Aston's POV

"Once you feel the rush, you either stop or go all the way down."

—Aston von Rosenmahl

It has been several days since they tasked me with the assassination of Robertson, ruler of Zentria—an orange-blooded monarch from the lineage of great warriors. My orders are simple. The execution, less so.

Eriksson's hands move like blurs, each strike aimed with surgical precision, yet with the casual cruelty of someone who knows he holds all the control. His eyes are distant, unfocused, as though he isn't even here with me. He inflicts pain like it's routine, like the training itself is beneath his notice, and yet each motion is deliberate enough to keep me on the edge of collapse. It reminds me of the chambers back home—of my father. But no, never. This is worse.

I drop low, my stance compact, knees bent, weight balanced. My ankles are stiff from strain yet ready to move at a heartbeat's notice. Eriksson closes in, feinting with a straight jab—his hand open, aiming not for a punch but for a brutal ear slap. He moves across the ground like it's merely a suggestion beneath his feet, barely touching it before springing back into the air. He doesn't fight like a man. He fights like the wind when it chooses to be a storm.

I try to mirror him, but it's like comparing a flicker of wind to the howling of a hurricane. My guard is tight—hands close to my temples, elbows tucked—zigzagging toward him in hopes of catching him off balance. He reacts instantly, always leaping, always in motion. As his body cuts through the air, I pivot sharply to my right, anticipating the impact. My right arm rises, sweat dripping down to the damp floor, the same floor I've already slipped on more than once.

My elbow swings out wide. I drop my hip, aiming for a counterstrike. For a heartbeat I believe I might land it. But then—nothing. My fist cuts through empty space.

Slap!

The sting explodes across my head, my neck snapping forward as I stumble. My breath catches in my throat. My guard is gone for half a second, and in that half-second he punishes me—one strike to my ribs, two to my shoulders. They're not even his full strength. He's toying with me. But even held back, the impact radiates pain through my battered body.

Bruises bloom across my skin like diseased flowers. No broken bones, not yet, but every movement sends a wave of ache through me. He comes at me again, rising from below, and I push against the collapse of my body. This time, I refuse to simply defend. My hands lash upward, grabbing for his wrists in midair. I abandon the drilled precision of the past days and attack like an animal. My breath tears out of me, hot and ragged. Saliva drips from my lips.

Days of this—days without landing a single strike—and I can feel my muscles burning hotter, tighter, like something inside me is ready to snap. I lean into him, forcing my body toward the open palm angling for my chin. My eyes fix on his fingers—blue-blooded fingers, the same cursed hue I carry and despise—and a sound I almost never make rips from my throat.

His touch grazes my chin. In the same motion, he twists away, his movement a spiral from low to high, so fluid it's almost beautiful, if beauty could exist in something designed to humiliate me. My arm whips through empty air again.

Slap!

This one lands harder. Not as devastating as the very first slap he gave me—the one that shattered any illusion of pride I had—but close. The world tilts. My vision narrows to a tunnel, the edges dimming. I try to focus on the floor beneath me, but the ground fades into darkness.

The worst part isn't the pain. It's the knowing—that no matter how much I train, no matter how I fight, I'm still just another blue. Another symbol of the cruelty I despise, the bloodline I wish I could rip from my veins. We're raised to believe we are stronger, better, destined to rule over the reds. Yet here I am, unable to even touch the man in front of me, the same way my kind can't be touched in their power over the lower castes.

It makes me sick. Sick enough that, in the moments before the darkness swallows me, I make a silent vow. If I survive this training, if I make it to Robertson, if I complete the mission—they will remember my name not as a blue noble, but as the one who turned against his own.

And then the blackness takes me.

…

The light strikes hard against my closed eyelids, a sharp intrusion that forces me awake. My eyes flicker open, unfocused, the world nothing but blurred shapes bleeding into each other. Three hands hover in my vision—each with its thumb positioned to the left.

I blink slowly, trying to make sense of it, and as my brain begins to stitch together shapes, the blurriness fades. The afterimage of darkness clings to my vision, like the lingering shadow after an eclipse. It takes half a minute for my eyes to truly focus, for the haze to burn away.

The three hands begin to shift—merging into two, then into one. It belongs to no one else but Arthur. Steady, unshaking Arthur. The only person I might ever call a friend.

The others—yes, they are good men too. Even Eriksson. Though if it weren't for his infuriating way of barking orders during a fight, I might count him among my closest companions. These past days have blurred together like a fleeting moment in the span of my life, but Arthur's presence remains… anchored.

Pain blooms suddenly at my temples, a deep pulse that spreads and sharpens toward the base of my skull. I growl under my breath and try to push myself up, but the pain digs deeper. My second growl is louder, ragged.

"You good?" Arthur's voice is calm, unchanging. His eyes—stoic as mine—watch me without judgment. He doesn't smile often. I rarely do either. Perhaps that's why I trust him.

"Y–yes." The word comes out half-breathed, half-forced. My right eye stays half-closed against the stabbing ache. Cold sweat drips from my brow, stinging my open left eye.

Arthur stands, and with the faintest trace of deadpan humor, mimics my words. "Doesn't look like y–yes."

It catches me off guard, fumbling my thoughts. A joke. From Arthur. I glance up at him, pressing my aching right hand against my left shoulder. The bandages there are still fresh, and beneath them the bruises burn. It will take at least a day for them to mend, even with high-grade herbs.

But soon, there will be more blood. More green—to heal.

I push myself upright. My veins already hum with the mingled energy of green and orange blood. Not too much; too much green, and I'd lose my mind. Orange is safer, but the green must be taken with caution. A human body is not meant to carry it in abundance. Especially mine—flooded with blue.

Harmon calls me that often, as if it's all I am. Blue. Noble. As though I carry the sins of the entire caste in my veins. Perhaps I do. Perhaps that's why I hate what we are. It was Harmon's blood I consumed to survive, his gift—if you can call it that—that thickened my skin, sharpened my vision, and gave me the ability to catch scents from afar. I can burst forward with dangerous speed now, driving my foot into the ground like a hammer blow.

But these abilities are nothing extraordinary. Certainly not enough to justify the cost.

Arthur is already at the door when I finally steady myself. He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. "Go to Harmon once you feel ready. You'll get another dose. Tomorrow, we start."

We. In Arthur's language, that usually means me.

When his back vanishes past the doorway, I'm left staring at the wall. My thoughts circle, inevitably, back to the blood. Too much power too quickly would only hasten my corruption. My body can't sustain it—not yet.

I lower my gaze to my hands. The blood pulses faintly in my fingertips, each beat a reminder of what I am. I draw a long, heavy breath in, then release it sharply. My fingers curl into fists, the knuckles whitening before I ease them open again. The rest of my skin carries a bluish tint.

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To be in this skin. To be blue. To be red.

I wonder what it would feel like to have red blood coursing through me. Would I feel weaker? Stronger? Or no different at all? I suspect the latter. In the end, we are all just human—fragile, mortal. And if some claim to be superior, they ought to protect the weaker, not crush them underfoot.

Perhaps that's a fairytale I tell myself to soften the truth. Perhaps I'm just another blue-born who resents his own nature, pretending at virtue. I don't have the answer. I only know what feels right.

I flex my hands again, feeling the steady drive of blood through my veins. I am alive, I tell myself. No more, no less than anyone else.

The pain in my ribs flares when I stand, forcing me to stifle a cough. My body protests each step. It's possible some of the ribs are bent—or broken—in ways they shouldn't be. The green blood will heal them, but I know better than to expect perfection. A healed bone can still be deformed forever.

I swallow the thought as I walk into the corridor. Arthur is further ahead now, seated with Vis and Lenny. One short, one tall, Arthur perfectly in between.

But my attention shifts past them, to the window where sunlight dances across the ground's shadows. From here, I can only see the jagged tips of pointed rooftops. My feet carry me onward, steady despite the pain, until I spot Harmon in a separate room. He's speaking with Eriksson, both of them standing in that calculating stillness soldiers use before deciding something important.

Most of the others are elsewhere—some stationed above the headquarters, others handling preparations. I know a few are securing a carriage, while others are already surveying the royal family's castle. My knees tremble faintly, but my stride does not falter. The thought keeps gnawing at me: I will be the reason Robertson, ruler of the Kingdom of Zentria, draws his final breath. I will stop that powerful heart of his. The thought pushes me forward.

I catch fragments of conversation as I pass, something about Elena—the red-haired girl who never seems far from Eriksson. But the moment I step into the room, their words cut off like a blade through rope. They greet me with tight, wry smiles. "Finally awake, Aston," Harmon says. Eriksson remains silent, as usual—his voice is a rare thing.

"I'll get the other carriages for backup," Eriksson mutters, turning to leave, his breathing heavy. He speaks as if he wasn't the one who had beaten me to the brink of collapse hours ago. But Harmon's hand snaps out, gripping Eriksson's collar, dragging him back with an ease that suggests this is not the first time. The sight makes me smile—something I would never have done years ago. Not even months ago. Perhaps not even weeks. But now… now I find a grim satisfaction in it.

"Aston," Harmon says, voice low but carrying weight, "today you'll get some of Eriksson's blood."

Eriksson's gaze shifts to me. My smile falters, and a sudden dryness in my mouth forces me to swallow hard. The saliva feels like glass sliding down my throat, scraping at my Adam's apple. I take another step forward. Around us, the voices of the others fade into silence. They always do when Harmon speaks—probably out of respect, or fear.

I mock them in my mind for it, because I despise silence that comes from fear. When it's quiet, I can't overhear their idle talk about the newspapers or the latest political tensions between Zentria and Nigil. Now, with most of the Oranges gone, the war has dwindled to skirmishes between minor powers. It's a bleak picture for both sides.

Nigil's strength lies in its economy—tobacco, coffee, grain, corn, and their lucrative alcohol trade. But our kingdom holds firm through its alliances, especially with Elitra. I sigh and rub my glabella, staring down at the ground.

Yet what does it matter? My whole life has been sculpted to think of such things—economics, politics, power. Father's voice is carved into my mind: Always watch over the shareholders. Forge alliances. Make smart investments. Stand high. Stand above. Rule. I learned it all, excelled even, and still he looks at me with nothing but disdain.

I've brought forth ideas no other in my family would dare conceive—innovations that strengthened our holdings. But perhaps my last suggestion… perhaps it will be the ruin of the von Rosenmahl name.

Am I doing the right thing? The question surfaces, uninvited, but I crush it instantly. Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be? I will save millions—no, billions—of lives through what I intend to do. That is the truth I cling to.

I lift my head, and the light from the high windows spills across my face. It is warm, though it looks cold as always. So absent, the sun—my color reflected in its unnatural hue. Distinct. Distant.

"Stretch your arm, boy," Harmon orders. This time to Eriksson.

Eriksson does not move at first. He stands still, almost defiant, for several heartbeats. Then, with the slightest shift of his jaw, he obeys. He pushes up his long sleeve, revealing smooth, pale skin.

Slash.

The scalpel in Harmon's hand cuts deep, clean. Flesh parts, blood wells. I hear the faint hiss of it leaving his veins. But before I can even truly process the sight, the wound begins to close. The flesh pulls together, sealing like curtains drawn at dusk. Green blood still oozes out in slow, heavy drops, the wound stubbornly healing even as it bleeds.

Harmon works quickly, one hand steady on the scalpel, the other holding a glass tube to catch the flow. The faint tint of green stains his fingertips as the vessel fills. Not much escapes before the wound finally seals entirely—no more than twenty heartbeats after the cut was made. The tube, half-filled, must hold no more than five or six milliliters.

"No mix with herbs, no rituals, no additives," Harmon says, turning the glass in his hand so the blood catches the light. "This is pure. One of a kind. Feel honored, boy—Eriksson is one of a kind."

His gaze fixes on me as he assembles the syringe with practiced motions. Then, casually, he lifts his thumb to his mouth and licks away the droplet of green blood clinging to it, swallowing with quiet satisfaction.

Eriksson pulls down his sleeve, his eyes never leaving mine. Without a word, he turns to leave. Harmon makes no move to stop him this time, his attention fixed entirely on me.

"What? You don't like syringes?" His voice has a rough, growling edge, but my stomach twists at the sight of the needle all the same.

He laughs—a deep, coarse sound. "You could always do it the old way. Drink it." His eyes gleam with a mixture of mockery and warning. "But trust me, boy… nothing good comes from that."

I shake my head. No way I'm drinking that stuff. Harmon's smile deepens, the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth folding into themselves, genuine in their mockery. "But it really tastes good," he says, voice almost playful. I shake my head again, sharper this time. "No. No." My voice cuts the air, and with it comes a deeper, twisting pain in my stomach. But I don't flinch. I don't give him the satisfaction. Instead, I grip the syringe, clamp off the blood flow with a knot in my shirt and my teeth, and grit through the pain as every fiber of my body protests.

The needle hovers for a moment above my vein, the point catching the light, before I press it in. A sharp pang stabs through me—then it's gone, replaced by something entirely other. A feeling no human language could hold. Unmeasurable. This is the fifth time I've felt it—two more to come, if I survive this one.

It's like my blood itself becomes my fingertips, threading through every inch of me, alive, aware, moving. It rushes through me like the first hit of an exquisite, lethal drug. My eyes widen as the world tilts and bleeds into a muted shade of blue. That didn't happen the first time. It started with the third dose—this strange veil over reality, this sharpening of senses to a blade's edge.

Everything is blue now, every breath tasting of frost. I can hear the scrape of air over my teeth. I glance at the bird outside the window and hear its wings beat against the sky. In the far corner of the room, three—no, four—meters up, I spot a family of spiders clinging to their web. I see the fine strands glistening, their hairy limbs shifting in tiny, deliberate motions. I hear them, feel their minute steps as if the vibrations hum through my bones.

My knees weaken, a strange warmth washing over me. I taste my own saliva, sweet, unnaturally so. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the room, my hands twitching as though they've slipped beyond my control. My chest heaves—not in panic, but in a strange, weightless rhythm. The tight pressure over my lungs vanishes, replaced by a soaring lightness. My arms blur in front of me, turning a shade of blue just paler than my blood.

The world breathes with me, alive and electric. But then—color cuts through the blue. Orange. Blazing, searing. It stabs into my vision, painful, wrong. My hands are already moving before I understand why, reaching for the source. My fingers close around something, warm and solid, and brush against Harmon's massive hand.

He growls low in his throat, and the sound cuts through the haze enough for me to release him. His eyes narrow. "That's why opposing blood colors aren't meant to be devoured. At most, in tiny doses, and only with long gaps between. Any more and you corrupt. Before you even see it happening."

He looks down at me, his shadow stretching long over my body. He's at least a head taller—more than that, really, a looming tower. "This is your second, maybe third green dose in a week, boy. This is only an exception because you're about to kill a king. Don't let it happen again. Do you understand?"

His voice is weight and warning, but my focus keeps dragging back to the thing in his hand—the orange blood. Every pulse in my body draws toward it.

"With Eriksson's DNA rushing through you," Harmon continues, "you'll be able to move near-instantly. Steps as fast as a mountain lion of orange blood. Eriksson is truly one of his kind."

I hear him but don't. My heart won't slow, and my breathing is sharp as glass. He's still speaking when he presses the next dose into my hand. I don't even hesitate—I drive it into my vein.

This time, there's no slow build. It slams into me, a tidal wave. I stumble to my knees, lungs locking, pain blooming like fire under my ribs. My chest feels ready to burst—not with air, but with blood. Thick, metallic, choking. The bluish world deepens, the ground itself seeming to shimmer like molten sunlight.

My palms hit the floor. I watch them move, pale blue and almost transparent, vibrating with heat. They burn. My whole body burns. The rush isn't a wave anymore—it's teeth, claws, ripping me apart from the inside out. And I feel all of it.

Every nerve. Every beat. Every impossible surge.

I can't tell if the trembling in my body is my own or if the world itself is shaking. My vision fractures, and the orange burns brighter in the dark blue haze. My chest is collapsing, and yet there's no fear—only the consuming flood of sensation.

And then Harmon's voice cuts through the roar, low but crystal clear, each word deliberate. "This one's extreme, boy. Forgot to mention—" He leans forward, the shadow of his frame blotting out the light. "—it contains the tears shed by the Eyes of Hope."

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