Spark in the Amber (1)

Aston von Rosenmahl's POV

"The noble lie binds the majority in chains for the sake of order. The destructive truth tears them into the abyss of chaos. Neither leads to happiness of all. Rather, they are mere reflections of false freedom."

––Aston von Rosenmahl

My bluish eyes still shimmer as I idly twirl a golden Cont coin between my fingers. It bears the likeness of the first queen, Elisia, the very namesake of this continent. The blue blood staining my knuckles has been wiped away completely, along with the splatters on the floor and any other unsightly traces. I examine the seal of the Löwenherz family before breaking it apart with my free left hand. Like a brittle biscuit, it snaps in two. Setting the gilded coin aside, I turn my gaze toward the murky scenery outside the window.

A blue sun. A cold mist. A sky shifting between blue and green, nearly turquoise in its ethereal glow. Upon closer inspection, the waters below mirror that same eerie hue, a blend of deep green and blue. The last of the Reds are being driven from the dozen galleons, their bodies unceremoniously discarded onto the docks. More ships loom on the horizon, their blackened sails billowing against the turquoise-colored sky. My gaze drifts from the Cont coin to the letter before me. I exhale softly.

For a single piece of gold like this, Reds will toil for half their lives, yet here I am, playing with it like a mere child.

I scoff at my own frivolity and let my eyes settle upon the bold strokes of carrot-orange ink, stark against the deep blue paper. The cursive script is elegant yet firm, almost alive in its presence. The blue sun only accentuates its clarity.

…

Dear Aston von Rosenmahl,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. Until a year ago, we— the Löwenherz family— believed that your venture into the shipping trade would amount to little. And yet, you have proven wrong. Perhaps it would have been wiser for us to align with you, to multiply our fortunes tenfold. My father turns blue every time he reads about your family in the Zentria journals. The Elisian Times is particularly insufferable to him. My mother, my sister, and I must endure his constant tirades about you and the others who have disrupted the noble order of trade.

But enough about our fathers' grievances.

I have a personal request. A proposition, if you will. I understand, despite your lineage, you do not hold the greatest wealth among your kin. The youngest always bears the heaviest burden, yet you remain the son of the illustrious Duke von Rosenmahl. I would have attended the banquet in celebration of your victory, offered my congratulations in person—but, alas, my father forbids me from stepping beyond our estate. Even more so from setting foot in yours.

I apologize for contacting you through something as mundane as a letter, but I assure you this will not be a waste of your time. Through reliable sources, I have obtained information—methods to acquire other blood. Not just that, but formulas for binding powers, ranging from orange to— and I do not lie— even violet blood. Artifacts of the fourth degree may even be available for purchase. The only thing these freelancers demand is discretion. And, of course, what you possess in abundance— wealth and the finest herbs from the Rosengarten, your so-called humble 'greenhouse.'

I swear upon the name of the Löwenherz family that, should you agree to assist me, you will gain access to resources even your father would struggle to acquire.

With the utmost sincerity,

Arthur von Löwenherz.

…

I read the letter once more, skepticism knitting my brows.

Binding powers from orange to violet? Artifacts of the fourth degree? Such things are rarely seen outside the grand auctions— the ones in which the King himself partakes. Held only once every few decades.

By the time my father allows me to attend one, I will already be rotting beneath the bellies of carrion feeders.

Only my eldest brother has ever been to such an auction. He was gifted twenty milliliters of violet blood on his thirtieth birthday. I was but five years old at the time.

I furrow my brow and dip the feathered tip of my quill into an open glass bottle of orange ink. The letter before me is replaced with fresh, thick blue parchment. I press the soft end of the quill against my upper lip in thought before beginning my response.

…

Dear Arthur von Löwenherz,

I have received your letter in good condition and trust you are well. It grieves me to hear that you and your family must suffer under your father's displeasure due to my own. As for your proposal— I find myself intrigued. How about we meet on the Day of False Gods, two hours past the Sun's Crossing, at an establishment befitting our standing? Let us discuss further there and hope fortune remains with us until then.

If you are unable to make it, do send word, ensuring it arrives at my estate by the Day of Strength. If I hear nothing by then, I shall assume we are to meet at the agreed time and place.

With heartfelt regards,

Aston von Rosenmahl.

…

I set down my quill, the orange ink still gleaming against the page. Beside me, a cloth rests on the desk, stained with ink from where I regulated the flow to prevent errant droplets. I lean back into my chair, sighing as I press the Rosenmahl family seal onto the letter's wax closure. Three roses, elegantly entwined.

Gazing out the window, I estimate that a quarter of an hour has passed. The Reds have vanished, and the galleons are already setting sail once more. The ships that had loomed on the horizon earlier now approach the docks with silent inevitability.

Stretching my legs beneath the deep, blue-stained hardwood of my desk, I extend my arms outward, rolling my shoulders before allowing my gaze to settle once more on the tranquil turquoise waves. The blue sun casts its eerie light across the undulating water.

Reaching to the side, I retrieve a pair of tight-fitting dark blue gloves from a polished brass stand. Even in the warmth of the day, I pull them on without hesitation. I turn my hands over, flexing my fingers. The wounds are hidden from sight.

Nodding in satisfaction, I take the sealed letter and run a hand through my hair, ensuring it is neatly arranged.