The End of an Era (1)

Aston von Rosendahl's POV

"Not all men are created equal. The social order dictates our fate – and we, the blue-blooded, stand on the second tier of the Ten. Yet we remain at the bottom of the pyramid. So why should we look down on others when we ourselves are crushed beneath the weight of this order? We are not equal in strength. But in humanity—if only rarely."

––Aston von Rosenmahl

I stand alone at a grand banquet. The orchestra plays Beethoven's Waltz for the Pianoforte, and I merely sigh, listening to the murmurs of conversation while holding a glass of champagne in my hand.

"I must say, the reds have quite the refined taste. A pity we didn't drag them out of their holes sooner."

Viscount Roderick speaks, his pointed mustache twitching as he lifts his chin with haughty satisfaction.

"What a pity indeed, but better late than never."

Baroness Marquess replies, her laughter ringing out like chimes in the lavish hall. She presses her gloved hands—long and blue—against the folds of her opulent navy-blue evening gown, the corset tightening her already slender waist, while the weight of a crinoline under her skirts gives her silhouette the grandeur expected of nobility.

The orchestra swells, reaching a crescendo as I survey the ballroom, where hundreds twirl and glide beneath the dazzling chandeliers of my father's estate. No woman here lacks adornment; ruffles, pearls, and elaborate hairstyles are the standard, their hair twisted into intricate patterns that rival the finest tapestries. The men, simpler in their vanity, keep their hair short, often slicked neatly to the side, their beards and goatees carefully groomed, gold-chained pocket watches peeking from embroidered waistcoats. They dance clumsily to the waltz, though none seem to care—their movements are fueled by the triumph of the day.

They celebrate with the certainty that each and every one of these so-called nobles has made at least a year's fortune from this enterprise. Of course, they are proud.

I bite down on my blue tongue and set the champagne flute aside atop a nearby gilded table. Running my hand through my golden-blond hair, I watch the way my fingers catch the light of the massive chandelier overhead, appearing almost translucent, tinged with a cool blue sheen.

I am Aston von Rosenmahl, the youngest son of Duke Rosenmahl—a lineage of blue blood, intertwined with the power of orange and violet.

I drift through the crowd, my azure formal suit fitting snugly against my frame, brushing past those who share my blood. What a joke. They will never be like me. They are blind, consumed by their greed, their hunger for wealth. I glance at them from the corner of my eye, lips curling in disdain, until a voice—low and firm—calls my name.

I ignore it.

It calls again, louder this time.

Then, a firm hand grips my shoulder.

"Aston."

The voice is deep, weathered. I turn, meeting the eyes of a man who towers over me by nearly two heads. His features mirror my own—only aged, lined with years of power and calculation. His hair, once golden, now carries streaks of silver, nearly white. His grip, though firm, trembles slightly as he exhales heavily.

"Yes, Your Grace?" I school my expression into perfect poise, dipping into a shallow bow with a hand resting against my chest.

"Princess Elisia has arrived."

My father's hand presses against my shoulder again, firmer this time.

"Do not greet her. Go to your chambers."

His gaze bears down on me, and I feel a chill creep down my spine. How fitting, that the orchestra's tempo quickens at this very moment.

"Yes, Your Grace." I echo my own words as an answer, softer now, before my gaze flickers to the crest embroidered on his chest—a trio of roses. One blue, one orange, one violet. The same crest sits over my heart. Our hearts, cold and blue.

A wire coils around my throat. As if I have swallowed the very thorns of our family's legacy.

My father's heavy steps fade as he moves away, carving his own path through the crowd, towards my elder brothers who sit laughing at their own table. They are my mirror images—noble, refined, their features symmetrical, their hair the same pale gold. I despise them. I despise them for never loving me.

Even though I do not want their love.

I do not need it.

And yet, my noble blue heart splinters in two.

I lower my gaze to my polished royal-blue leather shoes before shifting my eyes once more to the dance floor. Some have arrived in burgundy suits and dresses—how fitting, in this new era where reds are fully enslaved.

"Farewell to the Age of the Red-Blooded Pact, which outlived a black-blood's lifetime, and welcome the oh-so-holy Golden Age—Year Zero, after the Breaking of Apollo."

I murmur under my breath, exhaling through my nose as my gaze drifts across the opulent dark wood furnishings and plush carpets—luxuries undoubtedly woven by red hands, forced into labor.

For 6000 years, the reds lived in their self-fashioned utopia, their savior crafting a world for them. They claim to have deceived us all, and for that, we must punish them. The lowest of all species, no better than livestock. And now, we strip them of everything, plundering them in an age where they have long since forgotten their past.

It took only one golden—

A god.

A single immortal who endured these 6000 years.

And the reds are slaves once more.

When this revelation surfaced, long before I was born, the world was thrown into uproar. How could an entire species—one so inferior—be forgotten? How could they have hidden among us, worthless as they are, contributing nothing?

I listen to the violins, mulling over the speculations printed in the Elisian Times. I never read the full report, my sources are unclear. Some details, I must admit, I have simply forgotten. But those at the top know they are lying to themselves.

Apollo.

A god.