Origins of Blood (RE)

Aston's POV

"Only through enduring darkness can one dream of finding light."

—Aston von Rosenmahl

My friends. My family. The people I was raised among, the ones whose laughter filled the halls of my youth. They are my enemies now—the greatest of them all—even though I should have no reason for it. That is what society would tell me: that loyalty is unshakable, that blood binds us, that we are one. But loyalty is nothing more than a leash, and blood a chain.

No reason? No. Not a reason—only the doctrine I was fed since I could first speak. From the moment a child learns the weight of their lineage, their blood is no longer their own. It becomes property. First of the family, then of the homeland, until it is indistinguishable from the empire itself. And so, they grow up believing Reds are not people, but stock, resources, and tools—enslaved people, with no right to dignity.

If you are taught your whole life that another is nothing more than an animal, how could you ever believe otherwise? How could you ever think of them as human? That is what separates me from the rest. Not wisdom, not strength—just doubt. The kind of doubt that gnaws at your chest until you can no longer silence it.

Why am I different? Why am I one of the few?

The question loops endlessly through my mind. I imagine a world where I could have stayed ignorant—a world where I lived carefreely beside my father, my mother, my siblings. A world where I climbed the ranks of nobility, basked in my privilege, and lived atop the broken backs of Reds, just as every Blue is meant to. I imagine it, but the vision dissolves as quickly as it forms.

Because it is a fantasy, nothing more.

My hands tremble, though I steady them when I lift a cup of wine. I stand among a group of lower nobles, most of them southlanders, their faces lit by the chandeliers, their voices too loud, their laughter too hollow. Simon and Melissa stand among them. Their smiles burn against me.

Why am I thinking these thoughts now? Is it fear? Fear that I will fail? Fear because a false god has arrived, and yet I must still kill the King—by myself?

The glass almost shatters in my grip, my fingers tightening, and the stem bending under pressure. The red liquid trembles inside like blood ready to spill. Today, of all days, I must act. I must end the man whose presence pollutes this hall, the man this empire bows to.

And yet, the question poisons me: Should I stop? Should I abandon the plan? Should I live like the others—normal, obedient, blind?

The thought sickens me. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper, my jaw clenched so tight I fear my teeth will crack. To think such weakness is dishonor. I cannot falter. I must do it.

How else could I face the others? How could I return to Lieben's Mansion and look Doran, Tristan, and Ella in the eyes if I failed to bring them a better world? How could I stand among them, stained by my cowardice? How could I face any person whom we oppress?

My teeth grind, my breath staggers. The music crashes from the far end of the hall, violins sharp as knives, drums suddenly joining the act, pounding like the heart in my chest. My thoughts betray me, spiraling, colliding, louder than the instruments, louder than the crowd. I am afraid. Terribly afraid.

Afraid to die without meaning. Scared to die at all.

Because I still want to live. I want to see the world in its fullness. I want to breathe air untainted by chains, by cruelty, by fear. I want to see a world where those of other blood no longer cower beneath us. I want to live long enough to see freedom.

Since the news of Eriksson, my body has refused to calm. My feet tremble, unable to hold me still for more than a moment. My face has fallen, my gaze ever downward, as though my own neck has betrayed me—buckling beneath the weight of my thoughts.

Humanly possible. Humanly.

The word twists bitterly in my head.

And then, I hear him.

The voice that chills me more than the wind sweeping through the marble pillars. The cold, ruling, and all too familiar voice.

My father.

I turn my head slightly, and there he stands, speaking with another noble. A man bearded and bald, his belly slightly hanging, his round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, glinting like coins.

"The youngest isn't feeling well, I see?" Adam, so is the man's name, his voice cutting sharp through the chatter. His tiny, sharp eyes focus on my father.

"Kind of," my father replies, laughing, the sound like a dagger twisting in my ribs.

Mockery. Always mockery.

The eldest joins them soon after, and then Theo and his wife, their voices weaving together in easy conversation. They speak so casually, as though this gathering is nothing more than an evening supper, as though the air is not suffocating, as though a false god is not here, as though I am not dying inside, as though they don't know what I will do in nothing more than a thousand heartbeats.

They don't know anything about it, nor that I'm here.

They leave me out, their words passing around me, as if I had never been born at all.