk into the estate bought with our family's money. The one Lieben once married to extend our influence. But the wife is long dead, and now I see only my nephew—my son, though the lie feels wrong every time I think it.

Seeing his downturned face and the way his eyes meet mine—it hurts. But then he winks.

Lieben wasn't a good father. It will take more than a few days or weeks before my son begins to like me. The Reds are easier. Doran likes them, somewhat—though he doesn't show it openly.

As I walk deeper into the Rosenmahl estate—still registered under my father's name since it was never changed to Hellenes—I spot them. The three children. The girl and the boy who don't share my color, nor Doran's, but still look at me with genuine smiles.

Only a few steps in, and even Doran embraces me.

It feels odd. I've never experienced anything like this before. Especially not from Doran—or from any child. Be it as a nephew or as a son.

But I crouch and return the embrace, patting him gently. His hair is blonde like mine, though shorter—the longest strand only reaching his brows.

"Tristan and Ella haven't troubled you, right?" I say with a mocking tone, referring to the red children I deported here.

I thought my father would punish me for it. But the middle son is left alone, again. Maybe Father wouldn't care if Lieben enslaved a few red children, went on a rampage in broad daylight, or did some other, even worse things.

My lips curl faintly, and I walk off, hearing Doran's shy and timid voice behind me.

"No."

"Good. Good," I say.

The red children—now servants in disguise for Doran—receive a quick pat from me as well. I continue walking into the room where letters await—written to Lieben, and therefore now to me. Letters from various trading partners, friends, and other acquaintances.

I start to read through them, sighing as my eyes fall on the first one resting on the desk.

No other than her.

The girl I regret most ever meeting—not because of betrayal, not even because of danger—but because she gave me nothing of value except pleasure. And that, I cannot even enjoy.

Emma Jäger.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.