Origins of Blood Chapter 5: Chapter 4: Noble Lie

Read chapter 5 of Origins of Blood by Bloody_Potato on NovelPedia.

Aston’s POV—Blue Blood “The noble lie binds the majority in chains for the sake of order. The truth tears them into the abysm of chaos. Neither leads to happiness for all; rather, they are mere reflections of false freedom.” About a week after the invasion at the Estate von Rosenmahl, to celebrate Earth’s enslavement. Seated with my family on the dais at a grand banquet, I fork my way through a medium-lime-green steak. The orchestra plays a gentle melody, despite the instruments being amplified with blood. Below, at a gilded round table, Earl von Hirsch (dressed in fine navy-toned clothes sewn by Earthlings) palavers about the economic boom caused by the invasion of Earth. “Mark my words. The voyages of His Grace the Duke von Rosenmahl are the doors to our golden age ; I have made enough to fill us all with Avelorian brandy, vintage, for another decade!” “A pity we didn’t drag them out of their holes sooner,” adds Viscount von Roderick, his pointed mustache twitching. He lifts his chin with haughty satisfaction, holds a coup brimming with crimson, and nearly stains his tailcoat. At that, Marchioness von Feder’s laughter echoes through the lavish hall. “What a pity indeed, but better late than never.” Her left hand slides into the side of her mousquetaire glove, and she delights in eating candied fruits. “Were the invasion happening while the moon glimmered as Helios , my husband could have bought several mansions by now, even in Denklin!” chimes another woman (whose name I do not know) in from the ball in the middle of the banquet, her corset tightening her waist—at the same time, the weight of the crinoline lends her silhouette the grandeur expected of aristocracy. She—unlike most other women wearing coral-tinted gowns—wears an opulent azure gown; the man’s attire remains navy blue or dark amber. The melody swells into a crescendo as hundreds of Father’s guests twirl and glide beneath the golden chandeliers. No woman lacks adornment: ruffles, pearls, and intricate hairstyles that rival the finest tapestries. The men, simple in their vanity, keep their hair neatly slicked to the side and their beards carefully groomed. From half of their waistcoats, peek gold-chained pocket watches or handkerchiefs in the manner of Helios or Hestia . How can they dance so carefree when the deaths of billions fuel their steps? They celebrate with the certainty that each of them earns at least a year’s fortune from all forms of enslavement—Father believes in increasing worth beyond a decade, even more. Setting my flute of vital vintage aside, I close my eyes and sigh deeply. Five seats to my left are reserved for the King of Elisia and his children. To my right, Father and Merry (my stepmother) sit with the eldest, Bastian, and the youngest, Lieben. My family stares at the churning pairs—all smiling carefree—our collars adorned with thorns. Chins high. Eyes low. Absolute stoicism of noble blue. A few heartbeats in rhythm with the orchestra, and a Herald whispers into Father’s ear. The taste of an athletic Earthling’s blood lingers on my tongue. “ Aston ,” Father calls me, weathered. I turn. “Yes, your grace?” “The King has arrived.” Lieben’s chest hovers over his palate, and unlike Bastian’s stoic face, his is mingled with a hint of gloat. Albeit their countenances are sinister, Father’s and Merry’s are diabolical. I bite my inner left cheek and reluctantly rise to straighten my countenance into graceful poise, bowing slightly with a hand over my heart—the embroidered crest of our house. “ Bless Helios ,” I remain standing behind a blue balloon-back chair. Ten heartbeats pass, and twenty times the violin tremolos. Thorns coil around my throat; my teeth clench. I hide my inner turmoil by piercing the backs of their golden hair—except for Father, whose insides turn silver with age, and a hint of blue through thinning hair. “Farewell,” he says, heart cold. Thus, I go. —break— Strutting beside sentries in a murky arched corridor—each sentry