The End of an Era (2)

I let out a quiet, derisive laugh as I step out of the grand, murky hall, finding myself alone in the corridor.

Yes, gods exist. But they rarely show themselves. And they are not like the stories told to red children—the fairy tales promising salvation after death, a punishment or reward. I doubt such things exist.

Or perhaps they do.

The probability, however, is slim.

Gods should be just.

Yet the gold-blooded allow an entire species—greater in number than our own—to suffer, simply because the ruling class refuses to abandon their noble lie.

More weaklings mean more wealth for the elite.

Why do I know this? It is obvious. One does not need to be of high birth to see it. I am certain even the lower and middle classes understand it.

But the poor are powerless.

The middle class is content with their scraps.

And the wealthy—

We are insatiable.

A noble lie, indeed.

I click my blue tongue against my teeth before wetting my bluish lips. If I could, I would strike Apollo across the face, free the reds, and dismantle this wretched social order—crush the pyramid until all stand equal.

A beautiful dream.

And yet, utterly foolish.

There must always be an order, a higher power, ensuring that some prosper while others suffer. Communism is a utopia. Not a reality, merely a wish—one held by far too few in this world. I do not even know if there are others like me. If not one's own family, then who?

I halt before a grand door, my gaze trailing upward toward the ceiling, nearly ten meters high. The door itself stands half that height. Two guards, clad in gleaming blue armor, stand like knights, their lances held firmly. Through the narrow slits of their helmets, they watch me before sinking to one knee.

"Lord Rosenmahl."

Their voices ring out in unison—monotone yet carrying a certain weight, as if they were Oranges. I nod slightly but spare them no further attention, stepping past them with the poised grace expected of a nobleman.

Tonight, they will be at the ball, basking in the grandeur of the event. I, however, will be alone.

With my chin lifted high, I stride forward, embodying the superiority ingrained in my blood. Yet, even as I do, I bite the inside of my cheek. The blue-lit knights reflect the azure heart of our galaxy. From the corner of my eye, I see them rise, their heavy breaths muffled beneath their helmets as the door thuds shut behind me.

Thud.

My fingers, once loose and relaxed, curl into trembling fists. The pale skin of my face, kissed by the blue-tinted sun, creases with grimaces. My dark blond brows furrow, pressing against my forehead as I stomp toward my bed—larger than the homes of many impoverished souls.

I clutch at the insignia on my chest, desperate to tear it away. Yet I hesitate. The consequences of such an act would be severe. Instead, my steps quicken, and before I reach my bed, I strike out at it.

A sharp pain blossoms across my knuckles.

Blue blood beads on my skin.

The pain is exquisite. I laugh—softly, but it is laughter nonetheless.

With a twisted grin, I continue, my fists hammering against the underside of the towering bed. I must look pathetic, kneeling just to land my blows. Yet I cannot stop. I punch again and again, losing myself in the sensation, the motion, the moment.

I forget the white doves outside, their feathers glowing blue in the relentless sun.

I forget the sharp spires of the city, stretching toward the heavens like accusing fingers.

I forget the desk, where unopened letters lie in wait.

All that remains is the act, the rhythm of impact, the sting in my knuckles.

Drops of blue splatter onto the polished floor. My fists tremble. Strands of blond hair fall before my eyes, brushing against my lips. I slump to my knees, my vision swimming, and I am not even certain why I feel this way. Why this hatred burns within me.

Tears hit the ground, mixing with my blood.

I should not pity the Reds.

I am Blue.

I could live my life without guilt. I could accept my exile from my father's presence, endure my absence from public gatherings. I could still feast, drink, indulge in all the luxuries of nobility.

I could marry into another family. A beautiful wife. Children. A new home.

A life untouched by suffering.

My shoulders sag as the sunlight spills across my cheek. I turn toward it. The window is open, and a breeze drifts in, scattering the doves. Their absence leaves only the sight of the Galleons.

Monstrous creations.

And suddenly, I remember why I feel this way.

It would be easy to lie in warmth, in comfort. It is easy. To love. To build a family. To exist without burden.

But my azure eyes lock onto the shoreline below. Small silhouettes move in chaotic unison—a tide of bodies flowing from ship to land, then across the narrow beach, funneled into storage houses.

Reds.

Hundreds. No—thousands.

They have spent weeks, perhaps a month, trapped in suffocating quarters. Beaten, starved—tortured, perhaps. Amusement for the Greens and Blues during their expeditions.

I want to roll my eyes, but the weight of the moment does not permit it.

Elisia is closest to Earth. The Reds suffer here, but at least they are made workers, no matter how cruel their treatment.

If they were sent to the Black Continent instead…

My stomach clenches. My hands tremble, curling into fists as I stare blankly at the floor.

Then, upward.

Into the horizon.

"They would be tortured for years, only to be devoured alive by the Browns."

My voice is but a whisper, shaking with the weight of it. The thorns in my throat sink deeper.

More than half a billion will share this fate.

Another expansion looms. The lords of the sea trade grow restless.

My father earns, alongside the puppeteers of maritime commerce, the annual wealth of an entire nation.

And more will follow.

I glance downward. Somehow, I have crawled to the window, my bloody fingers gripping the frame.

The sunlight touches my skin, warm, undeserved.

In the distance, Blues of the middle-class strike Reds without cause. They are desperate. Desperate to maintain their homes. Their bread.

And so, they lash out.

Blind.

How can I live in comfort, knowing an entire race suffers? How can I accept this blindness?

I cannot.

My fingers drift from the window to the desk. An unopened letter awaits. The wax seal bears the emblem of the Löwenherz family.

A lion's maw clenches a throbbing heart.

My gaze lingers on the symbol, and my eyes ache—aching for the Reds in their chains, aching for the lion on this crest.

"Löwenherz… this cannot mean anything good."

I murmur, my voice hushed, as I reach for a cloth to wipe the blood from my hands.