Committing Genocide (1)

Aston’s POV

“To play good cards is to understand your hand.”

–– Aston von Rosenmahl

I walk through the hall dressed in beggar’s clothing. Not in the literal sense, but from the perspective of a noble. Fisherman’s clothes. But for me, those belong to beggars. To the lower middle class. It is not just the fact that they’re poor—it’s how their solemn beings are. Dull. Small. Accepting.

My feet itch as I walk through the mansion that could be filled with hundreds or even thousands of galleons. My toes curl inside boots that are too tight, but I keep walking. I must. My chin stays high, while servants and knights lower their heads. They think my name is Lieben. That I’m in my mid-fifties. Relatively young, compared to Father or the two eldest sons. From Lieben downward, we are born of another mother—not the one Father married in.

My boots are loose. My walk hollow. They think I am Lieben. But I am not. My name is Aston. Age twenty-three. A youngborn, freshly arrived in this hellish world. And while I walk proudly, my hands behind my back as Lieben used to, I maintain a cold expression. My cold eyes make the servants shudder when they meet mine. When they do, I twitch my brow—but inside, I smirk. In my mind, I am not here. Not in this house of wealth and rot. Lieben had a date tonight. Now it's mine. Lieben’s connections—mine. His life—mine. And the thing that makes it hard not to drop the mask and laugh outright is his savings.

All his money. His wealth. All mine.

I don’t care if I must endure Father’s torture, as long as he doesn’t kill me. I’ll find a way to transform again. Make it seem like Lieben disappeared—ran out of fear. But I am him now. Even if I made him vanish forever, I would still possess everything he ever called his own.

I glide over the rose-patterned carpet, just like everything in this world of luxury. My brother is dead. I killed him, and I don’t feel bad. I feel good. Perhaps I feel too good.

…

I’m in the bathroom next to his bedchamber. I wash the red filth off me. The dried blood from my fingers. Especially my toes. I still get goosebumps when I think about it—the sensation of the dried blood branding itself into my skin. My ears ring when I remember the sound. But now, nearly an hour later, it was all an act. There are still some dirty spots on the lower part of my body, but there's nothing I can do for now. Time will wash it off. Eventually.

I walk out wearing only a sky-blue bathrobe. I meet the eyes of a knight. He looks at me, but quickly lowers his gaze, chin below my line of sight. I smirk. A shallow one, with dimples and soft pleasure lines, as Lieben did. Then I ignore him. I have better things to do.

My eyes wander across the old paintings, ones painted long before I was born—maybe even before Lieben. There's Father. The mother before mine, the one who was assassinated. The eldest son of Rosenmahl. Then Theo, the second born. Older than any red should be. But my eyes drift beyond them, to the horizon outside the wide glass of the hall window. I walk into my chamber—opened for me by the knight whose eyes lingered earlier.

I have a date. With the Jägers, if I remember correctly. My smile grows. Lieben was a bad person—not just as a brother, not just as a human being, but also as a husband. As a father. His son, Doran, is barely eight years old. Too young to live without family. And it brings me to a dilemma. I must be there for him. I am his uncle. And Doran doesn’t have to become like his father. He could become like me if I guide him. If I teach him right. Let the red children grow up beside him in his mansion as servants. Then he’ll learn, as I did. But that comes later. Maybe not even tomorrow. Maybe not for weeks. The Jägers. The only question is—which one? Where? And when?